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1968 - KPFA - Carlos Castaneda Radio Interview

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Pacifica Radio Archives - Don Juan the Sorcerer - Carlos Castaneda interviewed by Theodore Roszak.

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Version 2011.11.21

KPFA Radio Interview - 1968

Radio interview with Carlos Castaneda - 1968 "Don Juan: The Sorcerer"

Q:
For six years from 1960-66 Carlos Castaneda served as an apprentice to a Yaqui Indian brujo, or sorcerer named don Juan. During those years, Mr. Castaneda was a graduate student in Anthropology at UCLA. His experiences with don Juan lead him into a strange world of shamanistic lore and psychedelic experience and adventures in what Mr. Castaneda calls states of non ordinary reality, some of which were frightening in the extreme, and all of which are fascinating in the extreme. His experiences with don Juan are recounted in a book which has been published this year by the University of California Press called "The Teachings of don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge". Mr. Castaneda is with us here at KPFA today and has agreed to discuss the book and his experiences with don Juan. Let me begin by asking you how you managed to meet this remarkable personality, don Juan, and can you give us some idea what sort of a person he is?

CC:
I met don Juan in a rather fortuitous manner. I was doing, at the time in 1960, I was doing, I was collecting ethnographic data on the use of medicinal plants among the Arizona Indians. And a friend of mine who was my guide on that enterprise knew about don Juan. He knew that don Juan was a very learned man in the use of plants and he intended to introduce me to him, but he never got around to do that. One day when I was about to return to Los Angeles, we happened to see him at a bus station, and my friend went over to talk to him. Then he introduced me to the man and I began to tell him that my interests was plants, and that, especially about peyote, because somebody had told me that this old man was very learned in the use of peyote. And we talked for about 15 minutes while he was waiting for his bus, or rather I did all the talking and he didn't say anything at all. He kept on staring at me from time to time and that made me very uncomfortable because I didn't know anything about peyote, and he seemed to have seen through me. After about 15 minutes he got up and said that perhaps I could come to his house sometime where we could talk with more ease, and he just left. And I thought that the attempt to meet him was a failure because I didn't get anything out of him. And my friend thought that it was very common to get a reaction like that from the old man because he was very eccentric. But I returned again perhaps a month later and I began to search for him. I didn't know where he lived, but I found out later where his house was and I came to see him. He, at first, you know, I approached him as a friend. I liked, for some reason, I liked the way he looked at me at the bus depot. There was something very peculiar about the way he stares at people. And he doesn't stare, usually he doesn't look at anybody straight in the eye, but sometimes he does that and it's very remarkable. And it was more that stare which made me go to see him than my interest in anthropological work. So I came various times and we developed a sort of friendship. He has a great sense of humor and that eased the things up.

Q:
About how old a man was he when you met him?

CC:
Oh he was in his late 60's, 69, or something like that.

Q:
Now, you identify him in the book as a brujo. Can you give us some idea of what this means and to what extent don Juan is connected, if at all, with some sort of an ethnic background, a tribal background or is he pretty much of a lone wolf?

CC:
The word brujos, the Spanish conception, it could be translated in various ways, in English could render a sorcerer, witch, medicine man or herbalist or curer, and, of course, the technical word shaman. Don Juan does not relate, or does not define himself in any of those ways. He thinks of himself, perhaps he is a man of knowledge.

Q:
That's the term he uses, man of knowledge?

CC:
He uses man of knowledge or one who knows. He uses that interchangeably. In as far as his tribal allegiances, I think he, don Juan, is very much, I think his emotional ties are with the Yaquis of Sonora since his father was a Yaqui from one of the towns in Sonora, one of the Yaqui towns. But his mother was from Arizona. Thus he has sort of a divided origin which makes him very much a marginal man. At the present he has family in Sonora, but he doesn't live there. He lives there part of the time, perhaps I should say.

Q:
Does he have any formal livelihood? How does he earn his way in the world?

CC:
I wouldn't be able to, to, to discuss that, rather I don't think that I could at the moment.

Q:
One point I'd like to clear up - it's something that I wondered about as I read the book. The book consisted in large part of recordings of your own experiences in using the herbs and mushrooms and so on that don Juan introduced you to, and long conversations with don Juan. How were you able, just as a technical problem, how were you able to keep track of your experiences over such a long period of time. How were you able to record all of this?

CC:
It seems difficult, but since one of the items of the learning process of recapitulation of whatever you experience, in order to remember everything that happened, I had to make mental notes of all the steps, of all the things that I saw, all the events that occurred during the states of, let's say, expanded consciousness or whatever. And then it was easy to translate them into writing after, because I had them all meticulously filed, sort of, in my mind. That's as the experience itself goes, but then the questions and answers I simply wrote them down.

Q:
You were able to take notes while you were....

CC:
Not at the very beginning of our relationship I never took any notes. I took notes in the covert manner. I had a pad of paper inside my pockets, you know, big pockets on my jacket. I used to write inside my pockets. It's a technique ethnographers use sometimes that they convert notes and then, of course. you have to work very hard to decipher the way they're written. But it has to be done very quickly, very fast. As soon as you have time; you cannot postpone anything. You cannot let it go for the next day, cause you lose everything. Since I think I work compulsively, I was capable of writing down everything that took place very, very shortly after the events themselves.

Q:
I must say that many of the dialogues are extremely fascinating documents. Don Juan, as you record his remarks has a certain amount of eloquence and imagination.

CC:
Well one thing, he's very artful with usual words and he thinks of himself as a talker, although he doesn't like to talk. But he thinks that talking is his predilection, as other men of knowledge have all the predilections like movement, balance. His is talking. That is my good fortune to find a man that would have the same predilection that I have.

Q:
Now, one of the things that's most impressive about the book is the remarkable chances that you seem to have taken under don Juan's tutelage; that is, he introduced you to various chemicals, substances, some of which, clearly I suppose could have been fatal if they had not been used carefully. How did you manage to work up sufficient trust in this man to down all of the concoctions that he put before you?

CC:
The way the books present it seems to heighten some dramatic sequences, which is, I'm afraid, not true real life. There are enormous gaps in between in which ordinary things took place, that are not included. I didn't include in the book because they did not pertain to the system I wanted to portray, so I just simply took them away, you see. And that means that the gaps between those very height states, you know, whatever, says that I remove things that are continuous crescendos, in kind of sequence leading to a very dramatic solution. But in real life it was a very simple matter because it took years in between, months pass in between them, and in the meantime we did all kinds of things. We even went hunting. He told me how to trap things, set traps, very old, old ways of setting a trap, and how to catch rattlesnakes. He told me how to prepare rattlesnakes, in fact. And so that eases up, you see, the distrust or the fear.

Q:
I see. So there was a chance for you to build up a tremendous amount of confidence in this man.

CC:
Yes, we spent a lot of time together. He never told me what he was gonna do, anyways. By the time I realized, I was already too deep into to turn back.

Q:
Now, the heart of the book, at least as far as my reading was concerned, certainly the most fascinating part of the book, has to do with your experiences with what you term non-ordinary reality, and many of these experiences as you recount them have a great deal of cogency to them; that is, they are experiences that seem to come very close to demonstrating the validity of practices like divination, and then on the other hand you have experiences that, at the time, seemed to have been tremendously vivid experiences of flight and of being transformed into various animal forms, and often you suggest a sense of some ultimate revelation taking place. What sense do you make of these experiences now as you look back on them all? What seems to have been valid about them and how was don Juan, do you feel, seem able to control or predict what these experiences would be?

CC:
Well, in as far as making sense out of them, I think as an anthropologist, I think, the way I had done it, I could use them as grounds for, say, set up a problem in anthropology, but that doesn't mean that I understand them or use them in any way. I could just employ them to construct a system, perhaps. But if I will view them from the point of view of a non-European man, maybe shaman or perhaps a Yaqui, I think the experiences are, they are designed to produce the knowledge that reality of consensus is only a very small segment of the total range of what we could feel as real. If we could learn to code reality or stimuli the way a shaman does, perhaps we could elongate our range of what we call real.

Q:
What do you mean by that, how does a shaman like don Juan code stimuli?

CC:
For instance, in the idea that a man could actually turn into a cricket or a mountain lion or a bird, is to me, this is my personal conclusion, it's a way of intaking a stimuli and readapting it. I suppose the stimuli is there, anybody who would take a hallucinogenic plant or a chemical produced in a laboratory, I think will experience more or less the same distortion. We call it distortion of reality.

But the shamans, I think, have learned through usage in thousands of years, perhaps, of practice, they have learned to reclassify the stimuli encoded in a different way. The only way we have to code it is as hallucination, madness. That's our system of codification. We cannot conceive that one could turn into a crow, for instance. Q:
This was your experience under don Juan's tutelage?

CC:
Yes. As a European I refuse to believe that one could do it, you see. But...

Q:
But it was a tremendously vivid experience when you had it...

CC:
Well it was hard to say, it was real, that's my only way of describing it. But now you see the things over, if I would be allowed to analyze it, I think, you know, what he was trying to do was to teach me another way of coding reality, another way of putting it into a propitious frame that could turn into a different interpretation.

Q:
I thought the passage in the book where these very different orientations toward reality that you had, and don Juan had, the point at which it came through most clearly to me, was the point in which you question him about your own experience of apparent flight. And you finally came around to asking if you had been chained to a rock, would don Juan feel that you still had flown, and his answer was, in that case you would have flown with the chain and the rock.

CC:
He alludes, you know, that, I think what he means, what he meant to say is that one never really changes. As a European my mind is set, my cognitive units are set, in a sense. I would admit only a total change. For me to change would mean that a person mutates totally into a bird, and that's the only way I could understand it. But I think what he means is something else, something much more sophisticated than that. My system's very rudimentary, you see, it lacks the sophistication that don Juan has, but I cannot pinpoint actually what he means like, things like what he means that one never changes really, there's something else, another process is taking place.

Q:
Yes, it is difficult to focus on this. I think I remember don Juan's line was, you flew as a man flies. But he insisted that you flew.

CC:
Yes.

Q:
There's another remarkable statement he makes. It is in a discussion of the reality of the episode. He says, that is all there is in reality, what you felt.

CC:
Uh-huh. Yea, he, don Juan's a very sophisticated thinker, really, it's not easy to come to grips with him. You see, I had tried various times to wrestle with him intellectually and he always comes the victor, you know. He's very artful. He posed once the idea to me that the whole, the totality of the universe is just perception. It's how we perceive things. And there are no facts, only interpretations.

And those are nearly, I'm merely paraphrasing him as close as I can. And perhaps he's right, the facts are nothing else but interpretations that our brain makes of stimuli. So that such whatever I felt was, of course, the important thing.

Q:
Now, one of the aspects of what we normally call reality that seems most important to us is that of coherence or consistency from experience to experience, and I was impressed by the fact that the experiences you had under peyote seemed to have in your recordings a remarkable coherence from experience to experience. I'd like to question you about this. There is an image that appeared in the experiences which you called mescalito. And it seems as if this image appears again and again with great consistency, that the general sense of the experience, the sound of it, the feel of it, is very much the same from time to time. Am I accurate in saying that?

CC:
Yes, very, very much.

Q:
Well, how do you make sense of that fact?

CC:
Well, I'd, its the, I'd have two interpretations. Mine being it's the product of the indoctrination I went through, those long periods of discussions, where instruction was given.

Q:
Did don Juan every tell you how mescalito was to look?

CC:
No, no not that level. Once I constructed, I think, the composite in my mind, the idea that it was a homogenous and totally a protector and a very sturdy deity, may have held me to maintain that, that mental composite, or perhaps the deity exists outside of ourselves as he says. Completely outside of me, as a man, as a feeler, and all it does is manifest itself.

Q:
Now, I thought your description of this image, of mescalito, was very vivid and very impressive.

Do you think you could possibly, just to draw out one aspect of the book, describe what this figure seemed like to you?

CC:
It was truly an anthropomorphic composite as you say. It was not truly a man, but it looked like a cricket, and it was very large, perhaps larger than a man. It looked somehow like the surface of a cactus, the peyote cactus. And that was the top looked like a pointed head, but it had human features in the sense of eyes and a face. But it was not quite human either. It was something different about it and the movements, of course, were quite extraordinary because it hopped.

Q:
Now, when you described this experience to don Juan, how did he deal with it, was this the right image.

CC:
No, no. He didn't care at all about my description of the form. He's not interested at all. I never told him what the form, he discarded it all. I wrote it down because it was quite remarkable for me as the man who experienced it. It was just extraordinary. It was truly a shocking experience. And as I recalled everything that I experienced, but insofar as telling him, he didn't want to hear about it. He said that it was unimportant. All he want to hear was whether I had, how close he let me come in this anthropomorphic composite at the time I saw it, you know, let me come very close and nearly touch him. And that, in don Juan's system, I suppose, was a very good turn. And he was interested in knowing whether I was frightened or not. And I was very frightened. But insofar as the form, he never made any comment, or he didn't even show any interest in it.

Q:
I'd like to ask about one particular set of experiences. We don't have to go into them in detail here. I think we might simply tempt the listeners to look at the book, and read the actual details of the experiences. But, your final experience with don Juan is one of extreme fearfulness. Why do you think he lead you into this final situation, at least final in your relationship with him in which, I mean, he very literally just scared the hell out of you. What was the purpose of that. It seemed almost as you record it, it seemed at points almost deliberate cruelty. What do you think he was up to when he did that?

CC:
When he had previous to that last incident, or right before it, he taught me some position that it's proper of shamans to adopt at moments of great crises, the time of their death, perhaps. It's a form that they would adopt. And it's something that they would use, it's a sort of validation, a signature, or to prove that they have been men. Before they die they will face their death and do this dancing. And then they will yell at death and die. And I asked don Juan what could be important, you know, since we all have to die, what difference does it make whether we dance or we cry or scream or yell or run, and he felt that the question was very stupid because by having a form a man could validate his existence, he could really reaffirm that he was a man, because essentially that's all we have. The rest is unimportant. And at the very last moment, you see, the only thing that a man could do was to reassert that he was a man. So he taught me this form and in the course of the event, this very frightening set of circumstances, or actions, I was forced nearly to exercise this form and use it. It brought a great amount of vigor to me. And the event ended up there, "successfully". I was successful. And perhaps staying away from death, or something like. The next day, the next night he took me into the bushes, and what I was gonna do was, he was gonna teach me how to perfect this form, I thought was neat. And in the course of teaching me, I found myself alone. And that's when the horrendous fear attacked me really. I think what he had in mind was for me to use this form, this position, this posture that he had taught me. And he deliberately scared me, I suppose, in order for me to test that. And that was my failure, of course, cause I really succumbed to fear instead of standing and facing my death, as I was supposed to as a, let's say apprentice of this way of knowledge, I became a thorough European man and I succumbed to fear.

Q:
How did things actually end then between you and don Juan?

CC:
They ended that night I think, you know, I suffer a total ego collapse because the fear was just too great for my resources. And it took hours to pull me back. And it seems that we came to an impasse where I never talk ever again about his knowledge. That's almost 3 years ago, over 3 years ago.

Q:
You feel then he had finally lead you up to an experience that was beyond your capacity to grapple with?

CC:
I think so. I exhausted my resources and I couldn't go beyond that and its coherent with the American Indian idea that knowledge is power. See you cannot play around with it. Every new step, you see, is a trial and you have to prove that you're capable of going beyond that. So that was my end.

Q:
Yes, and over the 6 year period don Juan lead you through a great number of terribly trying and difficult experiences.

CC:
Yes, I should say, I would. But he does nothing that I haven't, that I finished, I don't know, by some strange reason he has never acted as though I'm through. He always thinks that this is a period of clarification.

Q:
Did he ever make it really clear to you what it was about you that lead him to select you for this vigorous process.

CC:
Well, he guides his acts by indications, by omens, if he sees something that is extraordinary, some event that he cannot incorporate into his, possibly his categorization scheme, if it doesn't fit in it, he calls it a portentous event or an extraordinary event and he considers that to be an omen.

When I first took that cactus, the peyote, I play with a dog. It was very remarkable experience in which this dog and I understood each other very well. And that was interpreted by don Juan as an omen, that the deity, mescalito, peyote, had played with me, which was an event that he had never witnessed in his life. Nobody has ever, in his knowledge, nobody has ever played with the deity, he told me. That was extraordinary, and something was pointing me out, and he interpreted it as I was the right person to transmit his knowledge, or part it or whatever.

Q:
Well, now after spending six years in apprenticeship to don Juan, what, may I ask, what difference this great adventure has made to you personally?

CC:
Well it has, certainly has given me a different outlook in life. It's enlarged my sense of how important today is, I suppose. I think, you know, I have, I'm the product of my socialization, I, like any other person of the western world, I live very much for tomorrow, all my life. I sort of save myself up for a great future, something of that order. And it's only, it was only, with the, of course, with the terrible impact of don Juan's teaching that I came to realize how important it is to be here, now. And it renders the idea of entering into states of what I call non ordinary reality instead of disrupting the states of ordinary reality, they render them very meaningful. I didn't suffer any disruption or any disillusion of what goes on today. I don't think its a farce. While I'll say I tended to think that it was a farce before. I thought that I was disillusioned as I was an artist to do some work in art, and I felt, you know, that something was missing with my time, something is wrong. But as I see it, you know, nothing is wrong. Today I can't conceive what's wrong anymore. Cause it was vague to begin with, I never thought exactly what was wrong. But I alluded that there was a great area that was better than today. And I think that has been dispelled completely.

Q:
I see. Do you have any plans of ever seeking out don Juan again?

CC:
No, I see him as a friend. I see him all the time.

Q:
Oh, you still do see him?

CC:
Yes I do. I'm with him, I have been with him lots of times since the last experience that I write in the book. But as far as seeking his teachings, I don't think I would. I sincerely think that I don't have the mechanics.

Q:
One final question: you make a heroic effort in the book to make sense of don Juan's world view. Do you have any idea of whether don Juan took any interest or takes any interest in your world, the one you're calling that of a European man?

CC:
Well, no I think he's versed, don Juan's very versed in what we, the Europeans, stand for. He's not handicapped, in that sense, he makes use, he's a warrior and he makes use of his, he sets his life as in a strategic game, he makes use of everything that he can, he's very versed in that. My effort to make sense of his world is, it's my own way of, let's say, paying back to him for this grand opportunity. I think if I don't make the effort to render his world as coherent phenomena, he'll go by the way he has for hundreds of years, as nonsensical activity, when it is not nonsensical, it's not fraudulent, it's a very serious endeavor.

Q:
Yes. Well the outcome of your experiences with don Juan is a really fascinating book and, after reading it myself, I can certainly recommend it to the Pacific audience. It is an adventure in a very different world than we ordinarily live in. I'd like to thank you, Mr. Castaneda, for making this time available to talk about the book and about your adventures. This is Theodore Rosack.

CC:
Thank you.



This interview was transcribed from a tape produced by Audio-Forum for their "Sound Seminars" series of interview tapes, Jeffrey Norton Publications, Inc. You may order this tape from Audio-Forum, Suite L9, 96 Broad Street, Guilford, CT, 06437. Phone: 1-800-243-1234. Copyright Audio-Forum.



2003 - KPFA - Amy Wallace Radio interview by Chris Welsch

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Download kfpa-amy_wallace-interviewed-2003.11.13-32min.mp3

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Version 2011.07.09




Text


Version 2011.07.09

Includes interview material from Carlos Castaneda, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs, and Merilyn Tunneshende.

SustainedAction.org is a website created by Corey Donovan as he struggled to make sense of the living Toltec myth. That site contains many more pages of information about Carlos Castaneda and his associates.





1968 - Electro Print Graphics - Carlos Castaneda Interview by Jane Hellisoe of the University of California Press


Version 2011.07.09

Electro Print Graphics - 1968

Transcript of the tape:

Don Juan's Teachings: Further Conversations with Carlos Castaneda, 1968.


JH:

I'm Jane Hellisoe of the University of California Press, and I have here today, Carlos Castaneda, author of The Teachings of Don Juan. I'm assuming that most of you have read the book, you all look like you have. So I think just turn it over to Carlos and let it go from there. Carlos...


CC:

O.K. Maybe you like to ask me something that you want to know?


JH:

How did you meet don Juan?


CC:

The way I, uh, got to know him,was very uh, very fortuitous type of affair. I was not not interested in finding what he knew, because I didn't know what he knew. I was interested in collecting plants.

And I met him in Arizona. There was an old man who lived somewhere around them hills, that knew a great deal about plants. And that was my interest, to collect information on plants. And uh, I uh, we went one day this friend and myself we went to look for him. And we were misguided by the Yuma Indians and we up in the hills and never found the old man.

Um, it was later on when I was at the end of this first trip that I make to Arizona, at the end of the summer and I was ready to go back to Los Angeles, that I was waiting in the bus stop and the old man walked in. And that's how I met him.

Uh, I talked to him for about a year, I used to visit him, periodically I visit him, because I like him, he's very friendly and very consistent. It's very nice to be around him. He has great sense of humor . . . and I like him, very much. And that's was my first guiding thought, I used to go seek his council because he very humorous and very funny.

But I never suspected that he knew anything, beyond knowledgeable in the use of plants for medicinal purposes.


JH:

Did you have a sense that he knew how to live?


CC:

No, no, I didn't- I couldn't respond(?) There was something strange about him, but anybody could tell that you know, there's something very uh, very strange.

There are two people that I have taken down to the field, with me, and that they know him. They found that that... he has very haunting eyes when he looks at you, because most of the time he squints or he seems to be shifty.

You would say that he's a shifty looking man. He's not looking, except sometimes when he looks, he's very, whenever he looks he's very forceful. You could acknowledge that he's looking at you.

And I-... But I never knew that he knew anything beyond that. I had no idea. When I went to do my fieldwork, I always-... I departed from the point of view that I was the anthropologist, in quotes, doing the fieldwork with uh, Indian, you know. And they were uh, I was the one who knew most everything and uh they didn't. But of course, that it was a great culture shock to find out that I didn't know anything.

It's a great feeling that of arriving, a sense of uh, humbleness. Because we are the winners, the conquerors, you know, and whatever we do is great, is logical, it's, it's magnificent. We only the ones who are capable of anything noble, that's in the back of our mind. We cannot avoid that, we cannot avoid that. And whenever we tumble down from that stand, I feels it's great.


JH:

What country are you from?


CC:

I'm from Brazil, I was born in Brazil. My grandparents are Italian.


JH:

Uh, do you still think that he manipulated you into the last part of your book into a situation in which you supposedly in danger of losing your soul?


CC:

There, there are two explanations, you see, I prefer to think, that he was cueing me. It made me feel comfortable to think that this was an experience resulting from these manipulations or social cues. But maybe this witch was impersonating him. Everytime I am in U.C.L.A., of course, I pretend the position that he was, manipulating me.

That's very coherent, cogent of the pursual of academia. But whenever I am in field, I think they were impersonating him. And that's incoherent with what takes place there. That's a very difficult transition to make. If you are going to dwelling in a University, if I would be a teacher, if I know that I'm going to be a teacher all my life, I could say anything you know, and it's nice, but I may wind up again in the field, very soon. I uh, made up my mind. I am going to go back, later maybe at the end of this month, and uh, I'm very serious about that.


JH:

Could you describe the nature of your communication with don Juan, since you wrote the book?


CC:

We're very good friends. He uh, uh he uh, he's capable always to baffle me me, by kidding me. He never takes anything seriously.

I am very serious in the sense like, I feel that I have withdrawn from this apprenticeship. And I'm very serious about that, I believe that I have.


JH:

He doesn't believe you?


CC:

No....


JH:

Do you find that your approach to uh, uh reality, or whatever, is any different since meeting don Juan?


CC:

O yes, yes, very different. Very different as such. Well I don't take things too seriously anymore.


JH:

Why did you write the second part of your book?


CC:

Why? Essentially, I'm concerned with rescuing something that has been lost for five hundred years, because of superstition, we all know that. It's superstition, and it's been taken as such.

Therefore, in order to render it, serious, to go beyond the revelation, that there must be something that could be distilled from the revelation period. And to me, the only way to do it, is by presenting it seriously, in format of the socialist position.

Otherwise, it remains in the level of oddity. We have in the back of our minds, the idea that only we could be logical, only we could be sublime, noble.

Somehow, I think, maybe I'm speaking for myself alone, but that's the end of character of our actions. In social science you see that. Every social scientist goes to the field, loaded with the idea that he's going examine something and know. And uh, that's not fair, that he so um, in that sense, I cannot escape that.


JH:

Don Juan in the book, he mentioned that he asked you never to reveal the name that Mescalito gave to you, or to reveal the circumstances under which you met, yet you wrote this whole book of don Juan's to anyone who would read it.


CC:

I asked him about that. I wanted to know before I ever, ever, in writing something like that, I asked him if it was alright. I didn't reveal anything that was not permitted. I didn't.

I was interested in the logical system. It's a system of logical thought. It takes a long time, took a long time for me to discover, that this was a system of exhaustive, the best, presented in this, my world. This is what is appealing, is the order.

And whatever, I reveal in it, has nothing to do with the things that were, let's say, taboo. I reveal only the order, only the system. So, as to make us realize that the Indians are very, very tenacious, they are persistent people and as intelligent as anybody.



Voice overdub on tape:
I think it's significant how Carlos is bending over backwards to present a system of non-ordinary reality, non-linear reality in a conceptual framework so that it can be accepted by his peers at the University of California by the American public.

It's almost as if Carlos had wasn't taking any chances that the psychedelic generation was really going to be there and ready to read the book.

The psychedelic generation could get the message- be a large enough part of the readership to to pass the word.

He's talking about people, he talks about non-people there's some really some really remarkable instances there where I remember the one where don Juan walks or Carlos walks off into the chaparral and he comes back and there are these three beings there who turn out later according to don Juan not to be even beings. Apparently, they don't have these fibers coming or they don't look like eggs. Do you have any insights into what these are, that aren't really people, from having listened to that? I'm not too much into that, that was part of so-called phantoms that Carlos was describing, but it wasn't very clear to me where they fit into the whole picture, except these were people you know, phantoms were entities that you had to look for, and be careful about. It seems also like only a sorcerer and a man-of- knowledge can tell who they are, because to Carlos it looked very much like real people, and Genero and Juan can recognize them and unless we're into that other kind of knowledge, I can't claim to be able to recognize them.

Carlos talks about his experience with the datura plant, or the jimson weed, the devil weed in the first book and the second book which is dealing very heavily the need for the psychotropic plants. He drank the root extract and rubbed himself with the paste, and what followed was an extraordinary experience. Afterwards Don Juan discusses with him the lessons he learned.

Carlos says there was a question he wanted to ask don Juan. Carlos knew don Juan was going to evade it, so he waited for don Juan to mention the subject.

Carlos waited all day. Finally, before he left that evening, he had to ask, "Did I really fly, don Juan?"

"That is what you told me. Didn't you?"

"I know, don Juan. I mean, did my body fly? Did I take off like a bird?"

"You always ask me questions I cannot answer. You flew. That is what the second portion of the devil's weed is for. As you take more of it, you will learn how to fly perfectly. It is not a simple matter. A man flys with the help of the second portion of the devil's weed. That is all I can tell you. What you want to know makes no sense. Birds fly like birds and a man who has taken the devil's weed flies as such ."

"As birds do?"

"No, he flies as a man who has taken the weed."

"Then I didn't really fly, don Juan. I flew in my imagination, in my mind alone. Where was my body?"

"In the bushes," he replied cuttingly, but immediately broke into laughter again. "The trouble with you is that you understand things in only one way. You don't think a man flies; and yet a brujo can move a thousand miles in one second to see what is going on. He can deliver a blow to his enemies long distances away. So, does he or doesn't he fly?"

"You see, don Juan, you and I are differently oriented. Suppose, for the sake of argument, one of my fellow students had been here with me when I took the devil's weed. Would he have been able to see me flying?"

"There you go again with your questions about what would happen if... It is useless to talk that way. If your friend, or anybody else, takes the second portion of the weed all he can do is fly. Now, if he had simply watched you, he might have seen you flying, or he might not. That depends on the man."

"But what I mean, don Juan, is that if you and I look at a bird and see it fly, we agree that it is flying. But if two of my friends had seen me flying as I did last night, would they have agreed that I was flying?"

"Well, they might have. You agree that birds fly because you have seen them flying. Flying is a common thing with birds. But you will not agree on other things birds do, because you have never seen birds doing them. If your friends knew about men flying with the devil's weed, then they would agree."

"Let's put it another way, don Juan. What I meant to say is that if I had tied myself to a rock with a heavy chain I would have flown just the same, because my body had nothing to do with my flying."

"If you tie yourself to a rock," he said, "I'm afraid you will have to fly holding the rock with its heavy chain."


[end of Voice overdub]


JH:

Why did you leave?


CC:

Why did I leave? I got too frightened. There is this assumption in all of us, that uh, we could give ourselves agreement that this is real. I'm sure that many humans have taken psychedelic substance like LSD, or something like that, the distortion that you suffer, under this psychedelic, is accountable, by saying I'm seeing such and such, and that and that, or this this and that because I have taken something, that's in the back of our mind - always.

So, anything could be, let's say, accounted for in a strange way. But, whenever you begin to lose that security, I think that's time to quit. That's my fear.


JH:

But you haven't really quit.


CC:

That's the problem.


JH:

That several visions that you said you were more-or-less clairvoyant visions, that told you about the past, things that you supposedly didn't know about, other than the visions or examples that reported in the books. Did you ever check to find out what you saw was true or not?


CC:

Well, that's sort of funny you know, there must be something. I've been involved in hunting treasures lately.

A Mexican came to me and told me that there was a house that uh, belonged to a man who apparently stored a lot of money and never used a bank, ever, in his life. He figure and calculated that there was at least $100,000 dollars and he asked if I could discover where the money was.

So I thought that's an interesting proposition. So, um I followed this ritual. It was a minor ritual that produces in quotes, a vision, not as clear as a divination procedure. But it's a vision that could be interpreted. A fire that has to be made to attract whatever it is that has to be attracted.

So this bunch of about four people and I, they did all the ritual they followed me they trusted me, I suppose and we waited for a vision but nothing came at all.

And then the fact was that everybody was looking for this treasure under the house, the house on the still, very high, underneath the house and they and dug up the whole house. And uh, the guy who was digging up, was bitten by a black spider, a black widows spiders. And it was disastrous, they never found anything.

So then I came into the picture, I have this vision, I have this dream. A dream in which the owner of the house was pointing to the ceiling. And I said, "Uh ha! It's not in the basement, it's in the ceiling." And we went, one day, tried to find it in the ceiling, but we didn't. We couldn't find anything.

It was disastrous though, because one of the Mexicans, very big, he weighs about 315 pounds. He's a big moose. There's a small hatch towards the ceiling and its' an old house constructed in the 20's probably and the ceilings paper thin.

So I was kinda walking on the beams and this guy got very suspicious he thought that we were going to cheat him out of his money, we never did it. And came into the scene, he came up. He walked up to where I was, I was in the center of the house, center of the room, because that's the place I thought he had pointed in my vision, stood by me, and he went through the ceiling. He got hooked you know, the legs were hanging in the upper part.


JH:

Did don Juan make any uh restrictions or any regulations that the circumstances in which you question yourself?...


CC:

Yes, good very good. I went to see don Juan, and I told him this failure. And how you know very, and he said was very natural, whatever is left of a man, guards whatever he's hiding.

I have my notes, you know that I took in the field that I treasure a great deal. I've become very possessive with my notes. And don Juan says, "will you leave your notes for any idiot to get?"

No, I won't. That's the point. And what's the difference? A guy loves his money. And he's not going to let an idiot like me come and get it. Therefore, he sets all kinds of traps and obstructions.

That's the turning point in my approach with don Juan. From then on, I never been able to think that I could trip him. He flipped me intellectually. I thought that that piece was very neat, very simple and coherent. From then on, I was not ever able to think of myself as the student of Anthropology the University student coming to look down on an Indian. He completely destroyed dislodged my affiliation to the intellectual man.


JH:

He made you think yourself as a man?


CC:

He made me think of myself as a man who doesn't know anything, in relation to what he knows. But I don't know what he means. All I've given you is what he gave me. I don't how fear could be vanquished. Because I haven't vanquished it myself. I have an idea, that perhaps applicable. I like to go into the field and test it. But that's another story that's very different.


JH:

Did he vanquish fear?


CC:

Well, he has. Yes . . .


JH:

Entirely?


CC:

Yes... it looks like it is very simple. Once you have the mechanics, I suppose, he is parting at all times from a different point of view. He set like uh , whatever is between the phenomena and that I am experiencing, and me, there's always an intermediate, it's a set of expectations, motivations, language, you name it. It's there, it's a whole set.

But that's my, my heritage of the European. To use the set which is common to all of us. That's why understand each other.

But don Juan has a different set, entirely different. That's the incapacity to understand him. Very difficult to understand what he's talking about. When he says that one could conquer fear. There's an interesting idea that occured to me now, that I would like to test in the field. I have attended recently a peyote meeting. It was a gathering, which I just took water to them. I didn't participate. I just went there to watch, to observe. Because I have this I have arrived to the conclusion that the consensus the agreement that he gave me, that I narrated in this book, a private agreement, special between the teacher and the student, but something else takes place. There's a collective agreement, a whole bunch of people agree upon things which cannot be seen, ordinarily.

But I was thought that this agreement consisted in cueing the others. Therefore, there must be a leader I thought that could cue, you know, by twisting the eye, you know, something like that, you know, twist of the fingers, and therefore, they all say that they have agreed. Because one gives the cue.

They believe that for instance in the matter of peyote, anybody who intakes peyote hears a buzzing in the ears. However the Indians believe that there a seventeen types of buzzing. And each one then will then respond to a precise nature of the visitation.

The deity Mescalito, comes in a specific way. And it announces it, by buzzing. There must be an agreement among them ten people as to what buzzing is it in the first place and then the nature of it.

How is the lesson going to be? Is it going to a ferocious lesson, very dramatic, very mild, amenable, depends on what is the, uh, I suppose the mood of the deity.

That, I thought this agreement was accomplished by means of a code. So I went I asked don Juan to I could drive them, I took my car and drove a whole bunch of people. I made myself available in that form. And then I could serve, I said, you know, bringing water to them.

So I watched. And I couldn't detect any code, at all. However in my effort to watch, I got involved, very deeply involved, and at that moment, I flipped. I walked into this experience, I had taken peyote, which I didn't.

This is my stand, O.K.? I think what they do, is they hold judgement. They drop this set. And their capable of gaining the phenomena in a different level. Their capable of viewing it, in a level from what I do ordinarily, the way I do it ordinarily.

So if I drop this set, whatever it is that is interfering, intermediate, the intermediate set between the phenomena and me, I arrive to this area of special agreement.

Therefore, it's very simple to them to arrive to that. I thought that experience in distorted a whole series of days, five or six days in which they intake peyote. I thought the last day was the only day in which they agree. But they agree every day. I don't know. I have to go and find out. I know that it's possible to hold judgement.


JH:

That girl asked you a question about fear, vanquishing fear entirely. At any, as I read it, or understand I, as I mean, as far as fear is no longer your enemy, doesn't mean you don't have it anymore. Because he said the man-of-knowledge goes to knowledge, and this could be anywhere along the line even after you vanquished fear. Would fear, respect, wide-awake and the four things, so fear is no longer your enemy, isn't that true?


CC:

No, maybe, maybe, though perhaps we are afraid only because are judging. That's another possibility. Once we drop the prejudgment, what's there to fear? At the moment, like uh he used to cure years ago, that's before I met him.

Today, he's not interested anymore in curing or bewitching. He says that he's beyond company or solitude. So, he just exists... he lives in central Mexico.


JH:

What does he do with his time?


CC:

Maybe he flies... I don't know. I really don't know. I feel, I always feel, I projected him, and I say, poor little old man, what does he do with his time? But that's me, you see, I, poor little old man, what do I do with my time? But that's a different set, you see, he has a different system, completely.


JH:

You smoked mushrooms in the state of Oaxaca. I'm wondering what the names of those mushrooms.


CC:

The mushrooms belong to the psilocybe family. I'm sure of that. And they grow in central Mexico. Then you make a journey to central Mexico. You collect them and then you take them to wherever you live. And wait for a year, before they are useable. They spend a year inside of a gourd. And they are utilized.


JH:

Were these the ones where they from Oaxaca.?


CC:

Their from central Mexico, that area, yeah, Oaxaca. They are fourteen species of psilocybe.


JH:

Could you tell us about the need and nature for secrecy and mystical teachings such as don Juans?


CC:

I don't know. He feels that in order to return from one of the trips, in quotes, you had to have a great degree of help and knowledge, without which you don't return. Maybe he's right, maybe he's right, maybe you need, the not so much the encouragement of the friendly man telling you everything's O.K. Joe, don't do it. More than that. Maybe you need another type of knowledge, that would render the experience utilizable, meaningful. And that cracks your mind, that really busts you.


JH:

Do you discourage someone from using these drugs?


CC:

I do, I do. I don't think they should. Because, perhaps they would get to know more about it. Otherwise, they become spearheads. And spearheads burn, period.


JH:

Do you know what the psychoactive substances in datura?


CC:

Atropine, And hyoscyamine. And there are two more substances, something like somebody called Scopolamine, but nobody knows what scopolamine was. It's very toxic, terribly toxic. Very, very harmful plant in that sense. Strychnine? Strychnine, peyote contains eight types of strychnine.


JH:

Were there other men of knowledge considered to be like don Juan?


CC:

Yes, Don Juan likes to think that his predilection is talking. He likes to talk. There are other men who has another type of predilection. There is a man who gives lessons in waterfalls. His predilection is balance and movement. And the other one I know dances, and he accomplishes the same thing.


JH:

What about mushrooms in your book?


CC:

There are no hallucinogenic mushrooms. Muscaria that's not in old world though.


JH:

Yeah, yeah.... Datura is growing all over Berkeley.


CC:

Well, it's a plant that grows anywhere, in the United States. The intake of Datura produces a terrible inflamation of the proxic glands. It's not desirable to use it. So uh, it's a very toxic plant.


JH:

It happened to you?


CC:

No, no after its prepared, it loses its toxicity. The American Indians I think learned a great deal in manipulating plants. And how they learned, perhaps like don Juan said you could arrive to a direct knowledge of complex procedures directly via tapping whatever you tap.


JH:

What do you see any meaning in terms of good and bad or good and evil or...?


CC:

No, I don't know. They interpreted in any way, again as a state of special ordinary reality. He again I think manipulated me and uh, or perhaps it is possible to see colours. I have a friend who reported though to me that to me he saw magenta, he says. That was the only thing he say, he tried to do this at night, and uh, he was capable of arriving to this distortion of colours, whatever.


JH:

One thing I noticed about reading the book, all these experiences take place at night.


CC:

No, I think the night is very friendly, very amenable. It's warmer, for some reason. And the darkness is a covering, it's like a blanket. Very nice. On the other hand, the daytime is very active, it's too busy. It's not conducive to feeling for anything like that.

I like the night, I don't know why, maybe I'm owl, something like that. I like very much, it's very amenable to me. I turn the lights in my house off all the time. I feel very funny, for some reason, it's very comfortable, it's dark, and very restless when there's much light.


JH:

Could you tell more about Mescalito? Like what, what, how?


CC:

First, of all the American Indians have a god not called Mescalito, it's called something else... They have different names, yes. Mescalito is a circumlocution, that he uses, like to say, little Joe, little Billy. Circumlocution is to mean William.


JH:

Is he one of, one god, or is like a thousand million gods?


CC:

That's power, it's a teacher. It's a teacher that lives outside of yourself. You never mention it by name. Because the name that he gives you is personal. Therefore, you use the name peyetero.

Because peyetero means something else. It's not applicable to that. It's a word that's been used by Spaniards. Peyetero is a state, very much like datura, in the Mexican, Spanish use in Mexico. Datura is called toloache. Toloache is a people say toloache is a state of knowledge, related to the datura. It's not the plant, it's a state of knowledge. Ololiuhqui, Saghun, the Spanish priest was very concerned with. And people have identified it as the seeds of the Morning Glory. But that belongs to the datura also. But again it's a state, state of knowledge.


JH:

Does don Juan or any of the other brujos have any difficulty with the Church, because of his...


CC:

Well, I suppose they do. They couldn't care less one way or the other. They are capable of short-circuiting the works of the dominant society. Which is very, very appealing to me, at least, to be able to short circuit them and render them meaningless, and useless, and harmless. You see, don Juan is not trying to fight anybody, therefore nobody with him. He's very capable, he's a hunter. He's a hunter, he's a capable man, he does everything himself.


JH:

He hunts animals for food?


CC:

Many ways, metaphorically, and um, in a literally way. He hunts in his own way. He's a warrior, meaning he's alert on his toes consistently. He never lets anything beyond, by him. There's a great argument that I have with his grandson. His grandson says my grandfather is feeble minded. I said you know perhaps you're wrong. Do you think you could sneak up on him? And the young guy, Fernando, no, my grandfather, you cannot sneak on the grandfather, he's a brujo. It's absurd, you know, how could you that he's feeble minded and then you said that you could not sneak up on him.

That's the idea, you see, he maintains everybody, under this this sort of control. He never lets me out of his sight. I'm always within his view. And its an automatic process, unconscious. He's not aware of it, but I'm always there, at all times. He's very alert. He's not isolated man. He's a hunter, a warrior. His life is a game of strategy. He's capable of rounding up his armies, and using them in a most efficient way. The most efficacious way. He's not a guy who cuts corners. But his great motto is efficacious. And that's totally opposed to my motto. My motto is waste, like all us, unfortunately.

You see, I get caught in tremendous upheavals of meaning. And things split me. I begin to whine.

You know, why, why, how did it happen to me? But if I could be able to live like don Juan, I could set up my life in way of strategy, set my armies strategically. Like he says, then if you lose, all you lose is a battle. That's all. You're very happy at that.

But not with me, because if I lose they took me, they raped me, I've been taken, in my furor. You know, no end to my fury. Because I was not prepared for it. But what would happen if I was prepared? Then I was just defeated, and defeat is not so bad.

But to be raped, that's terrible, that's horrendous, and that's what we all do. By one, we are raped by cigarettes. We can't stop smoking, ah, you know, people are raped by food, they can't stop eating.

I have my own quirks, I get raped by certain things, I cannot mention them. Weak and feeble, and helpless. Don Juan thinks that, and feels that, it's an indulgence, and he cannot afford to. And he's not indulgent at all. He does not indulge, and yet his life is very harmonious. Terribly funny, and great.

And I pondered, how in the devil can he do it? And I thinks it's by cutting his indulgence to nothing. And yet he lives very well. He doesn't deny himself anything, there's the trick. That's the funny trick. Its a normal semantic manipulation. Like he says, since he was six years old, he likes girls. He says that the reason why he likes girls, because when he was young he took one with datura, with the lizards, and the lizards bit him nearly to death. And he was sick for three months. He was in a coma for weeks and then his teacher told him not to worry about it, because from then on, he was going to be virile until the day he died. He says the lizards do that. You know, they bit you too hard, you become very virile.

So I asked him, "how could I get a couple of bites?" He said, "you would need more than a couple of bites." He's not frugal in sense of denial, but he doesn't indulge.

Maybe that doesn't make sense.


JH:

Could you tell me more about the Yaquis?


CC:

The Yaquis? The Yaquis are Christians, Catholics, nominal Catholics. They allowed the Catholic missionaries to come in 1773, voluntarily. And after 80 years of colonization, they killed all the missionaries. And no missionaries has ever come.

They involved themselves in this war against the Mexicans. After the independence of Mexico. The Yaquis have been in war with the Mexican army for 100 years, of solid war. Solid. They raided the Mexican towns, they killed them.

And finally, in 1908, at the beginning of the century, Mexico decided to put an end to this nonsense. They rounded them up, sending huge troops, armies, round up the Indians put them in trains in boats and ship them to the south, to Oaxaca, Veracruz and Yucatan, dispersed them completely and that was only the way to stop them.

And then in 1940, after the war, he says, masses of people in Mexico being the avant garde of democracy of Latin America, they couldn't stand the things that they did to the Yaquis. So they rounded the Yaquis again, brought them back, they are again in Sonora now.

They are seasoned warriors, they are very, very, very aggressive people. It is inconceivable that don Juan could enter into that society. It's a closed circuit. It's very aggressive. They wouldn't trust me, because I'm an Mexican. They see me as a Mexican. They would trust an American, much much better, much easier. They hate Mexicans, they call them the Yoris. Which means pigs, something like that. Because they have been so oppressed...


JH:

Do you know about don Juan as brujo or don Juan as diablero?


CC:

It's the same thing. A brujo is a diablero, those are two Spanish words, to denominate to design, they signify the same thing. Don Juan does not want to use that because it connotes a sense of evilness. So he uses the word man-of-knowledge, it's a Mazatec term. I concluded that whatever he learned from a Mazatec, because man-of-knowledge is one who knows. And one who knows is a Mazatec term. A brujo, a sorcerer, is one who knows.

I hope that I arrive to that. I doubt very much that my makeup is one that is required to make a man-of-knowledge. I don't think I have the backbone.


JH:

Well, Does don Juan agree with that?


CC:

No, he never told me that, you know. He thinks that I have a very bad probably frank. I do think because I get get bored, which is pretty bad, terrible, suicidal nearly.

Presented me the example of a man who was courageous. He found a woodcarver, who was very interested to in the idea of taking peyote.

Don Juan took me to Sonora as a show, so he could convince his grandson that is was very desirable to take peyote. That it would change his life.

His grandson is very handsome chap, terribly handsome. He wants to be a movie star. He wants me to bring him to Hollywood.

And he always asks me, his name is Fernando, he always asks me, do you think I'm handsome Carlos?

You're really handsome.

And then he says, do you think I could work in the movies as a chief in a cowboy movie or something?

He would, he would be a magnificent chief. He wants me to take him to Hollywood. He says just take me to the door, and leave me there. I never had the opportunity of bringing him to the door.

But uh, however don Juan has the intention to turn his grandson to the use of peyote. And he failed everytime.

And he took me one day as a show, and I told them my experiences, there were eight Indians and their listening. They said it, peyote, causes madness, causes insanity.

Don Juan says, "but that's not true, if that would be so, look at Carlos, he isn't mad."

They said, maybe he should be.


JH:

Do you think you could have found the level of understanding that you found now, by intaking the drugs without don Juan?


CC:

No, I am very emphatic about that. I would be lost.

I just talked to Timothy Leary. And he flipped.

I'm sorry, that's my personal feeling. He cannot concentrate, and that's absurd.


JH:

Is that the difference between he and Don Juan?


CC:

Don Juan can concentrate. That's it. He could pinpoint things. He could exhaustively laugh at things, and kick one subject until its death. I don't know why, its very amenable to do that.

He has a sense of humor. What he lacks is the tragedy of a western man. We're tragic figures. We're sublime beings ... grovelling in mud.

Don Juan is not. He's a sublime being. He told me himself.

I had a great discussion with him once about dignity. And I said I that I have dignity and if I'm going to live without dignity, I'll blow my head off.

I mean it. I don't how I mean it, but I do mean it.

He said, that's nonsense, I don't understand about dignity, I have no dignity, I am an Indian, I have only life. But that's his stand.

And I argue with him, I said listen, please I want so desperately, to understand, what I mean by dignity, what happened to the Indians when the Spaniards came? They actually forced them to live a life that had no dignity. They forced them to take the path that had no heart.

And then he said, that's not true. The Spaniards rounded up the Indians who had dignity. Only the Indians that had already dignity.

Maybe he's right. They never rounded him up.

I told don Juan when I met him, his guy who introduced me, said my name is so and so. In Spanish my name is spider, Charley Spider. If I told him my name is Charley Spider. He'd crack up. We kidded around.

After that, I found that was my golden opportunity to make my entry. And I said, "listen, I understand that you know a great deal about peyote. I do too, I know a great deal about peyote, maybe to our mutual benefit we could get together and talk about."

That was my presentation, I mean, my formal presentation, I used it over and over. And he looked at me, in a very funny way, I cannot portray.

But I knew at that moment, that he knew I didn't know anything. I was just throwing the bull, you know, completely bluffing him.

That's what bothered me very much, I never been looked at in that way, ever. That was enough for me to be very interested to go and see him. Nobody ever looked at me that way.


JH:

The guidance of a teacher. What about people that don't have a person like don Juan?


CC:

That's the real problem. I think, it's an untenable position.

I placed myself in that position, by myself, an untenable position. I wouldn't know.

It's like uh... when I went to see him, um for instance, when the book came out, I took it to him. I got a book, and pretended that it was the first book that ever came out of the presses, you know, and I wanted to take it to don Juan.

Maybe it was the first book, I don't know, perhaps it was. I wanted to believe that it was, anyway, and I took it to him, I gave it it was very difficult to reach him in the first place, because he was way up in the central part of Mexico I had to wait for a couple of days.

And then finally he came down to town and I gave him the book. I said, "don Juan look I finished a book," and he looked said, "very nice," he said, "a nice book", and in a state of passion I said , "I want you to have it want you to keep, I want you to have it."

He said, "what can I do with a book.? You know what we do with paper in Mexico."



Copyright 1992 ElectroPrint Graphics, Inc.



1972 - Psychology Today - Carlos Castaneda Interview


Version 2011.07.09

Castaneda Interview:
Source: Seeing Castaneda (1976). Reprinted from Psychology Today, 1972.




Sam Keen:
As I followed don Juan through your three books, I suspected, at times, that he was the creation of Carlos Castaneda. He is almost to good to be true--a wise old Indian whose knowledge of human nature is superior to almost everybody's.

Carlos Castaneda:
The idea that I concocted a person like don Juan is inconceivable. He is hardly the kind of figure my European intellectual tradition would have led me to invent. The truth is much stranger. I wasn't even prepared to make the changes in my life that my association with don Juan involved.

Keen:
How and where did you meet don Juan and become his apprentice?

Castaneda:
I was finishing my undergraduate study at UCLA and was planning to go to graduate school in anthropology. I was interested in becoming a professor and thought I might begin in the proper way by publishing a short paper on medicinal plants. I couldn't have cared less about finding a weirdo like don Juan. I was in a bus depot in Arizona with a high-school friend of mine. He pointed out an old Indian man to me and said he knew about peyote and medicinal plants. I put on my best airs and introduced myself to don Juan and said: "I understand you know a great deal about peyote. I am one of the experts on peyote (I had read Weston La Barre's The Peyote Cult) and it might be worth your while to have lunch and talk with me." Well, he just looked at me and my bravado melted.

I was absolutely tongue-tied and numb. I was usually very aggressive and verbal so it was a momentous affair to be silenced by a look. After that I began to visit him and about a year later he told me he had decided to pass on to me the knowledge of sorcery he had learned from his teacher.

Keen:
Then don Juan is not an isolated phenomenon. Is there a community of sorcerers that shares a secret knowledge?

Castaneda:
Certainly. I know three sorcerers and seven apprentices and there are many more. If you read the history of the Spanish conquest of Mexico, you will find that the Catholic inquisitors tried to stamp out sorcery because they considered it the work of the devil. It has been around for many hundreds of years. Most of the techniques don Juan taught me are very old.

Keen:
Some of the techniques that sorcerers use are in wide use in other occult groups. Persons often use dreams to find lost articles, and they go on out-of-the-body journeys in their sleep. But when you told how don Juan and his friend don Genero made your car disappear in broad daylight I could only scratch my head. I know that a hypnotist can create an illusion of the presence or absence of an object. Do you think you were hypnotized?

Castaneda:
Perhaps, something like that. But we have to begin by realizing, as don Juan says, that there is much more to the world than we usually acknowledge. Our normal expectations about reality are created by a social consensus. We are taught how to see and understand the world. The trick of socialization is to convince us that the descriptions we agree upon define the limits of the real world. What we call reality is only one way of seeing the world, a way that is supported by a social consensus.

Keen:
Then a sorcerer, like a hypnotist, creates an alternative world by building up different expectations and manipulating cues to produce a social consensus.

Castaneda:
Exactly. I have come to understand sorcery in terms of Talcott Parsons' idea of glosses. A gloss is a total system of perception and language. For instance, this room is a gloss. We have lumped together a series of isolated perceptions--floor, ceiling, window, lights, rugs, etc.--to make a totality. But we had to be taught to put the world together in this way. A child reconnoiters the world with few preconceptions until he is taught to see things in a way that corresponds to the descriptions everybody agrees on. The world is an agreement. The system of glossing seems to be somewhat like walking. We have to learn to walk, but once we learn we are subject to the syntax of language and the mode of perception it contains.

Keen:
So sorcery, like art, teaches a new system of glossing. When, for instance, van Gogh broke with the artistic tradition and painted "The Starry Night" he was in effect saying: here is a new way of looking at things. Stars are alive and they whirl around in their energy field.

Castaneda:
Partly. But there is a difference. An artist usually just rearranges the old glosses that are proper to his membership. Membership consists of being an expert in the innuendoes of meaning that are contained within a culture. For instance, my primary membership like most educated Western men was in the European intellectual world. You can't break out of one membership without being introduced into another. You can only rearrange the glosses.

Keen:
Was don Juan resocializing you or desocializing you? Was he teaching you a new system of meanings or only a method of stripping off the old system so that you might see the world as a wondering child?

Castaneda:
Don Juan and I disagree about this. I say he was reglossing me and he says he was deglossing me. By teaching me sorcery he gave me a new set of glosses, a new language and a new way of seeing the world. Once I read a bit of the linguistic philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein to don Juan and he laughed and said: "Your friend Wittgenstein tied the noose too tight around his neck so he can't go anywhere."

Keen:
Wittgenstein is one of the few philosophers who would have understood don Juan. His notion that there are many different language games--science, politics, poetry, religion, metaphysics, each with its own syntax and rules--would have allowed him to understand sorcery as an alternative system of perception and meaning.

Castaneda:
But don Juan thinks that what he calls seeing is apprehending the world without any interpretation; it is pure wondering perception. Sorcery is a means to this end. To break the certainty that the world is the way you have always been taught you must learn a new description of the world--sorcery--and then hold the old and the new together. Then you will see that neither description is final. At that moment you slip between the descriptions; you stop the world and see. You are left with wonder; the true wonder of seeing the world without interpretation.

Keen:
Do you think it is possible to get beyond interpretation by using psychedelic drugs?

Castaneda:
I don't think so. That is my quarrel with people like Timothy Leary. I think he was improvising from within the European membership and merely rearranging old glosses. I have never taken LSD, but what I gather from don Juan's teachings is that psychotropics are used to stop the flow of ordinary interpretations, to enhance the contradictions within the glosses, and to shatter certainty. But the drugs alone do not allow you to stop the world. To do that you need an alternative description of the world. That is why don Juan had to teach me sorcery.

Keen:
There is an ordinary reality that we Western people are certain is 'the' only world, and then there is is the separate reality of the sorcerer. What are the essential differences between them?

Castaneda:
In European membership the world is built largely from what the eyes report to the mind. In sorcery the total body is used as a perceptor. As Europeans we see a world out there and talk to ourselves about it. We are here and the world is there. Our eyes feed our reason and we have no direct knowledge of things. According to sorcery this burden on the eyes in unnecessary.

We know with the total body.

Keen:
Western man begins with the assumption that subject and object are separated. We're isolated from the world and have to cross some gap to get to it. For don Juan and the tradition of sorcery, the body is already in the world. We are united with the world, not alienated from it.

Castaneda:
That's right. Sorcery has a different theory of embodiment. The problem in sorcery is to tune and trim your body to make it a good receptor. Europeans deal with their bodies as if they were objects. We fill them with alcohol, Bad food, and anxiety. When something goes wrong we think germs have invaded the body from outside and so we import some medicine to cure it. The disease is not a part of us. Don Juan doesn't believe that. For him disease is a disharmony between a man and his world. The body is an awareness and it must be treated impeccably.

Keen:
This sounds similar to Norman O. Brown's idea that children, schizophrenics, and those with the divine madness of the Dionysian consciousness are aware of things and of other persons as extensions of their bodies. Don Juan suggests something of the kind when he says the man of knowledge has fibers of light that connect his solar plexus to the world.

Castaneda:
My conversation with the coyote is a good illustration of the different theories of embodiment. When he came up to me I said: "Hi, little coyote. How are you doing?" And he answered back: "I am doing fine. How about you?" Now, I didn't hear the words in the normal way.

But my body knew the coyote was saying something and I translated it into dialogue. As an intellectual my relationship to dialogue is so profound that my body automatically translated into words the feeling that the animal was communicating with me. We always see the unknown in terms of the known.

Keen:
When you are in that magical mode of consciousness in which coyotes speak and everything is fitting and luminous it seems as if the whole world is alive and that human beings are in a communion that includes animals and plants. If we drop our arrogant assumptions that we are the only comprehending and communicating form of life we might find all kinds of things talking to us. John Lilly talked to dolphins. Perhaps we would feel less alienated if we could believe we were not the only intelligent life.

Castaneda:
We might be able to talk to any animal. For don Juan and the other sorcerers there wasn't anything unusual about my conversation with the coyote. As a matter of fact they said I should have gotten a more reliable animal for a friend. Coyotes are tricksters and are not to be trusted.

Keen:
What animals make better friends?

Castaneda:
Snakes make stupendous friends?

Keen:
I once had a conversation with a snake. One night I dreamt there was a snake in the attic of a house where I lived when I was a child. I took a stick and tried to kill it. In the morning I told the dream to a friend and she reminded me that it was not good to kill snakes, even if they were in the attic in a dream. She suggested that the next time a snake appeared in a dream I should feed it or do something to befriend it. About an hour later I was driving my motor scooter on a little-used road and there it was waiting for me--a four foot snake, stretched out sunning itself. I drove alongside it and it didn't move. After we had looked at each other for a while I decided I should make some gesture to let him know I repented for killing his brother in my dream. I reached over and touched his tail. He coiled up and indicated that I had rushed our intimacy. So I backed off and just looked. After about five minutes he went off into the bushes.

Castaneda:
You didn't pick it up?

Keen:
No.

Castaneda:
It was a very good friend. A man can learn to call snakes. But you have to be in very good shape, calm, collected--in a friendly mood, with no doubts or pending affairs.

Keen:
My snake taught me that I had always had paranoid feelings about nature. I considered animals and snakes dangerous. After my meeting I could never kill another snake and it began to be more plausible to me that we might be in some kind of living nexus. Our ecosystem might well include communication between different forms of life.

Castaneda:
Don Juan has a very interesting theory about this. Plants, like animals, always affect you. He says that if you don't apologize to plants for picking them you are likely to get sick or have an accident.

Keen:
The American Indians had similar beliefs about animals they killed. If you don't thank the animal for giving up his life so you may live, his spirit may cause you trouble.

Castaneda:
We have a commonality with all life. Something is altered every time we deliberately injure plant life or animal life. We take life in order to live but we must be willing to give up our lives without resentment when it is our time. We are so important and take ourselves so seriously that we forget that the world is a great mystery that will teach us if we listen.

Keen:
Perhaps psychotropic drugs momentarily wipe out the isolated ego and allow a mystical fusion with nature. Most cultures that have retained a sense of communion between man and nature also have made ceremonial use of psychedelic drugs. Were you using peyote when you talked with the coyote?

Castaneda:
No. Nothing at all.

Keen:
Was this experience more intense than similar experiences you had when don Juan gave you psychotropic plants?

Castaneda:
Much more intense. Every time I took psychotropic plants I knew I had taken something and I could always question the validity of my experience. But when the coyote talked to me I had no defenses. I couldn't explain it away. I had really stopped the world and, for a short time, got completely outside my European system of glossing.

Keen:
Do you think don Juan lives in this state of awareness most of the time?

Castaneda:
Yes. He lives in magical time and occasionally comes into ordinary time. I live in ordinary time and occasionally dip into magical time.

Keen:
Anyone who travels so far from the beaten paths of consensus must be very lonely.

Castaneda:
I think so. Don Juan lives in an awesome world and he has left routine people far behind. Once when I was with don Juan and his friend don Genaro I saw the loneliness they shared and their sadness at leaving behind the trappings and points of reference of ordinary society. I think don Juan turns his loneliness into art. He contains and controls his power, the wonder and the loneliness, and turns them into art. His art is the metaphorical way in which he lives. This is why his teachings have such a dramatic flavor and unity. He deliberately constructs his life and his manner of teaching.

Keen:
For instance, when don Juan took you out into the hills to hunt animals was he consciously staging an allegory?

Castaneda:
Yes. He had no interest in hunting for sport or to get meat. In the 10 years I have known him don Juan has killed only four animals to my knowledge, and these only at times when he saw that their death was a gift to him in the same way his death would one day be a gift to something. Once we caught a rabbit in a trap we had set and don Juan thought I should kill it because its time was up. I was desperate because I had the sensation that I was the rabbit. I tried to free him but couldn't open the trap. So I stomped on the trap and accidentally broke the rabbit's neck. Don Juan had been trying to teach me that I must assume responsibility for being in this marvelous world. He leaned over and whispered in my ear: "I told you this rabbit had no more time to roam in this beautiful desert." He consciously set up the metaphor to teach me about the ways of a warrior. The warrior is a man who hunts and accumulates personal power. To do this he must develop patience and will and move deliberately through the world. Don Juan used the dramatic situation of actual hunting to teach me because he was addressing himself to my body.

Keen:
In your most recent book, __Journey to Ixtlan__, you reverse the impression given in your first books that the use of psychotropic plants was the main method don Juan intended to use in teaching you about sorcery. How do you now understand the place of psychotropics in his teachings?

Castaneda:
Don Juan used psychotropic plants only in the middle period of my apprenticeship because I was so stupid, sophisticated and cocky. I held on to my description of the world as if it were the only truth. Psychotropics created a gap in my system of glosses. They destroyed my dogmatic certainty. But I paid a tremendous price. When the glue that held my world together was dissolved, my body was weakened and it took months to recuperate. I was anxious and functioned at a very low level.

Keen:
Does don Juan regularly use psychotropic drugs to stop the world?

Castaneda:
No. He can now stop it at will. He told me that for me to try to see without the aid of psychotropic plants would be useless. But if I behaved like a warrior and assumed responsibility I would not need them; they would only weaken my body.

Keen:
This must come as quite a shock to many of your admirers. You are something of a patron saint to the psychedelic revolution.

Castaneda:
I do have a following and they have some strange ideas about me. I was walking to a lecture I was giving at California State, Long Beach the other day and a guy who knew me pointed me out to a girl and said: "Hey, that is Castaneda." She didn't believe him because she had the idea that I must be very mystical. A friend has collected some of the stories that circulate about me. The consensus is that I have mystical feat.

Keen:
Mystical feat?

Castaneda:
Yes, that I walk barefooted like Jesus and have no callouses. I am supposed to be stoned most of the time. I have also committed suicide and died in several different places. A college class of mine almost freaked out when I began to talk about phenomenology and membership and to explore perception and socialization. They wanted to be told too relax, turn on and blow their minds. But to me understanding is important.

Keen:
Rumors flourish in an information vacuum. We know something about don Juan but too little about Castaneda.

Castaneda:
That is a deliberate part of the life of a warrior, To weasel in and out of different worlds you have to remain inconspicuous. The more you are known and identified, the more your freedom is curtailed. When people have definite ideas about who you are and how you will act, then you can't move. One of the earliest things don Juan taught me was that I must erase my personal history. If little by little you create a fog around yourself then you will not be taken for granted and you will have more room for change. That is the reason I avoid tape recordings when I lecture, and photographs.

Keen:
Maybe we can be personal without being historical. You now minimize the importance of the psychedelic experience connected with your apprenticeship. And you don't seem to go around doing the kind of tricks you describe as the sorcerer's stock-in-trade. What are the elements of don Juan's teachings that are important for you? Have you been changed by them?

Castaneda:
For me the ideas of being a warrior and a man of knowledge, with the eventual hope of being able to stop the world and see, have been the most applicable. They have given me peace and confidence in my ability to control my life. At the time I met don Juan I had very little personal power. My life had been very erratic. I had come a long way from my birthplace in Brazil. Outwardly I was aggressive and cocky, but within I was indecisive and unsure of myself. I was always making excuses for myself. Don Juan once accused me of being a professional child because I was so full of self-pity. I felt like a leaf in the wind. Like most intellectuals, my back was against the wall. I had no place to go. I couldn't see any way of life that really excited me. I thought all I could do was make a mature adjustment to a life of boredom or find ever more complex forms of entertainment such as the use of psychedelics and pot and sexual adventures. All of this was exaggerated by my habit of introspection. I was always looking within and talking to myself. The inner dialogue seldom stopped.

Don Juan turned my eyes outward and taught me to accumulate personal power.

I don't think there is any other way to live if one wants to be exuberant.

Keen:
He seems to have hooked you with the old philosopher's trick of holding death before your eyes. I was struck with how classical don Juan's approach was. I heard echoes of Plato's idea that a philosopher must study death before he can gain any access to the real world and of Martin Heidegger's definition of man as being-toward-death.

Castaneda:
Yes, but don Juan's approach has a strange twist because it comes from the tradition in sorcery that death is physical presence that can be felt and seen. One of the glosses in sorcery is: death stands to your left. Death is an impartial judge who will speak truth to you and give you accurate advice. After all, death is in no hurry. He will get you tomorrow or the next week or in 50 years. It makes no difference to him. The moment you remember you must eventually die you are cut down to the right size.

I think I haven't made this idea vivid enough. The gloss--"death to your left"--isn't an intellectual matter in sorcery; it is perception. When your body is properly tuned to the world and you turn your eyes to your left, you can witness an extraordinary event, the shadowlike presence of death.

Keen:
In the existential tradition, discussions of responsibility usually follow discussion of death.

Castaneda:
Then don Juan is a good existentialist. When there is no way of knowing whether I have one more minute of life. I must live as if this is my last moment. Each act is the warrior's last battle. So everything must be done impeccably. Nothing can be left pending. This idea has been very freeing for me. I am here talking to you and I may never return to Los Angeles. But that wouldn't matter because I took care of everything before I came.

Keen:
This world of death and decisiveness is a long way from psychedelic utopias in which the vision of endless time destroys the tragic quality of choice.

Castaneda:
When death stands to your left you must create your world by a series of decisions.

There are no large or small decisions, only decisions that must be made now. And there is no time for doubts or remorse. If I spend my time regretting what I did yesterday I avoid the decisions I need to make today.

Keen:
How did don Juan teach you to be decisive?

Castaneda:
He spoke to my body with his acts. My old way was to leave everything pending and never to decide anything. To me decisions were ugly. It seemed unfair for a sensitive man to have to decide. One day don Juan asked me: "Do you think you and I are equals?" I was a university student and an intellectual and he was an old Indian but I condescended and said: "Of course we are equals." He said: "I don't think we are. I am a hunter and a warrior and you are a pimp. I am ready to sum up my life at any moment. Your feeble world of indecision and sadness is not equal to mine." Well, I was very insulted and would have left but we were in the middle of the wilderness. So I sat down and got trapped in my own ego involvement. I was going to wait until he decided to go home. After many hours I saw that don Juan would stay there forever if he had to. Why not? For a man with no pending business that is his power. I finally realized that this man was not like my father who would make 20 New Year's resolutions and cancel them all out. Don Juan's decisions were irrevocable as far as he was concerned. They could be canceled out only by other decisions. So I went over and touched him and he got up and we went home. The impact of that act was tremendous. It convinced me that the way of the warrior is an exuberant and powerful way to live.

Keen:
It isn't the content of decision that is important so much as the act of being decisive.

Castaneda:
That is what don Juan means by having a gesture. A gesture is a deliberate act which is undertaken for the power that comes from making a decision. For instance, if a warrior found a snake that was numb and cold, he might struggle to invent a way to take the snake to a warm place without being bitten. The warrior would make the gesture just for the hell of it. But he would perform it perfectly.

Keen:
There seem to be many parallels between existential philosophy and don Juan's teachings.

What you have said about decision and gesture suggests that don Juan, like Nietzsche or Sartre, believes that will rather than reason is the most fundamental faculty of man.

Castaneda:
I think that is right. Let me speak for myself. What I want to do, and maybe I can accomplish it, is to take the control away from my reason. My mind has been in control all of my life and it would kill me rather than relinquish control. At one point in my apprenticeship I became profoundly depressed. I was overwhelmed with terror and gloom and thoughts about suicide. Then don Juan warned me this was one of reason's tricks to retain control. He said my reason was making my body feel that there was no meaning in life. Once my mind waged this last battle and lost, reason began to assume its proper place as a tool of the body.

Keen:
"The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of" and so does the rest of the body.

Castaneda:
That is the point. The body has a will of its own. Or rather, the will is the voice of the body. That is why don Juan consistently put his teachings in dramatic form. My intellect could easily dismiss his world of sorcery as nonsense. But my body was attracted to his world and his way of life.

And once the body took over, a new and healthier reign was established.

Keen:
Don Juan's techniques for dealing with dreams engaged me because they suggest the possibility of voluntary control of dream images. It is as though he proposes to establish a permanent, stable observatory within inner space. Tell me about don Juan's dream training.

Castaneda:
The trick in dreaming is to sustain dream images long enough to look at them carefully. To gain this kind of control you need to pick one thing in advance and learn to find it in your dreams. Don Juan suggested that I use my hands as a steady point and go back and forth between them and the images. After some months I learned to find my hands and to stop the dream. I became so fascinated with the technique that I could hardly wait to go to sleep.

Keen:
Is stopping the images in dreams anything like stopping the world?

Castaneda:
It is similar. But there are differences. Once you are capable of finding your hands at will, you realize that it is only a technique. What you are after is control. A man of knowledge must accumulate personal power. But that is not enough to stop the world. Some abandon also is necessary. You must silence the chatter that is going on inside your mind and surrender yourself to the outside world.

Keen:
Of the many techniques that don Juan taught you for stopping the world, which do you still practice?

Castaneda:
My major discipline now is to disrupt my routines. I was always a very routinary person. I ate and slept on schedule. In 1965 I began to change my habits. I wrote in the quiet hours of the night and slept and ate when I felt the neeed. Now I have dismantled so many of my habitual ways of acting that before long I may become unpredictable and surprising even to myself.

Keen:
Your discipline reminds me of the Zen story of two disciples bragging about miraculous powers. One disciple claimed the founder of the sect to which he belonged could stand on one side of a river and write the name of Buddha on a piece of paper held by his assistant on the opposite shore. The second disciple replied that such a miracle was unimpressive. "My miracle," he said, "is that when I feel hungry I eat, and when I feel thirsty I drink"

Castaneda:
It has been this element of engagement in the world that has kept me following the path which don Juan showed me. There is no need to transcend the world. Everything we need to know is right in front of us, if we pay attention. If you enter a state of nonordinary reality, as you do when you use psychotropic plants, it is only to draw back from it what you need in order to see the miraculous character of ordinary reality. For me the way to live--the path with heart--is not introspection or mystical transcendence but presence in the world. This world is the warrior's hunting ground.

Keen:
The world you and don Juan have pictured is full of magical coyotes, enchanted crows and a beautiful sorceress. It's easy to see how it could engage you. But what about the world of the modern urban person? Where is the magic there? If we could all live in the mountains we might keep wonder alive. But how is it possible when we are half a zoom from the freeway?

Castaneda:
I once asked don Juan the same question. We were sitting in a cafe in Yuma and I suggested that I might be able to stop the world and to see, if I could come and live in the wilderness with him. He looked out the window at the passing cars and said: "That, out there, is your world." I live in Los Angeles now and I find I can use that world to accommodate my needs. It is a challenge to live with no set routines in a routinary world. But it can be done.

Keen:
The noise level and the constant pressure of the masses of people seem to destroy the silence and solitude that would be essential for stopping the world.

Castaneda:
Not at all. In fact, the noise can be used. You can use the buzzing of the freeway to teach yourself to listen to the outside world. When we stop the world the world we stop is the one we usually maintain by our continual inner dialogue. Once you can stop the internal babble you stop maintaining your old world. The descriptions collapse. That is when personality change begins.

When you concentrate on sounds you realize it is difficult for the brain to categories all the sounds, and in a short while you stop trying. This is unlike visual perception which keeps us forming categories and thinking. It is so restful when you can turn off the talking, categorizing, and judging.

Keen:
The internal world changes but what about the external one? We can revolutionize individual consciousness but still not touch the social structures that create our alienation. Is there any place for social or political reform in your thinking?

Castaneda:
I came from Latin America where intellectuals were always talking about political and social revolution and where a lot of bombs were thrown. But revolution hasn't changed much. It takes little daring to bomb a building, but in order to give up cigarettes or to stop being anxious or to stop internal chattering, you have to remake yourself. This is where real reform begins. Don Juan and I were in Tucson not long ago when they were having Earth Week. Some man was lecturing on ecology and the evils of war in Vietnam. All the while he was smoking. Don Juan said, "I cannot imagine that he is concerned with other people's bodies when he doesn't like his own." Our first concern should be with ourselves. I can like my fellow men only when I am at my peak of vigor and am not depressed. To be in this condition I must keep my body trimmed. Any revolution must begin here in this body. I can alter my culture but only from within a body that is impeccably tuned-in to this weird world. For me, the real accomplishment is the art of being a warrior, which, as don Juan says, is the only way to balance the terror of being a man with the wonder of being a man.



Copyright 1972 Psychology Today





1973 - Time Magazine - Don Juan and the Sorcerer's Apprentice


Version 2011.07.09

Time Magazine Cover Story from March 1993

Don Juan and the Sorcerer's Apprentice



Glendower:
"I can call spirits from the vasty deep"

Hotspur:
"Why so can I, or so can any man;"
"But will they come when you do not call for them?"

-- Henry IV, Part I


THE Mexican border is a great divide. Below it, the accumulated structures of Western "rationality" waver and plunge. The familiar shapes of society - landlord and peasant, priest and politician - are laid over a stranger ground, the occult Mexico, with its brujos and carismaticos, its sorcerers and diviners. Some of their practices go back 2,000 and 3,000 years to the peyote and mushroom and morning glory cults of the ancient Aztecs and Toltecs. Four centuries of Catholic repression in the name of faith and reason have reduced the old ways to a subculture, ridiculed and persecuted. Yet in a country of 53 million, where many village marketplaces have their sellers of curative herbs, peyote buttons or dried hummingbirds, the sorcerer's world is still tenacious. Its cults have long been a matter of interest to anthropologists. But five years ago, it could hardly have been guessed that a master's thesis on this recondite subject, published under the conservative imprint of the University of California Press, would become one of the bestselling books of the early '70s.


OLD YAQUI.

The book was The Teachings of Don Juan: a Yaqui Way of Knowledge (1968). With its sequels, A Separate Reality (1971) and the current Journey to Ixtlan (1972), it has made U.S. cult figures of its author and subject: an anthropologist named Carlos Castaneda and a mysterious old Yaqui Indian from Sonora called Juan Matus. In essence, Castaneda's books are the story of how a European rationalist was initiated into the practice of Indian sorcery. They cover a span of ten years, during which, under the weird, taxing and sometimes comic tutelage of Don Juan, a young academic labored to penetrate and grasp what he calls the "separate reality" of the sorcerer's world.

The learning of enlightenment is a common theme in the favorite reading of young Americans today (example: Herman Hesse's novel Siddhartha). The difference is that Castaneda does not present his Don Juan cycle as fiction but as unembellished documentary fact.

The wily, leather-bodied old brujo and his academic straight man first found an audience in the young of the counterculture, many of whom were intrigued by Castaneda's recorded experiences with hallucinogenic (or psychotropic) plants: Jimson weed, magic mushrooms, peyote. The Teachings has sold more than 300,000 copies in paperback and is currently selling at a rate of 16,000 copies a week. But Castaneda's books are not drug propaganda, and now the middleclass middlebrows have taken him up. Ixtlan is a hardback bestseller, and its paperback sales, according to Castaneda's agent Ned Brown, will make its author a millionaire.

To tens of thousands of readers, young and old, the first meeting of Castaneda with Juan Matus which took place in. 1960 in a dusty Arizona bus depot near the Mexican border is a better known literary event than the encounter of Dante and Beatrice beside the Arno. For Don Juan's teachings have reached print at precisely the moment when more Americans than ever before are disposed to consider "non-rational" approaches to reality. This new openness of mind displays itself on many levels, from ESP experiments funded indirectly by the U.S. Government, to the weeping throngs of California 13 year olds getting blissed out by the latest child guru off a chartered jet from Bombay.

The acupuncturist now shares the limelight with Marcus Welby, M.D., and his needles are seen to work - nobody knows why. However, with Castaneda's increasing fame have come increasing doubts. Don Juan has no other verifiable witness, and Juan Matus is nearly as common a name among the Yaqui Indians as John Smith farther north. Is Castaneda real? If so, did he invent Don Juan? Is Castaneda just putting on the straight world?

Among these possibilities, one thing is sure. There is no doubt that Castaneda, or a man by that name, exists: he is alive and well in Los Angeles, a loquacious, nut-brown anthropologist, surrounded by such concrete proofs of existence as a Volkswagen minibus, a Master Charge card, an apartment in Westwood and a beach house. His celebrity is concrete too. It now makes it difficult for him to teach and lecture, especially after an incident at the University of California's Irvine campus last year when a professor named John Wallace procured a Xerox copy of the manuscript of Ixtlan, pasted it together with some lecture notes from a seminar on shamanism Castaneda was giving, and peddled the result to Penthouse magazine. This so infuriated Castaneda that he is reluctant to accept any major lecture engagements in the future. At present he lives "as inaccessibly as possible" in Los Angeles, refreshing his batteries from time to time at what he and Don Juan refer to as a "power spot" atop a mountain north of nearby Malibu: a ring of boulders overlooking the Pacific. So far he has fended off the barrage of film offers. "I don't want to see Anthony Quinn as Don Juan," he says with asperity. Anyone who tries to probe into Castaneda's life finds himself in a maze of contradictions. But to Castaneda's admirers, that scarcely matters.

"Look at it this way," says one. "Either Carlos is telling the documentary truth about himself and Don Juan, in which case he is a great anthropologist. Or else it is an imaginative truth, and he is a great novelist. Heads or tails, Carlos wins."

Indeed, though the man is an enigma wrapped in mystery wrapped in a tortilla, the work is beautifully lucid. Castaneda's story unfolds with a narrative power unmatched in other anthropological studies. Its terrain studded with organpipe cacti, from the glittering lava massifs of the Mexican desert to the ramshackle interior of Don Juan's shack becomes perfectly real. In detail, it is as thoroughly articulated a world as, say, Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County. In all the books, but especially in Journey to Ixtlan, Castaneda makes the reader experience the pressure or mysterious winds and the shivver of leaves at twilight, the hunter's peculiar alertness to sound and smell, the rock bottom scrubbiness of Indian life, the raw fragrance of tequila and the vile, fibrous taste of peyote, the dust in the car and the loft of a crow's flight. It is a superbly concrete setting, dense with animistic meaning. This is just as well, in view of the utter weirdness of the events that happen in it.

The education of a sorcerer, as Castaneda describes it, is arduous. It entailed the destruction, by Don Juan, of the young anthropologist's interpretation of the world; of what can, and cannot be called "real." The Teachings describes the first steps in this process. They involved natural drugs.

One was Lophophora williamsii, the peyote cactus, which, Don Juan promised, revealed an entity named Mescalito, a powerful teacher who "shows you the proper way of life." Another was Jimson weed, which Don Juan spoke of as an implacable female presence. The third was humito, "the little smoke" a preparation of dust from Psilocybe mushrooms that had been dried and aged for a year, and then mixed with five other plants, including sage. This was smoked in a ritual pipe, and used for divination.

Such drugs, Don Juan insisted, gave access to the "powers" or impersonal forces at large in the world that a "man of knowledge" - his term for sorcerer - must learn to use. Prepared and administered by Don Juan, the drugs drew Castaneda into one frightful or ecstatic confrontation after another. After chewing peyote buttons Castaneda met Mescalito successively as a black dog, a column of singing light, and a cricket like being with a green warty head. He heard awesome and uninterpretable rumbles from the dead lava hills. After smoking humito and talking to a bilingual coyote, he saw the "guardian of the other world" rise before him as a hundred-foot high gnat with spiky tufted hair and drooling jaws. After rubbing his body with an unguent made from datura, the terrified anthropologist experienced all the sensations of flying.

Through it all, Castaneda often had little idea of what was happening. He could not be sure what it meant or whether any of it had "really" happened at all. That interpretation had to be supplied by Don Juan.

Why, then, in an age full of descriptions of good and bad trips, should Castaneda's sensations be of any more interest than anyone else's? First, because they were apparently conducted within a system - albeit one he did not understand at the time - imposed with priestly and rigorous discipline by his Indian guide. Secondly, because Castaneda kept voluminous and extraordinarily vivid notes.

A sample description of the effects of peyote: "In a matter of instants a tunnel formed around me, very low and narrow, hard and strangely cold. It felt to the touch like a wall of solid tinfoil...

I remember having to crawl towards a sort of round point where the tunnel ended; when I finally arrived, if I did, I had forgotten all about the dog, Don Juan, and myself." Perhaps most important, Castaneda remained throughout a rationalist Everyman. His one resource was questions: a persistent, often fumbling effort to keep a Socratic dialogue going with Don Juan: "'Did I take off like a bird?' "'You always ask me questions I cannot answer...What you want to know makes no sense. Birds fly like birds and a man who has taken the devil's weed flies as such.'"

"'Then I didn't really fly, Don Juan. I flew in my imagination. Where was my body?' " And so on.

By his account, the first phase of Castaneda's apprenticeship lasted from 1961 to 1965, when, terrified that he was losing his sense of reality - and by now possessing thousands of pages of notes - he broke away from Don Juan. In 1968, when The Teachings appeared, he went down to Mexico again to give the old man a copy. A second cycle of instruction then began. Gradually Castaneda realized that Don Juan's use of psychotropic plants was not an end in itself, and that the sorcerer's way could be traversed without drugs.

But this entailed a perfect honing of the will. A man of knowledge, Don Juan insisted, could only develop by first becoming a "warrior" not literally a professional soldier, but a man wholly at one with his environment, agile, unencumbered by sentiment or "personal history". The warrior knows that each act may be his last. He is alone. Death is the root of his life, and in its constant presence he always performs "impeccably." This existential stoicism is a key idea in the books. The warrior's aim in becoming a "man of knowledge" and thus gaining membership as a sorcerer, is to "see."

"Seeing," in Don Juan's system, means experiencing the world directly, grasping its essence, without interpreting it. Castaneda's second book, A Separate Reality, describes Don Juan's efforts to induce him to "see" with the aid of mushroom smoke. Journey to Ixtlan, though many of the desert experiences it recounts predate Castaneda's introduction to peyote, datura and mushrooms, deals with the second stage: "seeing" without drugs.

"The difficulty." says Castaneda, "is to learn to perceive with your whole body, not just with your eyes and reason. The world becomes a stream of tremendously rapid, unique events. So you must trim your body to make it a good receptor; the body is an awareness, and it must be treated impeccably." Easier said than done. Part of the training involved minutely, even piously attuning the senses to the desert, its animals and birds, its sounds and shadows, the shifts in its wind, and the places in which a shaman might confront its spirit entities: spots of power, holes of refuge. When Castaneda describes his education as a hunter and plant gatherer learning about the virtues of herbs, the trapping of rabbits, the narrative is absorbing. Don Juan and the desert enable him, sporadically and without drugs, to "see" or, as the Yaqui puts it "to stop the world." But such a state of interpretation free experience eludes description even for those who believe in Castaneda wholeheartedly.


SAGES.

Not everybody can, does or will. But in some quarters Castaneda's works are extravagantly admired as a revival of a mode of cognition that has been largely neglected in the West, buried by materialism and Pascal's despair, since the Renaissance. Says Mike Murphy, a founder of the Esalen Institute: "The essential lessons Don Juan has to teach are the timeless ones that have been taught by the great sages of India and the spiritual masters of modern times." Author Alan Watts argues that Castaneda's books offer an alternative to both the guilt-ridden Judaeo-Christian and the blindly mechanistic views of man: "Don Juan's way regards man as something central and important. By not separating ourselves from nature we return to a position of dignity."

But such endorsements and parallels do not in any way validate the more worldly claim to importance of Castaneda's books: to wit, that they are anthropology, a specific and truthful account of an aspect of Mexican Indian culture as shown by the speech and actions of one person, a shaman named Juan Matus. That proof hinges on the credibility of Don Juan as a being and Carlos Castaneda as a witness. Yet there is no corroboration beyond Castaneda's writings that Don Juan did what he is said to have done, and very little that he exists at all.

Ever since The Teachings appeared, would be disciples and counterculture tourists have been combing Mexico for the old man. One awaits the first Don Juan Prospectors' Convention in the Brujo Bar BQ of the Mescalito Motel. Young Mexicans are excited to the point where the authorities may not even allow Castaneda's books to be released there in Spanish translation. Said one Mexican student who is himself pursuing Don Juan: "If the books do appear, the search for him could easily turn into a gold-rush stampede."

His teacher, Castaneda asserts, was born in 1891, and suffered in the diaspora of the Yaquis all over Mexico from the 1890s until the 1910 revolution. His parents were murdered by soldiers. He became a nomad. This helps explain why the elements of Don Juan's sorcery are a combination of shamanistic beliefs from several cultures. Some of them are not at all "representative" of the Yaquis.

Many Indian tribes, such as the Huichols, use peyote ritually, both north and south of the border - some in a syncretic blend of Christianity and shamanism. But the Yaquis are not peyote users.

Don Juan, then, might be hard to find because he wisely shuns his pestering admirers. Or maybe he is a composite Indian, a collage of others. Or he could be a purely fictional shaman concocted by Castaneda.

Opinions differ widely and hotly, even among deep admirers of Castaneda's writing. "Is it possible that these books are nonfiction?" Novelist Joyce Carol Oates asks mildly. "They seem to me remarkable works of art on the Hesse-like theme of a young man's initiation into 'another way' of reality. They are beautifully constructed. The character of Don Juan is unforgettable. There is a novelistic momentum, rising, suspenseful action, a gradual revelation of character."


GULLIVER.

True, Castaneda's books do read like a highly orchestrated Bildungsroman. But anthropologists worry less about literary excellence than about the shaman's elusiveness, as well as his apparent disconnection from the Yaquis. "I believe that basically the work has a very high percentage of imagination," says Jesus Ochoa, head of the department of ethnography at Mexico's National Museum of Anthropology. Snaps Dr. Francis Hsu of Northwestern University: "Castaneda is a new fad. I enjoyed the books in the same way that I enjoy Gulliver's Travels." But Castaneda's senior colleagues at U.C.L.A., who gave their former student a Ph.D. for Ixtlan, emphatically disagree: Castaneda, as one professor put it, is "a native genius," for whom the usual red tape and bureaucratic rigmarole were waived; his truth as a witness is not in question.

At the very least, though, it is clear that "Juan Matus" is a pseudonym used to protect his teacher's privacy. The need to be inaccessible and elusive is a central theme in the books. Time and again, Don Juan urges Castaneda to emulate him and free himself not only of daily routines, which dull perception, but of the imprisoning past itself. "Nobody knows my personal history," the old man explains in Ixtlan. "Nobody knows who I am or what I do. Not even I...we either take everything for sure and real, or we don't. If we follow the first path, we get bored to death with ourselves and the world. If we follow the second and erase personal history, we create a fog around us, a very exciting and mysterious state."

Unhappily for anyone hot for certainties about Carlos Castaneda's life, Don Juan's apprentice has taken the lesson very much to heart. After The Teachings became an underground bestseller, it was widely supposed that its author was El Freako the Acid Academic, all buckskin fringe and pinball eye, his brain a charred labyrinth lit by mysterious alkaloids, tripping through the desert with a crow on his hat. But Castaneda means chestnut grove, and the man looks a bit like a chestnut: a stocky, affable Latin American, 5 ft. 5 in., 150 lbs. and apparently bursting with vitamins. The dark curly hair is clipped short, and the eyes glisten with moist alertness. In dress, Castaneda is conservative to the point of anonymity, decking himself either in dark business suits or in Lee Trevino-type sports shirts. His plumage is words, which pour from him in a ceaseless, self-mocking and mesmeric flow. "Oh, I am a bullshitter!" he cackles, spreading his stubby, calloused hands. "Oh, how I love to throw the bull around!"


FOG.

Castaneda says he does not smoke or drink hard liquor; he does not use marijuana; even coffee jangles him. He says he does not use peyote any more, and his only drug experiences took place with Don Juan. His own encounters with the acid culture have been unproductive. Invited to a 1964 East Village party that was attended by such luminaries as Timothy Leary, he merely found the talk absurd: "They were children, indulging in incoherent revelations. A sorcerer takes hallucinogens for a different reason than heads do, and after he has gotten where he wants to go, he stops taking them."

Castaneda's presentation of himself as Mr. Straight, it should be noted, could not be better designed to foil those who seek to know his own personal history. What, in fact, is his background? The "historical" Carlos Castaneda, anthropologist and apprentice shaman, begins when he met Don Juan in 1960; the books and his well-documented career at U.C.L.A. account for his life since.

Before that, a fog.

In spending many hours with Castaneda over a matter of weeks, TIME Correspondent Sandra Burton found him attractive, helpful and convincing - up to a point - but very firm about warning that in talking about his pre-don Juan life he would change names and places and dates without, however, altering the emotional truth of his life. "I have not lied or contrived," he told her. "To contrive would be to pull back and not say anything or give the assurances that everybody seeks."

As the talks continued, Castaneda offered several versions of his life, which kept changing as Burton presented him with the fact that much of his information did not check out, emotionally or otherwise.

By his own account, Castaneda was not his original name. He was born, he said, to a "well-known" but anonymous family in Sao Paulo, Brazil, on Christmas Day, 1935. His father, who later became a professor of literature, was then 17, and his mother 15. Because his parents were so immature, little Carlos was packed off to be raised by his maternal grandparents on a chicken farm in the back country of Brazil.

When Carlos was six, his story runs, his parents took their only child back and lavished guilty affection on him. "It was a hellish year," he says flatly, "because I was living with two children." But a year later his mother died. The doctors' diagnosis was pneumonia, but Castaneda's is accidie, a condition of numbed inertia, which he believes is the cultural disease of the West. He offered a touching memory: "She was morose, very beautiful and dissatisfied, an ornament. My despair was that I wanted to make her something else, but how could she listen to me? I was only six."

Now Carlos was left with his father, a shadowy figure whom he mentions in the books with a mixture of fondness and pity shaded with contempt. His father's weakness of will is the obverse to the "impeccability" of his adopted father, Don Juan. Castaneda describes his father's efforts to become a writer as a farce of indecision. But, he adds, "I am my father. Before I met Don Juan I would spend years sharpening my pencils, and then getting a headache every time I sat down to write. Don Juan taught me that's stupid. If you want to do something, do it impeccably, that's all that matters."

Carlos was put in a "very proper" Buenos Aires boarding school, Nicolas Avellaneda. He says he stayed there till he was 15, acquiring the Spanish (he already spoke Italian and Portuguese) in which he would later interview Don Juan. But he became so unmanageable that an uncle, the family patriarch, had him placed with a foster family in Los Angeles. In 1951 he moved to the U.S. and enrolled at Hollywood High. Graduating about two years later, he tried a course in sculpture at Milan's Academy of Fine Arts, but "I did not have the sensitivity or the openness to be a great artist."

Depressed, in crisis, he headed back to Los Angeles and started a course in social psychology at U.C.L.A, shifting later to an anthropology course. Says he: "I really threw my life out the window. I said to myself: If it's going to work, it must be new." In 1959 he formally changed his name to Castaneda.


BIOGRAPHY.

Thus Castaneda's own biography. It creates an elegant consistency - the spirited young man moving from his academic background in an exhausted, provincial European culture toward revitalization by the shaman; the gesture of abandoning the past to disentangle himself from crippling memories. Unfortunately, it is largely untrue.

For between 1955 and 1959, Carlos Castaneda was enrolled, under that name, as a pre-psychology major at Los Angeles City College. His liberal arts studies included, in his first two years, two courses in creative writing and one in journalism. Vernon King, his creative writing professor at L.A.C.C., still has a copy of The Teachings inscribed "To a great teacher, Vernon King, from one of his students, Carlos Castaneda."

Moreover, immigration records show that a Carlos Cesar Arana Castaneda did indeed enter the U.S., at San Francisco, when the author says he did: in 1951. This Castaneda too was 5 ft. 5 in., weighed 140 lbs. and came from Latin America. But he was Peruvian, born on Christmas Day, 1925, in the ancient Inca town of Cajamarca, which makes him 48, not 38, this year. His father was not an academic, but a goldsmith and watchmaker named Cesar Arana Burungaray. His mother, Susana Castaneda Navoa, died not when Carlos was six, but when he was 24. Her son spent three years in the local high school in Cajamarca and then moved with his family to Lima in 1948, where he graduated from the Colegio Nacional de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe and then studied painting and sculpture, not in Milan, but at the National Fine Arts School of Peru. One of his fellow students there Jose Bracamonte, remembers his pal Carlos as a resourceful blade who lived mainly off gambling (cards, horses, dice), and harbored "like an obsession" the wish to move to the U.S. "We all liked Carlos," recalls Bracamonte. "He was witty, imaginative, cheerful - a big liar and a real friend."


SISTER.

Castaneda apparently wrote home sporadically, at least until 1969, the year after Don Juan came out. His Cousin Lucy Chavez, who was raised with him "like a sister," still keeps his letters. They indicate that he served in the U.S. Army, and left it after suffering a slight wound or "nervous shock" Lucy is not sure which. (The Defense Department, however, has no record of Carlos Arana Castaneda's service.)

When TIME confronted Castaneda with such details as the time and transposition of his mother's death, Castaneda was opaque. "One's feelings about one's mother," he declared, "are not dependent on biology or on time. Kinship as a system has nothing to do with feelings." Cousin Lucy recalls that when Carlos' mother did die, he was overwhelmed. He refused to attend the funeral, locked himself in his room for three days without eating. And when he came out announced he was leaving home. Yet Carlos' basic explanation of his lying generally is both perfect and totally unresponsive. "To ask me to verify my life by giving you my statistics," he says, "is like using science to validate sorcery. It robs the world of its magic and makes milestones out of us all."

In short, Castaneda lays claim to an absolute control over his identity.

Well and good. But where does a writer's license, the "artistic self-representation" Castaneda lays claim to, end? How far does it permeate his story of Don Juan? As the books' sales mount, the resistance multiplies. Three parodies of Castaneda have appeared in New York magazines and papers lately indicating that the critics seem to be preparing to skewer Don Juan as a kind of anthropological Ossian, the legendary third century Gaelic poet whose works James Macpherson foisted upon 18th century British readers.

Castaneda fans should not panic, however. A strong case can be made that the Don Juan books are of a different order of truthfulness from Castaneda's pre-don Juan past.

Where, for example, was the motive for an elaborate scholarly put on? The Teachings was submitted to a university press, an unlikely prospect for bestsellerdom. Besides, getting an anthropology degree from U.C.L.A. is not so difficult that a candidate would employ so vast a confabulation just to avoid research. A little fudging, perhaps, but not a whole system in the manner of The Teachings, written by an unknown student with, at the outset, no hope of commercial success.

For that was certainly Castaneda's situation in the summer of 1960: a young Peruvian student with limited ambitions. There is no reason to doubt his account of how the work began. "I wanted to enter graduate school and do a good job of being an academic, and I knew that if I could publish a little paper beforehand, I'd have it made." One of his teachers at U.C.L.A., Professor Clement Meighan, had interested him in shamanism. Castaneda decided the easiest field would be ethnobotany, the classification of psychotropic plants used by sorcerers. Then came Don Juan.

The visits to the Southwest and the Mexican desert gradually became the spine of Castaneda's life. Impressed by his work, the U.C.L.A. staff offered him encouragement. Recalls Professor Meighan: "Carlos was the type of student a teacher waits for." Sociology professor Harold Garfinkel, one of the fathers of ethnomethodology, gave Castaneda constant stimulus and harsh criticism. After his first peyote experience (August 1961), Castaneda presented Garfinkel with a long "analysis" of his visions. "Garfinkel said, "Don't explain to me. You are a nobody. Just give it to me straight and in detail, the way it happened. The richness of detail is the whole story of membership." The abashed student spent several years revising his thesis, living off odd jobs as taxi driver and delivery boy, and sent it in again. Garfinkel was still unimpressed. "He didn't like my efforts to explain Don Juan's behavior psychologically. 'Do you want to be the darling of Esalen?' he asked." Castaneda rewrote the thesis a third time.

Like the various versions of Castaneda's life, the books are an invitation to consider contradictory kinds of truth. At the core of his books and Don Juan's method is, of course, the assumption that reality is not an absolute. It comes to each of us culturally determined, packaged in advance. "The world has been rendered coherent by our description of it," Castaneda argues, echoing Don Juan.

"From the moment of birth, this world has been described for us. What we see is just a description."


MULTIVERSE.

In short, what men take as reality, as well as their notions of the world's rational possibilities, is determined by consensus, in effect by a social contract that varies from culture to culture. Through history, the road has been hard for any person who questions its fine print - especially if, like Castaneda, he tries to persuade others to accept his vision.

Anthropology by its nature deals with different descriptions, and hence literally with separate realities, within different cultures. As Castaneda's colleague Edmund Carpenter of Adelphi College notes, "Native people have many separate realities. They believe in a multiverse, or a biverse, but not a universe as we do." Yet even this much scholarly relativism is ndigestible for many people who like to reassure themselves that there is only one world and that the "validity" of a culture's interpretations can and should be measured only against this norm. Any myth, they would say, can conveniently be seen as an embryonic form of what the West accepts as linear history; a Hopi rain dance is merely an "inefficient" way of doing what cloud-seeding does well.

Castaneda's books insist otherwise. He is eloquent and convincing on how useless it is to explain or judge another culture entirely in terms of one's own particular categories. "Suppose there was a Navajo anthropologist," he says. "It would be very interesting to ask him to study us. He would ask extraordinary questions, like 'How many in your kinship group have been bewitched?' That's a terribly important question in Navajo terms. And of course, you'd say 'I don't know,' and think 'What an idiotic question.' Meanwhile the Navajo is thinking, 'My God, what a creep! What a primitive creep!'"

Turn the situation around, Castaneda argues, and there is your typical Western anthropologist in the field. Yet a "very simple" alternative exists: the crux of anthropology is acquisition of real membership. "It's a hell of a lot of work," he says, explaining the years he spent with Don Juan. "What Don Juan did with me was simply this: he was making his sorcery membership available, handing down the necessary steps." Professor Michael Harner of The New School for Social Research, a friend of Castaneda's and an authority on shamanism, explains: "Most anthropologists only give the result. Instead of synthesizing the interviews, Castaneda takes us through the process."

It is not those years of study but the nature of the revelation he offers that has run Castaneda afoul of rationalists. To join another man's consensus of reality, one's own must go, and since nobody can easily abandon his own accustomed description it must be forcibly broken up. The historical precedents, even in the West, are abundant. Ever since the ecstatic mystery religions of Greece, our culture has been continually challenged by the wish to escape its own dominant properties: the linear, the categorical, the fixed.

Whether Carlos Castaneda is, as some leading scholars think, a major figure in an evolution of anthropology or only a brilliant novelist with unique knowledge of the desert and Indian lore, his work is to be reckoned with. And it goes on. At present, he is finishing the fourth and last volume of the Don Juan series, Tales of Power, scheduled for publication next year.


"POWER SPOT."

It may confront, more clearly than the first three books, the final purpose of Don Juan's painful teachings: a special case of the ancient desire to know, propitiate and, if possible, use the mysterious forces of the universe. In that pursuit, the splitting of the atom, the sin of Prometheus and Castaneda's search for a "power spot" near Los Angeles can all be remotely linked. A good deal of the magic Don Juan works on Castaneda in the books (making Carlos believe his car has disappeared, for instance) sounds like the kind of fakir rope trickery that gurus think frivolous. Yet all in all, the books communicate a primal sense of power running through the world, arranging our perceptions of reality like so many iron filings in a huge magnetic field.

A sorcerer's power, Castaneda insists, is "unimaginable," but the extent to which a sorcerer's apprentice can hope to use it is determined by, among other things, the degree of his commitment.

The full use of power can only be acquired with the help of an "ally", a spirit entity which attaches itself to the student as a guide - of a dangerous sort. The ally challenges the apprentice when he learns to "see," as Castaneda did in the earlier books. The apprentice may duck this battle. For if he wrestles with the ally - like Jacob with the Angel - and loses, he will, in Don Juan's slightly enigmatic terms, "be snuffed out." But if he wins, his reward is "true power the final acquisition of sorcery membership, when all interpretation ceases."

Up to now, Castaneda claims, he has chosen to duck the final battle with an ally. He admits to an inner struggle on the matter. Sometimes, he says, he feels strongly tugged away from the commitment to sorcery and back into the mundane world. He has a very real urge to be a respected writer and anthropologist, and to use his new-found power of fame in tandem with the printed word to go on communicating glimpses of other realities to hungry readers.


APEX.

Moreover, like most men who have explored mystical separate realities and returned, he seems to have reentry problems. According to the books, Don Juan taught him to abandon regular hours - for work or play - and even in his apartment in Los Angeles he apparently eats and sleeps as whim occurs, or slips off to the desert. But he often works at his writing as many as 18 hours a day. He has great skill at avoiding the public. No one can be sure where he will be at any given time of day, or year. "Carlos will call you from a phone booth," says Michael Korda, his editor at Simon & Schuster, "and say he is in Los Angeles. Then the operator will cut in for more change, and it turns out to be Yuma." His few good friends do not give his whereabouts away to would-be acolytes, in part because his own experience is mysterious and he can't explain it. He has a girl friend but not even his friends know her last name. He avoids photographers like omens of disaster. "I live in this inflow of very strange people that are waiting for a word from me. They expect something that I can't give at all. I had a class in Irvine that was very large, and it looked like they were just waiting for me to crack up."

At other moments he seems decided to be a true sorcerer or bust. "Power takes care of you," he says, "and you don't know how. Now I'm at the edge, and I have to change my whole format. Writing to get my Ph.D. was my accomplishment, my sorcery, and now I am at the apex of a cycle that includes the notoriety. But this is the last thing I will ever write about Don Juan. Now I am going to be a sorcerer for sure. Only my death could stop that." It is a romantic role, this anthropological gesture across a pit of entities which, in a different age, would have been called demons. Will Castaneda become the Dr. Faustus of Malibu Beach, attended by Mephistopheles in a sombrero?

Stay tuned in for the next episode. In the meantime, his books have made it hard for readers ever to use the word primitive patronizingly again.



Copyright March 5th, 1973 Time Magazine



1985 - Magical Blend - No. 14 - Evasive Mysteries: Carlos Castaneda Interview Part one.


Version 2011.07.09

[This article appeared in Magical Blend magazine in 1985. The interview was conducted entirely in Spanish probably around 1980-81 and published in an Argentinian magazine. The translator that created this English version apparently introduced numerous mispellings and strange phraseology which is preserved here.]

By Graciela Corvalan, translated by Larry Towler

Magical Blend Magazine Issue #14

Carlos Castaneda is world reknowned as an author of seven best selling books on the Toltec system of sorcery. Some give him credit as being the crucial catalyst of mainstream awareness of metaphysics that has grown so in recent decades. Graciela Corvalan Ph.D. is a professor of Spanish at Webster College, in St Louis, Missouri. Graciela is currently working on a book consisting of a series of interviews with mystical thinkers in the Americas. A while back she wrote a letter to Carlos Castaneda asking for an interview. One night she received a phone call from Carlos accepting her request and explaining that he had a friend who collected his mail for him while he was away traveling. Upon his return he always reached into the mail sacks and pulled out two letters which he then acted upon. Hers had been one of the most recent two. He explained he was excited to be interviewed by her for she was not a member of the established press. He arranged to meet Graciela in California on the UCLA campus. He asked that the interview first be published in Spanish which Graciela has done, in the Argentinian magazine, Mutantian. Now we are honored to release an English translation. Graciela has obviously succeeded in capturing a flash of lightning over a desert night and showing us amazing insights into Carlos Castanada the Toltec Seer!


[Beginning of Corvalan Interview - Part 1]

At around 1:00 pm, my friend and I set course for the campus of UCLA. We had somewhat more than two hours of travel.

Following Castaneda's directions, we arrived without difficulty at the guard shack at the entrance to the parking lot of UCLA.

It was about quarter to four.

We stationed ourselves in a more or less shady place.

At exactly four o'clock, I looked up and saw him coming toward the car:

Castaneda was wearing blue jeans and a pale cream colored open-collared jacket without pockets. I got out of the car and hastened to meet him.

After the greetings and conventional courtesies, I asked him if he would permit me to use a tape recorder. We had one in the car in case he permitted us. No, it's better not to, he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. We showed him the way to the car to get the notes, notebooks and books.

Loaded with books and papers, we let Castaneda drive. He knew the route well.

Over there, he said, pointing with his hand, there are some beautiful river banks.

From the beginning, Castaneda established the tone of the conversation and the themes which we were to deal with.

I also realized that it wasn't necessary to have all those questions that I had so laboriously worked out.

As I had anticipated from his telephone call, he wanted to speak to us about the project he was involved in, and the importance and seriousness of his investigations.

The conversation was conducted in Spanish, a language that he manages with fluidity and a great sense of humor. Castaneda is a master in the art of conversation.

We spoke for seven hours. The time passed without his enthusiasm or our attention weakening. As he gradually became more comfortable, he made more use of typically Argentinian expressions so as to make use of his coastal ways such as a friendly gesture to us that we are all Argentinian.

It must be mentioned that although his Spanish is correct, it's evident that his language is English.

He made abundant use of expressions and words in English for those which we give the equivalent of in Spanish.

That his prime language would be English is manifested also in the syntactic structure of his phrases and sentences.

All that afternoon Castaneda strove to maintain the conversation on a level that wasn't intellectual.

Even though he has obviously read a lot and knows the different currents of thought, at no time did he establish comparisons with other traditions of the past or the present. He transmitted to us the Toltec teachings by means of material images that, precisely for that reason, hindered their being interpreted speculatively. In this way Castaneda wasn't only obedient to his teachers but totally faithful in the route he has chosen- he didn't want to contaminate his teaching with anything extraneous to it.

Shortly after meeting us, he wanted to know the reasons for our interest in knowing him.

He already knew about my possible outline and the projected book of interviews I was planning. Beyond all professionalism, we insisted on the importance of his books that had influenced us and many others so much.

We had a profound interest in knowing the font of his teaching. Meanwhile, we arrived at the banks and, in the shade of the trees, sat down. Don Juan gave me everything, he began to say, when I met him I had no other interest than anthropology, but upon encountering him I changed. And what has happened to me I wouldn't change for anything!

Don Juan was present with us. Every time Castaneda mentioned or remembered him we felt his emotion. He told us that, from Don Juan, he had learned that there was one totality of exquisite intensity capable of giving himself everything in every present moment. Give your all in each moment is his principal, his rule, he said. That which Don Juan is like can't be explained and is rarely comprehended, it simply is.

In The Second Ring of Power Castaneda records one special characteristic of Don Juan and Don Genaro, that which all others lack. There he writes: None of us is disposed to lend to another undivided attention in the way that Don Juan and Don Genaro did.

The Second Ring of Power had left me full of questions; the book interested me a lot, especially after the second reading, but I had heard unfavorable commentaries. I had certain doubts myself. I told him that I believed that I had enjoyed Journey to Ixtlan best without really knowing why. Castaneda listened to me and answered my words with a gesture which seemed to say, And me, what do I have to do with the taste of all? I continued speaking, looking for reasons and explanations.

Maybe my preference for Journey to Ixtlan is because of the love I perceived, I asserted. Castaneda made a face. He didn't like the word love. It's possible that the term might have connotations of romantic love, sentimentality, or weakness for him. Trying to explain myself, I insisted that the final scene of Journey to Ixtlan is bulging with intensity. There, said Castaneda. Yes, he would agree with that last statement. Intensity, yes, he said, that's the word.

Emphasizing the same book, I demonstrated to him that some scenes seemed to me definitely grotesque. I couldn't find justification for them. Castaneda was in agreement with me. Yes, the behavior of those women is monstrous and grotesque, but that vision was necessary to be able to enter into action, he said.

Castaneda needed that shock.

Without an adversary we are nothing, he continued. The adversary belongs to human form. Life is war, is struggle. Peace is an anomaly. Referring to pacifism he qualified it as monstrosity because, according to him, men, are beings of success and struggles.

Without being able to restrain myself I told him that I couldn't accept pacifism as a monstrosity. What about Ghandi? I asked. How do you see Ghandi, for example?

Ghandi? he responded to me, Ghandi is not a pacifist. Ghandi is one of the most tremendous fighters that have existed. And what a fighter!

It was then that I understood the very special value that Castaneda gives to words. The pacifism that he had made reference to couldn't have been a pacifism of weakness; that of those who don't have enough guts to be, and consequently do something else, that of those who do nothing because they don't have objectives or energy in life; that pacifism reflects a completely self-indulgent and hedonistic attitude.

With a grand gesture which would include all of society without values, will, or energy, he replied, All drugged out... yes, hedonists!

Castaneda didn't clarify those concepts, and we didn't ask him to. I had understood that part of the aesthetic of the warrior was to free himself from the human nature, but the unusual comments of Castaneda had filled me with confusion. Little by little, however, I was getting to know that being, beings of success and struggles is the first level of the relationship. That is the raw material where they part. Don Juan, in the books, always referred to the good tone of a person. There begins the learning and one passes to another level.

You can't pass to the other side without losing the human form, said Castaneda.

Insisting about other aspects of his book that hadn't made themselves clear to me, I asked him about the hollows that had remained with people by the simple act of having reproduced.

Yes, said Castaneda, there are differences between people who have had children and those who haven't. To pass on tiptoes in front of the eagle, you need to be whole. A person with 'hollows' can't pass.

He will explain to us the metaphor of the eagle a little later. For the moment I will pass by this almost without mentioning it because the focus of our attention was on another theme.

How do you explain the attitude of Dona Soledad with Pablito and that of la Gorda with her daughters? I wanted to know insistently. Taking from the children that edge which at birth they take from us was, in large measure, something inconceivable for me.

Castaneda agreed that he still doesn't have it all systematized. He insisted, still in the differences that exist between people who have reproduced and those who haven't.

Don Genero is crazy! Crazy! Don Juan, in a different way, is a serious crazy man. Don Juan goes slowly but arrives far away. In the end, the two of them arrive...

I, like Don Juan, he continued, have hollows; that is to say, I have to follow the route. The Genaros, on the other hand, have another model.

The Genaros, for example, have a special edge that we don't have. They are more nervous and of rapid motion...they are very fickle, nothing detains them.

Those who like la Gorda and I have had children have other characteristics that compensate for that loss. One is more settled and, although the road might be long and arduous, one arrives also. In general those who have had children know how to take care of others. It doesn't mean that people without children don't know how, but it's different...

In general one doesn't know what one is doing; one is unconscious of actions and later pays for it. I didn't know what I was doing, he exclaimed, referring, without a doubt, to his own personal life.

At birth, I took everything from my father and mother, he said. They were all bruised! To them I had to return that edge that I had taken from them.

Now I have to recoup the edge that I lost.

It would seem that these hollows that have to be closed, have to do with biological adornment.

We wanted to know if to have hollows is something irreparable.

No, he responded, one can be cured.

Nothing is irrevocable in life.

It's always possible to return what doesn't belong to us and recoup what is ours.

This idea of recovery is coherent with a path of learning walk in which it doesn't suffice to know or practice one or more techniques but that requires an individual and profound transformation of being. It relates to everything- a coherent system of life with concrete and precise objectives.

After a short silence I asked him if The Second Ring of Power had been translated in Spanish.

According to Castaneda, a Spanish publishing house had the right, but he wasn't sure if the book had come out or not.

The translation into Spanish was done by Juan Tovar, who is a good friend of mine.

Juan Tovar used the notes in Spanish that Castaneda himself had furnished him, notes that some critics have put in doubt.

The translation into Portuguese seems to be very beautiful Yes, said Castaneda.

This translation is based on the translation into French.

Really, it's very well done.

In Argentina, his first two books have been banned.

It seems that the reason given was the drug affair.

Castaneda didn't know.

Why he asked us without waiting for our answer.

I imagine it's the work of the 'Mother Church'.

At the beginning of our conversation, Castaneda mentioned something about the Toltec teaching.

Also in The Second Ring of Power it insists in the Toltecs and in being a Toltec.

What does it mean to be a Toltec I asked him.

According to Castaneda, the word Toltec constitutes a wide meaning.

It is said that someone is a Toltec in the same way that it can be said that one is a Democrat or a philosopher.

In the way he uses it, this word doesn't have anything to do with its anthropological meaning.

From the anthropological point of view the word makes reference to an Indian culture of the center and south of Mexico that was already extinct at the time of the conquest and colonization of America by Spain.

Toltec is one who knows the mysteries of watching and dreaming.

All of them are Toltecs.

It deals with a small group that has known how to maintain alive a tradition from more than 3,000 years B.C.

As I was working on mystic thought and had particular interest in establishing the fountain and the place of origin of the distinct traditions, I insisted, Do you believe that the Toltec tradition offers teaching that would be peculiar to America?

The Toltec nation maintains alive a tradition, that is, without a doubt, peculiar to America.

Castaneda asserted that it is possible that the early Americans could have brought something upon crossing the Bering Straits, but all this was so many thousands of years ago that for the moment there are nothing more than theories.

In Stories of Power, Don Juan talks to Castaneda about the wizards about those men of knowledge that the conquest and colonization of the white man couldn't destroy because they didn't know about their existence nor notice all the incomprehensible ideas of their world.

Who forms the Toltec nation? Do they work together? Where do they do it? I asked.

Castaneda answered all of my questions.

He is now in charge of a group of young people that lives in the area of Chaiapas, in the south of Mexico.

They all moved to that area due to the fact that the woman who now teaches them was located there.

Then... you returned?

I felt impelled to ask him to remember the last conversation between Castaneda and the little sisters at the end of The Second Ring of Power.

Did you return right away like the Gorda asked you to?

No, I didn't return right away, but I did return, he answered me laughing.

I returned to continue a task which I can't renounce.

The group consists of about 14 members.

Even though the basic nucleus is 8 or 9 people, all are indispensable in the task that each does.

If each one is sufficiently impeccable, a large number of people can be helped.

Eight is a magical number, he said at one moment.

Also he insisted that the Toltec isn't saved alone but that he goes with the basic nucleus.

Those who remain are indispensable in continuing and maintaining alive the tradition.

It is not necessary that the group be big, but each one of those who are involved in the task is definitely necessary for the total.

La Gorda and I are responsible for the arrivals.

Well... really I am the responsible one but she helps me intimately in this task, explained Castaneda.

He spoke to us later about the members of the group that we knew from his books.

He told us that Don Juan was a Yaqui Indian, from the state of Sonora.

Pablito, on the other hand, was a Mixteco Indian, Nestor was Mazatecan (from Mazatlan, in the province of Sinalea), and Benigno was Tzotzil. He stressed several times that Josefina was not Indian but was Mexican and that one of her grandparents was of French origin. La Gorda, as were Nestor and Don Genaro, was Maytec.

When I met La Gorda she was an immense heavy woman brutalized by life, he said. None of those who knew her can today imagine that she now is the same person as before.

We wanted to know in what language he communicated with all the people of the group, and what was the language that they generally used among themselves. I reminded him that in his books there are references to some Indian languages.

We communicate in Spanish because it's the language we all speak, he responded. Besides, neither Josefina nor the Toltec woman are Indians.

I only speak a little in the Indian language. Single phrases like greetings and some other expressions. I don't know enough to maintain a conversation. Taking advantage of his pause I asked him if the task which they are doing is accessible to all men or if it deals with something for only a few. As our questions began to point at discovering the relevancy of the Toltec teaching and the value of the experience of the group for the rest of humanity, Castaneda explained to us that each one of the members of the group has specific tasks to perform whether in the Yucatan zone, in other areas of Mexico, or in other places.

Performing tasks one discovers a large number of things that are directly applicable to concrete situations of daily life. doing tasks one learns a lot.

The Genaros, for example, have a musical band with which they go through all the places of the frontier. You will imagine that they see and are in contact with many people. You always have the possibility to transmit knowledge.

It always helps. It helps with one word, with one little insinuation... each one, faithfully performing his task, does it. All humans can learn. All have the possibility to live as warriors.

Any person can undertake the task of warrior. The only requirement is to want to do it with an unshakeable desire; that is to say, one has to be unshakeable in the desire to be free. The way isn't easy. We constantly seek excuses and try to escape. It's possible that the mind obtains it but the body feels everything... the body learns rapidly and easily.

The Toltec can't waste energy in foolishness, he continued.

I was one of those persons who can't be without friends... I can't even go to the movies alone. Don Juan in a resolute moment told him that he had to abandon all and, particularly, separate himself from all those friends with whom he had nothing in common.

For a long time he resisted the idea until finally he got involved.

One time, returning to Los Angeles, I got out of the car a block before arriving home and telephoned. Naturally on that day, as always, my house was full of people. I asked one of my friends to prepare a satchel with some things and bring it to where I was. Also I told her that the rest of the things- books, records, etc.- could be distributed among them. It's clear that my friends didn't believe me and took everything as borrowed, clarified Castaneda.

The act of getting rid of the library and records is like cutting off everything in the past, a whole world of ideas and emotions.

My friends believed that I was crazy and kept hoping that I would return from my craziness. I didn't see them in about twelve years, he concluded. After twelve years passed, Castaneda would meet again with them. He first looked for one of his friends who put him in contact with the rest of them. They then planned to meet, and get together to eat dinner. That day they had a good time; they ate a lot and their friends got drunk.

To find myself with them after all those years was my way of showing my gratitude for the friendship that they had offered me before, said Castaneda Now all are grown. They all have their families, spouses, children... It was necessary, nevertheless, that I thank them. Only in that way could I definitely terminate with them and end a stage of my life.

It is possible that Castaneda's friends don't understand anything he is doing, but the fact that he wanted to thank them was something very beautiful.

Castaneda didn't pretend anything with them. He sincerely thanked them for their friendship, and in doing so, freed himself internally from all that past. We then spoke of love, of that often mentioned love. He related to us several anecdotes about his Italian grandfather, always so lovesick, and about his father, so Bohemian, he. Oh, love! Love! he repeated several times. All his commentaries tended to destroy the ideas that one commonly has about love.

It cost me a lot to learn, he continued. I was also very lovesick. Don Juan had to work hard to make me understand that I had to cut off certain relationships.

The way in which I finally cut off with one was the following. I invited her to dinner and we met in a restaurant. During the dinner the same thing happened as always. There was a big fight and she yelled at me and insulted me. At last I asked her if she had any money. She answered that she had.

I took advantage of that to tell her that I had to go to the car to look for my wallet or something like that. I got up and didn't go back. Before leaving her, I wanted to be sure that she had enough money to take a taxi home. Since then I haven't seen her.

You aren't going to believe me, but the Toltecs are very ascetic, [ascetic- Someone who practices self denial as a spiritual discipline] he insisted. Without doubting his word I commented that that idea couldn't be deduced from The Second Ring of Power. On the contrary, I stressed. I believe that in your book many scenes and attitudes present confusion.

How do you think I was going to say that clearly? he answered me. I couldn't say that the relations between them were pure because not only would nobody have believed me but nobody would have understood me.

For Castaneda, we live in a very bustful society. Of all that we had been speaking that afternoon, the majority hadn't been understood. It's that the same Castaneda is seen obligated to adapt to certain exigencies of the publishers who, at the time, would strive to satisfy the tastes of the reading public.

The people are into another thing, continued Castaneda. The other day, for example, I entered a bookstore here in Los Angeles and I began to leaf through the magazines on the counter.

I found that there was a large amount of publications with photos of nude women... many also with men. I don't know what to tell you. In one of the photos there was a man fixing an electric cable while high on a ladder. He had on his protective helmet and a large belt full of tools.

That was all. The rest was naked. Ridiculous! Something like that can't be possible! A woman is graceful... but, a man! As means of explanation he added that women have a lot of experience due to their long history in that type of thing. A role like that has no room for improvisation.

This is the first time I have heard of the idea that the behavior of women isn't improvised; it is something totally new for me, I responded. After listening to Castaneda, we were convinced that, for the Toltec, sex represents an immense draining away of energies that is needed for other tasks. His insistence is therefore understood about the totally ascetic relations that members of the group maintain.

In the point of view of the world, the life that the group carries and the relationships they maintain are something totally unacceptable and unheard of.

That which I tell them isn't believable. It took me a long time to comprehend it, but I have finally been able to verify it.

Castaneda had told us earlier that when a person reproduces he loses a special edge. It appears that that edge is a force that children take from their parents by the mere act of birth. This hollow that remains with a person is that which must be filled or recovered. You have to recover the force which you have lost.

He also made us understand that a prolonged sexual relationship of a couple ends with a decline. In a relationship differences surge up which make certain characteristics of one or the other progressively rejected. In consequence, for reproduction, it is selected from the other part that which one likes, but there is no guarantee that that which is chosen is necessarily the best. In the point of view of reproduction, he commented, the best is at random.

Castaneda strove to explain to us these concepts better, but had to confess again that they are themes which he himself doesn't have clear yet.

Castaneda came to us describing a group whose requirements, for the average person, were extreme. We were very interested in knowing where all that vigor came from What is the sole objective of the Toltec? We wanted to know the sense of what Castaneda was telling us. What is the objective that you pursue?

We insisted on bringing the question to a personal level.

The objective is to leave the living world; to leave with all that one is but with nothing more than what one is. The question is not to take anything nor leave anything. Don Juan left completely- from the world. Don Juan doesn't die because the Toltecs don't die. In The Second Ring of Power, La Gorda instructs Castaneda with respect to the dichotomy wizard-tonal.

The domain of the second attention is only achieved after the warriors sweep totally the surface of the table... this second attention makes the two attentions form a unity and this unity is the totality of oneself.

In the same book, La Gorda says to Castaneda, when the wizards learn to 'dream,' they tie together their two attentions and, therefore, there is no need for the center to push out... sorcerers don't die...

I don't want to say that we don't die. We are nothing, we are nincompoops, stupid; we aren't either here nor there. They, on the other hand, have their attentions so united that maybe they never die.

According to Castaneda, the idea that we are free is an illusion and an absurdity. He pushed to make us understand that common sense deceives us because ordinary perception only tells us a part of the truth.

Ordinary perception doesn't tell us all the truth. There has to be more than a mere passing through the earth, of only eating and reproducing, he said vehemently.

With a gesture I interpreted as alluding to the unfeelingness of all and the immense tediousness of life in its everyday boredom, he asked us,...

What is all this that surrounds us? Common sense would be that accord to which we have arrived behind a long educative process that imposes on us ordinary perception as the only truth. Precisely. The art of the wizard, he said, consists of bringing learning to discover and destroy that perceptive prejudice.

According to Castaneda, Edmundo Husserl is the first one from the West who conceives of the possibility of suspending judgment.

In Ideas for a pure phenomenology and a phenomenological philosophy (1913) Husserl dealt thoroughly with the era or phenomenological reduction. The phenomenological method doesn't deny but simply puts into parentheses those elements that sustain our ordinary perception.

Castaneda considers that phenomenology offers him the theoretical methodological framework to comprehend the teaching of Don Juan. For phenomenology, the act of knowing depends on intention and not on perception.

Perception always varies according to history, that is to say, according to the subject with knowledge acquired and immersed in a determined tradition. The most important rule of the phenomenological method is that of toward the same things.

The task with which Don Juan fulfilled me, he insisted, was that of breaking, little by little, the perceptive prejudices until arriving at a total rupture.

Phenomenology suspends judgment and is limited to the description of pure intentional acts. So, for example, I construct the object 'house.' The phenomenological reference is minimal. The 'intention' is what transforms reference into something concrete and singular.

Phenomenology, without a doubt, has, for Castaneda, a simple methodological value. Husserl never transcended the theoretical and, as a consequence, he didn't touch the human being in his life in all his days.

For Castaneda, the most the western man-the European man-has arrived to is the political man. This political man would be the epitome of our civilization. Don Juan, he said, with his teaching is opening the door for another much more interesting man: a man who still lives in a magical world or universe.

Meditating about this idea of the political man a book by Eduardo Spranger named Forms of Life came to my memory, in which it says that the life of the political man is interwoven of relationships of power and rivalry. The political man is the man of dominion whose power controls as much of the concrete reality of the world as the beings that inhabit it.

The world of Don Juan, on the other hand, is a magical world populated with entities and forces.

The admirability of Don Juan, said Castaneda, is that even though in the world of days he appears to be crazy, nobody is capable of perceiving him. To the world, Don Juan offers a face that is necessarily temporal... one hour, one month, sixty years. Nobody would be able to catch him off guard!

In this world Don Juan is impeccable because he always knew that what is here is only momentary and that which comes after... well... a beauty! Don Juan and Don Genaro intensely loved beauty.

The perception and conception which Don Juan has of reality and time are undoubtably very distinct from ours. If on the level of daily life Don Juan is always impeccable, this doesn't prevent you from knowing that from this side all is definitely fleeting.

Castaneda continued describing a universe polarized between two extremes: the right side and the left side. The right side would correspond to the tonal and the left side to the wizard.

In Stories of Power, Don Juan explains extensively to Castaneda about those two halves of the bubble of perception. He says that the last duty of the teacher consists of tediously cleaning a part of the bubble, and then reorganizing all that there is on the other side.

The teacher is occupied in this hammering away at learning without pity until all his vision of the world stays in one half of the bubble. The other half, that which has remained clean, can therefore be reclaimed by something which the wizards call will.

To explain all this is very difficult because at this level words are totally inadequate. Precisely, the left part of the universe implies the absence of words, and without words we cannot think. There are only actions. In that other world, said Castaneda, the body acts.

The body doesn't need words to understand.

In the magical universe- as it's called- of Don Juan, certain entities exist that are called allies or fleeting shadows. These can be captured a number of times. For this kind of capture a large number of explanations have been sought, but, according to Castaneda, there is no doubt that these phenomena depend principally on the human anatomy. The important thing is to arrive at an understanding that there is a whole gamut of explanations that can give reasons for these fleeting shadows.

I asked him, then, about that knowing with the body that he speaks of in his books. Is it that, for you, the whole body is an organ of knowledge? I inquired.

Sure! The body knows, he responded to me. As an example, Castaneda told us of the many possibilities of that part of the leg that goes from the knee to the ankle where a memory center could be seated. It would appear that you can learn to use the body to capture those fleeting shadows.

The teaching of Don Juan transforms the body into an electronic scanner, he said, looking for an adequate word in Spanish to compare the body to an electronic telescope. The body would have the possibility to perceive reality at distinct levels which, in their time, would reveal configurations of material also distinct.

It was evident that for Castaneda the body had possibilities of movement and perception to which the majority of us are not accustomed. Standing up and pointing to the foot and the ankle, he spoke to us of the possibilities of that part of the body and of the little that we know about all of this.

In the Toltec tradition, he affirmed, the apprentice is trained in the development of those possibilities. At this level Don Juan begins to construct.

Meditating on these words of Castaneda, I thought about the parallel with Tantric Yoga and the distinct centers or chakras through which the ritualist comes to awakening by means of certain ritual practices.

In the book The Hermetic (impenetrable) Circle by Miguel Serrano one reads that the chakras are centers of conscience. In the same book, Karl Jung refers to a conversation that Serrano had with a Pueblo Indian chief named Ochwian Biano or Lake of the Mountain.

He explained to me his impression of the whites-always so agitated, always looking for something, aspiring to something... According to Ochwian Biano, the whites were crazy; only crazy people affirm thinking with the head.

This affirmation of the Indian chief produced great surprise in me and I asked him what he thought with. He answered me that he thought with the heart. (Miguel Serrano, The Impenetrable Circle, Buenos Aires: Ed. Kier, 1978) The path of knowledge of the warrior is long, and requires total dedication. The warrior has a concrete objective and a very pure incentive.

What is the objective? I insist. It seems that the objective consists in passing consciously to the other side through the left flank of the universe. You have to try to come as near as possible to the eagle and strive to escape it without it devouring us. the objective, he said, is to leave on tiptoe by the left hand side of the eagle.

I don't know if you know, he continued, seeking the way to clarify for us the image, that there is an entity that the Toltecs call the eagle. The visionary sees it as an immense blackness that extends to infinity; it is an immense blackness that lightning crossed. For that reason it is called the eagle: it has black wings and back, and its chest is luminous.

The eye of the entity isn't a human eye. The eagle doesn't have pity. Everything that is alive is represented in the eagle.

That entity encloses all- the beauty that man is capable of creating as well as all the bestiality that isn't the human being properly said. That which is appropriately human in the eagle is immensely small in comparison with all the rest. The eagle is excessively mass, bulk, blackness... in front of that little which is proper in a human being.

The eagle attracts all life force that is ready to disappear because it is nourished from that energy. The eagle is like an immense magnet that picks up all those beams of light that are the vital energy of that which is dying.

While Castaneda told us all this, his hand and fingers imitated, like hammers, the head of an eagle pecking space with an insatiable appetite. I only tell you that which Don Juan and the others say. They are all wizards and witches! he exclaimed. They are all involved in a metaphor that is incomprehensible for me.

What is 'the master' of man? What is it that claims us? he asked. I listened attentively and stopped talking because he had entered a terrain in which questions were possible.

The master of us can't be a man, he said. It seems that the Toltecs call master the mold of a man. Everything-- plants, animals and human beings --have a mold. The mold of man is the same for all human beings. My mold and yours, he continued explaining, is the same, but in each one it is manifested and acted on in a distinct form according to the development of the person.

Dividing the words of Castaneda, we interpreted that the human mold is that which doesn't reunite, that which unifies the force of life. The human form, on the other hand, could be that which impedes us from seeing the mold. It seems that while the human form isn't lost, we are, and this impedes us from changing.

In The Second Ring of Power, La Gorda instructs Castaneda about the human mold and the human form. In that book, the form is described as a luminous entity and Castaneda remembers that Don Juan described it as, the fount and origin of man. La Gorda, thinking about Don Juan, remembers that he told her that, if we arrive at having sufficient personal power we will be able to glimpse the pattern although we are not wizards; and that when this occurs we will say that we have seen God. She told me that if we call it God, it would be fit because the mold is God.

(The translation and the italicization are ours.)

Many times that afternoon we returned to the theme of the human form and the mold of man. Surrounding the theme from distinct angles, each time it was becoming more evident that the human form is that hard shell of the person.

That human form, he said, is like a towel that covers one from the armpits to the feet. Behind that towel there is a bright candle that is being consumed until it goes out. When the candle goes out, it is because one has died. Then, the eagle comes and devours it.

Seers, continued Castaneda are those beings capable of seeing the human being as a luminous egg. Inside of that sphere of light is a lit candle. If the seer sees that the candle is small even though the person appears strong, it means that it is already ended.

Castaneda had told us before that the Toltecs never die because to be Toltec implies having lost the human form. Only at that moment we comprehended: if the Toltec has lost the human form, there is nothing that the eagle could devour.

He hadn't kept us in doubt either that the concepts master of man and mold of man as well as the image of the eagle referred to the same entity or were intimately related.

Several hours later, seated before hamburgers in a cafeteria on the corner of Westwood Boulevard and another street whose name I don remember, Castaneda reported to us his experience of losing the human form.

According to what he said, his experience wasn't as strong as that of La Gorda (in The Second Ring of Power, La Gorda relates to Castaneda that when she lost the human form she began to see an eye always in front of her. That eye accompanied her all the time and almost ended in driving her crazy. Little by little she got used to it until, one day, the eye happened to form a part of her. Some day,... when I arrive at being a real being without form, I won't see that eye any more; the eye will be one with me...) who had symptoms similar to those of a heart attack In my case, said Castaneda, a simple phenomena of hyperventilation was produced. In that precise moment I felt a big pressure: a current energy entered through my head, passed through my chest and stomach and followed through my legs until it disappeared through my left leg.

That was all.

To assure myself, he continued, I went to a doctor, but he didn't find anything. He only suggested that I breathe in a paper bag to diminish the amount of oxygen and to resist the phenomenon of hyperventilation.

According to the Toltecs, in some way you have to return or pay the eagle what belongs to it. Castaneda had already told us that the master of a man is the eagle, and that the eagle is all the nobility and beauty as well all the horror and ferocity which is found in all that is. Why is the eagle the master of man?

The eagle is the master of man because it feeds from the call of life, of the vital energy that is loosened from all that is. And, making once more the gesture with his hands resembling the pecking head of the eagle, cleared the space of pecks with his arm, which he said, Like that! Like that! It devours everything!

The only way to escape the voracity of death is irrefutable and inescapable, the action begins. What does it consist of, how do you do this personal recapitulation? I wanted to know.

In the first place a list has to be made of all the people you have known in the length of your life, he responded, a list of all those who in one way or another have forced us to put the ego (that center of personal growth that later would be shown as a monster of 3,000 heads) on the table.

We have to bring back all those who have collaborated so that we might enter into that game of they like me or they don't like me. A game that isn't anything else than upset living about we ourselves...Licking our own wounds!

The 'recapitulation' has to be total, he continued; it goes from Z to A, going backwards. It begins in the present moment and goes toward early infancy, until two or three years of age and even earlier if it were possible. Since we were born, everything is being engraved on our bodies. The 'recapitulation' requires a great training of the mind.

How do you do this 'recapitulation'? One goes carefully bringing up images and fixing them in front of yourself, then, with a movement of the head from right to left, every one of the images is blown out as if we were sweeping them from our vision... The breath is magic, he added.

With the end of the 'recapitulation,' ended also are all the tricks, games and the self feeling. It seems that in the end we know all our tricks and there isn't any way to put the ego on the table without our realizing immediately what we are pretending with it. With personal recapitulation you can divest yourself of everything. Then, only the task remains; the task in all its simplicity, purity and rawness.

The 'recapitulation' is possible for everyone, but requires an inflexible will. If you fluctuate or hesitate; you are lost because the eagle will eat you. In that terrain there's no room for doubt.

In the first The Teachings of Don Juan, it says this: The thing that you have to learn is how to arrive at the crack between the worlds and how to enter into the other world... there is a place where the two worlds come together one over the other. The crack is there. It opens and closes like a door with the wind.

To arrive there, a man must exert his will, must, I would say, develop an indomitable desire, a total dedication. But he must do it without the help of any power and of any man...

I don't know how to explain all of this well, but in the fulfillment and dedication to the task, you have to be compulsive without truly being so because the Toltec is a free being. The task asks all of one; however, it is freeing.

Do you comprehend? If this is difficult to understand it is because, at its base, it deals with a paradox.

But to this recapitulation, added Castaneda, changing tone and posture, you have to put 'spice' on it. The characteristic of Don Juan and his 'pals' is that they are fickle. Don Juan cured me of being tiresome. He is not solemn, nothing formal. Within the seriousness of the task that they all perform there is always room for humour.

To illustrate in a concrete way the way that Don Juan taught him, Castaneda related to us a very interesting episode. It seems that he smoked a lot and that Don Juan resolved to cure him.

I smoked three packs a day. One after the other! I didn't let them go out. You see that now I don't have pockets, he said, showing his jacket that, lacked them. I eliminated pockets in them so as to remove from my body the possibility of feeling something on my left side, something that might remind me of the habit. In eliminating the pocket, I eliminated also the physical habit of carrying my hand in my pockets.

One time Don Juan told me that we were going to spend several days in the Chihuahua hills. I remember that he expressly told me not to forget to bring my cigarettes. He recommended to me, also, to bring provisions for two packs a day and no more. So I bought the packs of cigarettes, but instead of 20 I packed 40. I made up some divine packs that I covered with aluminum foil to protect my cargo from animals and the rain.

Well equipped and burdened with a knapsack, I followed Don Juan through the hills. There I walked, lighting cigarette after cigarette, and trying to catch my breath.

Don Juan had tremendous vigor. With great patience he waited for me while observing me smoke and try to keep up with him through the hills. I wouldn't have had the patience that he had with me! he exclaimed.

We arrived, at last, at a pretty high plateau, surrounded by cliffs and steep hillsides. There Don Juan invited me to try to descend. For a long time I probed from one side to the other until finally I had to desist from the purpose. I wasn't going to be able to do it.

We continued like that, for several days, until one morning I woke up, and the first thing I did was to look for my cigarettes. Where were my divine packages? I looked and looked, and I didn't find them.

When Don Juan woke up, I wanted to know what was happening to me. He explained what was going on and told me, Don't worry. Surely a coyote came and carried them away, but they can't be very far. Here! Look! There are the tracks of the coyote!

We spent all that day trailing the tracks of the coyote in search of the packs. There we were, when Don Juan sat on the ground and, pretending to be a little old man, very old, began to complain, This time I'm sure lost... I'm old... I can't any more... While he was saying this, he grabbed his head in his hands and made a great fuss.

Castaneda told us this whole story imitating Don Juan in his gestures and tone of voice. It was a spectacle seeing him. A little later, the same Castaneda would tell us that Don Juan used to make reference to his histrionic [histrionic- Characteristic of acting or a stage performance; often affected] abilities. With all that walking around, continued Castaneda, I believe that 10 or 12 days had passed. I already didn't care about smoking!

That is how I lost the desire to smoke. We had gone along like demons running through the hills! When the time came to return, you can imagine that Don Juan knew the way perfectly. We went down directly to the town.

The difference was that, then, I already didn't have a need to buy cigarettes. From that episode, he said nostalgically, fifteen years have passed.

The line of not-doing, he commented, is precisely the opposite of the routine or the routines to which we are accustomed. Habits, like smoking for example, are those which have us tied up, in chains... in the sense of not-doing, on the other hand, all avenues are possible.

We were silent for a while. I finally broke it to ask about Dona Soledad.

I said that she had impressed me as a grotesque figure; really, like a witch. Dona Soledad is Indian, he answered me. The history of her transformation is something incredible. She put such willpower into her transformation that in the end she achieved it.

In that force her will developed to such an extreme that as a consequence she also developed too much personal pride. Precisely for this reason I don't believe that she can pass on tiptoes by the left side of the eagle. In whatever way, it's fantastic what she was capable of doing by herself!

I don't know if you remember who she was... she was Pablito's 'mamacita.' She was always washing clothes, ironing, washing dishes... offering little meals to someone or another.

In relating this to us, Castaneda imitated in gestures and movements a little old lady. You have to see her now, he continued. Dona Soledad is a young strong woman. Now she is to be feared!

The 'recapitulation' took Dona Soledad seven years of her life. She hid herself in a cave and didn't leave there. She stayed there until she finished with everything. In seven years that's all she did. Even though she can't pass together with the eagle, Castaneda said, full of admiration, she'll never go back to being the poor old thing she was before.

After a pause, Castaneda reminded us that Don Juan and Don Genaro still weren't with them.

Now already everything is different, expressed Castaneda nostalgically. Don Juan and Don Genaro aren't there.

The Toltec woman is with us. She asks tasks of us. La Gorda and I do tasks together. The others also have tasks to perform; distinct tasks, also in different places.

According to Don Juan, women have more talent than men. Women are more susceptible. In life, moreover, they wear out less and tire less than men.

For this reason Don Juan has left me now in the hands of a woman. He has left me in the hands of the other side of the man woman unit. Furthermore, he has left me in the hands of women; of the little sisters and La Gorda.

The woman who is teaching us now has no name. (Several months later La Gorda (Maria Tena) called me to send a message from Castaneda. In that conversation, she told me that Mrs. Toltec is named Dona Florinda, and that she is a very elegant, vivacious and anxious woman. Mrs. Toltec must be 50 years old.) She is simply the Toltec woman.

Mrs. Toltec is the one who teaches me now. She is responsible for everything.

All the others, La Gorda and I, are nothing. We wanted to know if she knew that he was going to meet with us as well as his other plans.

Mrs. Toltec knows everything. She sent me to Los Angeles to converse with you, he responded, turning his attention to me. She knows about my projects and that I'm going to New York.

We also wanted to know what she was like. Is she young? Is she old? we asked him.

Mrs. Toltec is a very strong woman. Her muscles move in a very peculiar way. She is old, but one of those who shines with the strength of her makeup.

It was difficult to explain how she was. In his trying, Castaneda sought for a point of reference and reminded us of the movie Giant.

Do you remember, he asked us, that movie that James Dean and Elizabeth Taylor appeared in? There Taylor plays a mature woman although in reality she was very young. The Toltec woman causes the same impression in me: a face with the makeup of an old woman with a body still young. Also I could say that she acts old.

Do you know about the National Enquirer he casually continued, A friend of mine is in charge of saving them for me here in Los Angeles, and every time I come I read them. It's the only thing that I read here... Precisely in that newspaper recently I saw some photos of Elizabeth Taylor. Now she surely is large!

What did Castaneda want to transmit to us in making the comment about the National Enquirer is the only thing he reads? It's difficult to imagine that a sensationalist newspaper would be his fount of information.

That comment in some way synthesized his judgment with respect to the immense production of news that characterizes our era. That comment also encloses a judgment in respect to the values of the whole Western culture. Everything is on the level of the National Enquirer.

Nothing Castaneda said that afternoon was casual. The different fragments which he provided pointed at creating a determined impression on us. In this intention wasn't in any way wrong; on the contrary, his interest was to transmit the essential truth of the teaching they are involved in.



-- The second half of this interview will be printed in issue #15 of Magical Blend.


Another partial translation has previously been printed in Seeds of Unfolding.


Copyright 1985 Magical Blend Magazine



1985 - Magical Blend - No. 15 - Evasive Mysteries: Carlos Castaneda Interview Part two.


Version 2011.07.09

[Transcriber's note: the published version of this article contains various strange phrases, numerous misspelled words and lots of peculiar punctuation, all of which is preserved here.]

A CONVERSATION WITH CARLOS CASTANEDA

Magical Blend Magazine Issue #15

[This is part 2 of the interview]

[Introduction to interview by Magical Blend Magazine]

During the planning stages for a book she is writing on mystical thinkers, Graciela Corvalan wrote a letter to Carlos Castaneda requesting an interview.

She later received a phone call from Castaneda in which he accepted her request, explaining that he was excited to be interviewed by her since she was not a member of the established press. Castaneda asked her to meet him at a specified time and date on the UCLA campus. When Graciela and a few colleagues arrived for the interview, she was asked not to use the tape recorder she had brought along. So, for seven hours, loaded with books and papers, Graciela kept notes as the man, who some have credited as being the crucial catalyst of mainstream awareness of metaphysics, explained his tutelage under the Yaqui Sorcerer, Don Juan, his present tasks assigned to him by the fierce Toltec Woman, and the nature of the Toltec teachings.

In the first part of this interview, published in Magical Blend issue #14, Graciela explained that the interview was conducted in Spanish, noting that although Castaneda is fluent in Spanish, his native language is obviously English.

Graciela found that Castaneda, though well read, was not intellectual in a bookish sense. At no time, says Graciela, did he establish comparisons with other traditions of the past or present. It was obvious that he did not wish to contaminate his teaching with anything extraneous to it.

Graciela found Castaneda a master in the art of conversation as he talked at length about his past and present.

At the time he met Don Juan, Castaneda's primary interest was anthropology, but, upon encountering him I changed.

Graciela remembers that, Don Juan was present with us. Every time Castaneda mentioned or remembered him, we felt his emotion.

From Don Juan, Castaneda learned the sorcerer's principle rule: Give your all in each moment. And through Don Juan, Castaneda became involved in the long process of freeing himself from his past, a process which included divesting himself of both possessions and friends. According to Castaneda, the life of the Toltec warrior requires an unshakeable desire to be free. In the course of the interview, Castaneda revealed himself to be every bit the warrior showing a distaste for pacifism and cheap sentiment. Without an adversary, he maintains, we are nothing.

In questioning Castaneda about the Toltec tradition, Graciela found that, from an anthropological perspective, the word Toltec makes reference to an Indian culture of the center and south of Mexico that was already extinct at the time of the conquest and colonization of America by Spain. But, according to Castaneda, Toltec is descriptive not so much of hereditary characteristics but rather of a way of life and a way of looking at life. Toltec, says Castaneda is one who knows the mysteries of watching and dreaming. It is a tradition that has been maintained for more than 3,000 years. Though Toltec colonies or civilizations may have been destroyed by the white man, the Toltec nation could not be destroyed, for it represented something incomprehensible to the white man to whom the dream world remained cut off, mysterious and unapproachable.

According to Castaneda, the objective of the Toltec is to leave the living world; to leave with all that one is, but with nothing more than what one is. Don Juan succeeded in this activity, but it was not, emphasizes Castaneda, death, because Toltecs don't die. In The Second Ring of Power, la Gorda says, when the wizards learn to 'dream' they tie together their two attentions and, therefore, there is no need for the center to push out...sorcerers...don't die.

Freedom, says Castaneda, is an illusion perpetrated by the snare of the senses.

The art of the wizard consists of bringing learning to discover and destroy that perceptive prejudice. In transcending, or breaking, the tyranny of the senses, a door to a magical universe is opened. Castaneda describes the universe as being polarized between two extremes: the right side and the left side-The two halves of the bubble of perception. On the left side is action. Here there are no words. Here the mind does not conceptualize but rather the entire body realizes, without thoughts and without words.

The duty of a teacher such as Don Juan is to move all vision of the world into the right side, so that the left side can remain clear for the magical practice of will.

Presiding over the universe is the Eagle, an immense blackness representative of all the beauty and all the bestiality in everything that's alive. According to Castaneda, that which can be called human is very small in comparison to the rest. As excessive mass, bulk, and blackness, the Eagle attracts and feeds on all life force that is ready to disappear. It is, he says, like an immense magnet that picks up all those beams of light that are the vital energy of that which is dying.

The key to escaping the Eagle is recapitulation which involves going backward from adult to infancy, clearing out the images of a lifetime, divesting oneself of everything until only the task remains and one arrives at the crack between the worlds. To arrive there, says Castaneda requires an indomitable desire, a total dedication. But one must do it without the help of any power and of any man.

According to Toltec tradition, all living things have a mold. The mold of man is the same for all human beings. In each individual it is developed and manifested according to the development of the person. The human form, on the other hand, impedes us from seeing the mold. In The Second Ring of Power, the form is described as a luminous entity. According to Don Juan, it is the fount and origin of man. The reason that Toltecs do not die is because, having lost the human form, they have nothing that the Eagle can devour.

In The Second Ring of Power, la Gorda relates that when she succeeded in losing the human form, she began to see an eye always in front of her which almost ended up driving her crazy. But someday she says, when I arrive at being a real being without form, I won't see that eye anymore; the eye will be one with me.

So, without further digression, we proudly present the second part of Graciela Corvalan's interview with Carlos Castaneda.


[Beginning of Corvalan Interview - Part 2]



EVASIVE MYSTERIES

By Graciela Corvalan, Ph.D.

We continued talking about the Toltec Woman and Castaneda told us that she's leaving soon. She's told us that in her place are going to come two women. The Toltec Woman is very strict, her demands are terrible! Now, if the Toltec Woman is fierce, it appears that the two who are coming are much worse. Let's hope that she's not leaving yet! One can't stop wanting nor can prevent the body from complaining and fearing the severity of the undertaking... Nevertheless, there's no way of altering destiny. So, there it grabbed me!

I don't have more liberty, he continued, than the impeccable one because only if I'm impeccable, I change my destiny; that is to say, I go on tiptoes by the left side of the eagle. If I'm not impeccable, I don't change my destiny and the eagle devours me.

The Nagual Juan Matos is a free man. He is free in fulfilling his destiny. Do you understand me? I don't know if you understand what I want to say, he asked worriedly.

Sure we understand! we retorted vehemently. We find a great similarity with what we feel and live daily in so much in this last section as in many other things that you have referred to us up to now.

Don Juan is a free man, he continued. He looks for liberty. His spirit looks for it... Don Juan is free from that basic prejudice; the perceptive prejudice that prevent us from seeing reality.

The importance of all that which we came speaking about resides in the possibility of destroying the circle of routines: Don Juan made him practice numerous exercises so he would become conscious of his routines: exercises such as 'walking in the darkness' and the 'power walk.'

How to break that circle of routines ? How to break that perceptive arc that ties us to that ordinary vision of reality? That ordinary vision that our routines contribute to establishing is, precisely, that which Castaneda denominates the attention of the tonal or 'the first ring of attention.'

To break that perceptive arc isn't an easy task; it could take years. The difficulty with me, he affirmed laughing, is that I am very pigheaded. Quite unwillingly I went on learning: For this reason, in my case, Don Juan had to use drugs... and so I ended up...with my liver in the stream!

In the line of not-doing is achieved the destroying of routines and becoming conscious, explained Castaneda. While saying this he stood up and started to walk backwards while he remembered a technique that Don Juan had taught him: Walking backwards with the help of a mirror. Castaneda continued reporting to us that to facilitate the task he devised an artifact of metal (like a ring that in the style of a crown he bore on his head) in which the mirror was fastened. In that way, he could practice the exercise and have his hands free.

Other examples of techniques of not-doing would be to put on your belt backwards and to wear your shoes on the opposite feet. All these techniques have as an objective to make one conscious of what one is doing at each moment. Destroying routines, he said, is the way we have of giving the body new sensations. The body knows...

Immediately Castaneda related to us some of the games that the Toltec youth practice for hours. They are games of not-doing, he explained. Games in which there are no fixed rules but rather they are generated as they play.

It seems that by not having fixed rules, the behavior of the players isn't foreseen and, consequently, everyone must be very attentive. One-of these games, he continued, consists in giving the adversary false signs. It's a game of pulling.

As he said, in that game of pulling, three persons participate and two posts and a rope are needed. With the rope you tie up one of the players and hang him from the posts. The other two players must pull on the ends of the rope and try to fool him giving him false signs. All have to be very attentive so that when one pulls, the other also does it and the person who is tied doesn't get twisted.

The techniques and games of not-doing develop attention: You can say that they are concentration exercises since they obligate those who practice them to be fully conscious of what they are doing. Castaneda commented that old age would consist in having remained shut in the perfect circle of routines.

The way of teaching of the Toltec Woman is to put us into situations. I believe that it's the best way because in putting us in situations we discover that we are nothing: The other way is that of self love, that of personal pride. The former way transforms us into detectives, always attentive to all that could happen or offend us. Detectives? Yes ! We spent time seeking evidence of love: if they love me or they love me not. Thus, centered in our ego we don't do anything but strengthen it. According to the Toltec Woman, the best is to begin considering that nobody loves us.

Castaneda told us that for Don Juan, personal pride resembles a monster of 3,000 heads. One destroys and knocks down heads but others always rise up... It's that one possesses all the tricks! he exclaimed. With the tricks it appears that we fool ourselves believing we are somebody.

I then reminded him of the image of catching weaknesses, as rabbits are caught in a trap, that appears in one of his books. Yes, he answered me, you constantly have to be on the lookout.

Changing position, Castaneda began to give us the history of the past three years. One of the many tasks was that of cook in those roadside cafes. La Gorda accompanied me that year as a waitress. For more than a year we lived there as Jose Cordoba and his wife! My complete name was Jose Luis Cordoba, at your service, he, said with a profound reverence. Without a doubt, everyone knew me as Joe Cordoba.

Castaneda didn't tell us the name or the location of the city in which they lived. It's possible that they had been in different places. It appears that at the beginning, he arrived with la Gorda and the Toltec Woman, who accompanied them for a while. The first thing was to find housing and work for Joe Cordoba, his wife, and his mother-in-law. That was how we presented ourselves, commented Castaneda, otherwise, the people wouldn't have understood.

For a long time they looked for work, until finally they found it in a roadside cafe. In that type of establishment you begin very early in the morning. At five a.m. you have to be already working.

Castaneda told us, laughing, that in those places the first thing they ask you is: Do you know how to make eggs? What could there be to making eggs? It appears that he delayed enough time in figuring out what they were trying to say until he finally discovered that they were talking about the diverse ways of preparing eggs for breakfast. In restaurants or cafes for truck drivers. 'Egg making' is very important.

They spent one year working there. Now I know how to 'make eggs', he affirmed laughing. All that you would want! La Gorda also worked a lot. She was such a good waitress that she ended up by taking care of all the girls there. At the end of a year, when the Toltec Woman told them, That's enough, you're finished with this task, the owner of the cafe didn't want us to leave. The truth is that we worked very hard there. A lot! From morning till night.

During that year, they had a significant encounter. It relates to the story of a girl named Terry who arrived at the cafe where they were asking for work waitressing. By then, Joe Cordoba had gained the confidence of the owner of the establishment and was the one in charge of contracting and watching over all the staff. As Terry told them, she was looking for Carlos Castaneda. How could she know that they were there? Castaneda didn't know.

This girl Terry, continued Castaneda with sadness and giving us to understand that she looked dirty and messy, is one of those 'hippies' who take drugs... a terrifying life. Poor thing! Later, Castaneda would tell us, that, even though he could never tell Terry who he was, Joe Cordoba and his wife helped her a lot during the months she spent with them. He told us that one day she came in very excited from the street saying that she had just seen Castaneda in a Cadillac parked in front of the cafe. He's there, she screamed to us; he's in the car, writing. Are you sure it's Castaneda? How can you be so convinced? I told her. But she continued, Yes, it's him, I'm sure... I then suggested to her that she go out to the car and ask him. She needed to get rid of that immense doubt.

Hurry! Hurry! I insisted. She was afraid to speak to him because she said that she was very fat and very ugly. I encouraged her. But you look divine, hurry!

Finally, she went, but came right back crying a river of tears. It seems that the man in the Cadillac hadn't looked at her, and had thrown her out telling her not to bother him. You can imagine that I tried to console her, said Castaneda. It gave me so much pain that I almost told her who I was. La Gorda didn't let me; she protected me. Really, he couldn't tell her anything because he was performing a task in which he was Joe Cordoba and not Carlos Castaneda. He couldn't disobey.

As Castaneda told it, when Terry arrived she wasn't a good waitress. With passing months, without a doubt, they brought her to be good, clean and careful. La Gorda gave much advice to Terry. We cared for her a lot. She never imagined who she was with all that time.

In these last years they had passed moments of tremendous deprivation during which people maltreated and offended them. More than once he was at the point of revealing who he was, but... Who would have believed me! he said.

Besides, the Toltec Woman is the one who decides.

That year, he continued, there were moments in which we were reduced to the minimum: we slept on the ground and we ate only one thing.

Hearing this, we wanted him to explain to us the ways of eating they had.

Castaneda told us that Toltecs only eat one type of food at a time, but that they do it continually. Toltecs eat all day, he commented in a casual tone. (In this affirmation of Castaneda one can see his desire to break the image that people have of the sorcerer or wizard - beings with special powers who don't have the same needs as the rest of mortals. In saying that they eat all day, Castaneda united them with the rest of mankind.)

According to Castaneda, the mixing of foods, for example, eating meat with potatoes and vegetables, is very bad for your health. This mixture is very recent in the life of humanity, he affirmed. To eat one kind of food helps digestion and is better for the organism.

One time Don Juan accused me of always feeling sick. You can imagine that I defended myself! However, later I realized that he was right and I learned. Now I feel well, strong and healthy.

Also the way of sleeping that they have is different from that of the majority of us. The important thing is to realize that you can sleep in many ways. According to Castaneda, we have learned to go to sleep and to get up at a determined hour because that is what society wants from us. So, for example, said Castaneda, parents put the children to bed to get rid of them. We all laughed because there was some truth in his statement.

I sleep all day and all night, he continued, but if I add up the hours and minutes I sleep, I don't believe they come to more than five hours a day. To sleep in that way requires on the part of the person the ability to go directly into deep sleep.

Returning to Joe Cordoba and his wife, Castaneda told us that one day the Toltec Woman came and told them that they were not working enough. She ordered us, he said, to organize a pretty big business in landscaping, something like designing and arranging gardens. This new task of the Toltec Woman wasn't anything small. We had to contract a group of people to help us to do the work during the week while we were in the cafe. During the weekends we dedicated ourselves exclusively to the gardens. We had a lot of success.

La Gorda is a very enterprising person. That year we worked really hard. During the week we were in the Cafe and on the weekends always driving the truck and pruning trees. The demands of the Toltec Woman are very large.

I remember, continued Castaneda, that at a certain opportunity we were in the house of a friend when reporters arrived looking for Carlos Castaneda. They were reporters from The New York Times. So as to pass unnoticed, la Gorda and I put ourselves to planting trees in my friend's garden. In the distance we saw them enter and leave the house. That was when my friend yelled at us and mistreated us a lot in front of the reporters. It seemed that Joe Cordoba and his woman could be yelled at without consequence. None of those who were present there came to our defense. Who were we? There, only the poor people and dogs work in the sun!

So that was how between my friend and us we fooled the reporters. My body, however, I couldn't fool it. For three years we were involved in the task of giving experiences to the body to make it realize that, in truth, we are nothing. The truth is that the body isn't the only thing that suffers. The mind also is accustomed to constant stimuli. The warrior, however, doesn't have stimuli from the media; he doesn't need them. The best place, therefore, is that where we were! There nobody thinks!

Continuing with the story of his adventures, Castaneda commented that more than once he and la Gorda were kicked out in the street. Other times, going by truck down the highway, we were pushed to the edge of the road. What alternative did we have? It's best to let them pass!

Through all that Castaneda came telling us, it appears that the task of those years had to do with, learning to survive in adverse circumstances, and with surviving the experience of discrimination. This last, something very difficult to endure but very informative, he concluded with great calm.

The objective of the task consists in learning to remove oneself from the emotional impact which discrimination provokes. The important thing is not to react, not to get angry. If one reacts, he/she is lost. One doesn't get offended by a tiger when it attacks, he explained, you move to the side and let it pass.

In another opportunity, la Gorda and I found work in a house, she as a maid and I as butler. You can't imagine how that ended! They kicked us out into the street without pay. Even more! To protect themselves from us in case we were to protest, they had called the local police. Can you imagine? We were jailed for nothing.

That year, la Gorda and I spent working very hard and suffering great privations.

Many times we didn't have anything to eat. The worst thing was that we couldn't complain nor did we have the support of the group. In that task we were alone and we couldn't escape. In whatever way, even though we might have been able to say who we were, nobody would have believed us. The task is always total.

Truthfully, I am Joe Cordoba, continued Castaneda accompanying his words with his whole body; and this is very beautiful because you can't fall lower. I have already arrived at the bottom you can be. That is all that I am. And with these last words he touched the ground with his hands.

As I told you before, every one of us has different tasks to perform. The Genaros are quite bright; Benigno is now in Chiapas and he's doing very well. He has a musical group. Benigno possesses a marvelous gift of imitation; he imitates Tom Jones and many more. Pablito is the same as always; he's very lazy. Benigno is he who makes the noise and Pablito celebrates it. Benigno is the one who works and Pablito gathers the applause.

Now, he said in way of conclusion, we have all finished the tasks which we have been doing and we are preparing ourselves for new tasks. The Toltec Woman is the one who sends us.

The story of Joe Cordoba and his woman had impressed us a lot. It dealt with an experience very different from those of his books. We were interested in knowing whether he had written or was writing anything about Joe Cordoba. I know that Joe Cordoba existed, said one of us; he had to exist. Why don't you write about him? From all that you have come telling us, Joe Cordoba and his woman is what has impacted me most.

I just brought a new manuscript to my agent, Castaneda answered us. In that manuscript, the Toltec Woman is she who teaches. It couldn't be any other way... The title might possibly be, The Stalking and the Art of Being in The World. [This book was published in 1981 as The Eagle's Gift.] There is all her teaching. She is the one responsible for that manuscript. A woman had to be the one who taught about the art of stalking. Women know it well because they have always lived with the enemy; that is to say, they have always walked 'on tiptoe' in the masculine world. Precisely for that reason, because women have long experience in that art, the Toltec Woman is she who has to give the principles of stalking.

In that last manuscript, however, there is nothing concrete about the life of Joe Cordoba and his woman. I can't write in detail about that experience because nobody would understand nor believe it. I can speak of these things with very few... Yes, the essence of the experience of the last three years is in the book.

Returning to the Toltec Woman and her nature, Castaneda told us that she was very different from Don Juan. She doesn't love me, he insisted, la Gorda, on the other hand, yes, she loves her! You can't ask the Toltec Woman anything. Before you speak to her she already knows what she has to say. Besides, you have to fear her; when she gets angry, she hits, he concluded making many gestures which indicated his fear.

We stayed in silence for a while. The sun had gone down and its rays reached us through the branches of the trees. I felt a little cold. It seemed to me that it was around 7 p.m.

Castaneda appeared also to become aware of the time. It's already late, he told us. What do you think about getting something to eat? I invite you. We got up and began to walk. As one of those ironies, Castaneda took charge of my notes and books for part of the way. The best thing was to leave everything in the car. That's what we did. Free of our bundles, we walked for some blocks in animated conversation.

All that they had achieved requires years of preparation and practice. One example is the exercise of dreaming. That which seems so foolish, affirmed Castaneda emphatically, is very difficult to achieve.

The exercise consists in learning to dream at will and in a systematic way. You begin by dreaming about a hand that enters the visual field of the dreamer. Then, you see the whole arm. You continue in a progressive way until you can see yourself in the dream. The other step consists in learning to use dreams. That is to say, once you have achieved control over them, you have to learn to act on them. So, for example, Castaneda said, you dream about yourself that you leave the body and that you open the door and go out into the street. The street is something outrageous! Something in you leaves you; something that you achieve at will.

According to Castaneda, dreaming doesn't take much time. That is to say, dreams don't occur in the time of our watches. The time of the dream is something very compact.

Castaneda gave us to understand that in dreams an immense physical draining is produced. In dreams, you can live a lot, he said, but the body resents it. My body really feels it... Afterwards you feel like a truck has run over you. Several times, touching upon that theme of dreaming, Castaneda would say that that which they do in dreams has a pragmatic value. In Tales of Power, you read that the experiences of dreams and those lived in one's waking hours acquire the same pragmatic valence, and that for sorcerers the criteria to differentiate a dream from reality becomes inoperative. (p. 18).

That of leaving or traveling outside of the physical body keenly caught our interest, and we wanted to know more about those experiences. He answered us explaining that every one of them had achieved different experiences. La Gorda and I, for example, go together. She takes me by the forearm and... we go.

He explained to us also that the group has common journeys. They are all in constant training whose objective would be 'to become witnesses.' To arrive at being witnesses means, affirmed Castaneda, that you can't judge any more. That is to say, it relates to an internal sight which equals not having prejudices any more.

Josefina seems to have great abilities to journey in the body of dreaming. She wants to take you there and probes recounting marvels. La Gorda is the one who always rescues her.

Josefina has a great facility to break that arch of being able to reflect upon things. She's crazy, crazy! he exclaimed. Josefina flies very far, but she doesn't want to go alone and always returns. She returns and looks for me... She gives me reports that are marvelous.

According to Castaneda, Josefina is a being who cannot function in this world. Here, he said, she would have ended up in some institution.

Josefina is a being who cannot be held to the concrete; she is ethereal. In whatever moment she can definitively leave. La Gorda and he are, on the other hand, much more cautious in their flights. La Gorda, particularly, represents the stability and equilibrium that in some measure he lacks.

After a pause, I reminded him of that vision of an immense dome which in The Second Ring of Power is presented as the place of meeting and where Don Juan and Don Genaro would be waiting for them.

La Gorda also has that vision, he commented pensively. That which we see isn't an earthly horizon. It's something very smooth and arid in whose horizon we see rising an immense arch which covers all and which extends until it arrives at the zenith. In that point in the zenith, you can see a large brightness. You could say that it is something like a dome that emits an amber light.

We strove to press upon him questions so that he would give us more information about that dome. What is it? Where is it? we inquired.

Castaneda answered that by the size of what they see, it could be a planet. In the zenith, he added, there is like a great wind.

By the brevity of his answer, we realized that Castaneda didn't want to talk much about that topic. It is possible, also, that he couldn't find adequate words to express what they saw. No matter what, it is evident that those visions, those flights in the body dreaming, are a constant training for the definitive journey- that leaving through the left side of the eagle, that final leap which is called death, that giving an end to the recapitulation; that being able to say we are ready, in which we carry all that we are but nothing more than that what we are.

According to the Toltec Woman, Castaneda conferred to us, those visions are my aberrations: She thinks that that is my unconscious way of paralyzing my actions; that is to say, the way I have of saying that I don't want to leave the world. The Toltec Woman also says that with my attitude, I am detaining la Gorda from the possibilities of a more fertile or more productive flight.

Don Juan and Don Genaro were great dreamers. They had an absolute control of the art. I am surprised, immediately exclaimed Castaneda, raising his hand to his forehead, at the fact that nobody notices that don Juan is an outrageous dreamer. The same can be said of Don Genaro. Don Genaro, for example, is capable of bringing his body of dream to the every day life.

The great control of Don Juan and Don Genaro is evidenced in that of not being noted or passing by unnoticed. (In all his books, Castaneda has referred to that of not being noted and to go by unnoticed. In The Second Ring of Power, Castaneda records the times that Don Juan had ordered him to concentrate on not being obvious. Nestor, also, says that Don Juan and Don Genaro learned to not be noticed in the midst of all this. The two are masters of the art of stalking.

Of Don Genaro, la Gorda says that he was in the body of dreaming most of the time, (p. 270). All that they do, he continued with enthusiasm, is worthy of praise. Of Don Juan, I admire immensely his great control, composure and serenity.

Of Don Juan, it can never be said that he is a senile old man. He isn't like other people. There is here on campus, for example, an old professor who when I was a young man was already famous. At that time, he was at the peak of his physical strength and intellectual creativity. Now, he's chewing his tongue of cork! Now I can see him as he is, as a senile old man. Of Don Juan, on the other hand, you will never be able to say something like that. His advantage in respect to me is always abysmal.

In the interview with Sam Keen, Castaneda says that one time Don Juan asked him if he thought the two were equals. Even though he really didn't think that they were, in a condescending tone he said yes. Don Juan listened to him, but he didn't accept his verdict. I don't think that we are, he said, because I am a hunter and a warrior and you are more like a pimp. I am ready at any moment to offer the recapitulation of my life. Your small world full of sadness and indecision can never be equal to mine. (Sam Keen, Voices and Visions (New York: Harper and Row, 1976), p. 122.)

In all that Castaneda had told us can be found parallels with other currents and traditions of mystical thinking. In his own books are cited authors and works of antiquity and of the present. I reminded him that, among others, there are references to The Egyptian Book of the Dead, to Tractatus by Wittgenstein, to Spanish poets like San Juan de la Cruz and Juan Ramon Jimenez, and to Latin American writers like the Peruvian Cesar Vallejo.

Yes, he responded, in my car there are always books, many books. Things that someone or another send me. He was accustomed to read sections of those books to Don Juan. He likes poetry. It's clear that he only likes the four first lines! According to him, that which follows is idiocy. He says that after the first verse it loses force, that it's pure repetition.

One of us asked him if he had read of or if he knew the yoga techniques and the descriptions of the different planes of reality which the sacred books of India offer.

All that is marvelous, he said. I have had, moreover, pretty intimate relationships with people who work in Hatha Yoga.

In 1976, a doctor friend named Claudio Naranjo (Do you know him? he asked us.) connected me with a yoga teacher. That's how we went to visit him in his 'ashram' here in California. We communicated by means of a professor who acted as interpreter. I was trying to discover in that interview parallels with my own experiences of traveling outside of the body. There, however, he didn't speak of anything important. There was, yes, much show and ceremony, but he didn't say anything. Towards the end of the interview, this character took in his hands a metal watering can and began to wet me with a liquid whose color I didn't like at all. No sooner had he withdrawn, when I asked him what he had just thrown at me. Someone came near and explained to me that I should be very happy because he had given me his blessing. I insisted on knowing the contents of the container.

Finally I was told that all the secretions of the teacher are saved: Everything that comes from him is sacred. You can imagine, he concluded in a tone between jocular and joking, that here concluded the conversation with the yoga master.

A year later, Castaneda had a similar experience with one of the disciples of Gurdjieff. He met with him in Los Angeles upon the insistence of one of his friends. It seems that the gentleman had imitated Gurdjieff in everything. He had shaven his head and had a huge moustache, he commented, indicating with his hands their size. We had just entered, when he energetically grabbed me by the throat and gave me some tremendous blows. Immediately after he told me to leave my master because I was wasting my time: According to him, in eight or nine classes, he was going to teach me everything I needed to know. Can you imagine? In a few classes he can teach someone everything.

Castaneda also told us that the disciple of Gurdjieff had mentioned the use of drugs to accelerate the learning process.

The interview didn't last long. It seems that Castaneda's friend realized right away the ridiculousness of the situation and the magnitude of his error. That friend had insisted that he see the disciple of Gurdjieff because he was convinced that Castaneda needed a teacher more serious than Don Juan.

When the interview ended, Castaneda told us that his friend felt full of shame. We continued walking some six or seven blocks. For a while we talked about circumstantial things. I remember that I commented to him that I had read in La Gaceta an article by Juan Tovar in which he mentions the possibility of filming the books. (See Juan Tovar. Encounter of Power, La Gaceta, F.C.E. (Mexico, December 1974).

Yes, he said. At one time that possibility was spoken of. He later told us the story of his encounter with the producer Joseph Levine, who would have intimidated him from behind an immense desk. The size of the desk and the producer's words hardly comprehensible because of the huge cigar he kept between his lips, were the things that had made the biggest impression on Castaneda. He was behind a desk like it was a dais, he explained, and I, there below, very small. Powerful! With his hands full of rings with very large stones.

Castaneda had already said to Juan Tovar that the last thing he wanted to see was an Anthony Quinn in the role of Don Juan. It seems that someone had proposed Mia Farrow for one of the roles... To conceive of such a movie was very difficult, he commented. It's neither ethnography nor fiction. The project in the end fell apart. The sorcerer Juan Matus told me that it wouldn't be possible to do it.

During that same time he was invited to participate in shows like Johnny Carson and Dick Cavett. In the end I couldn't accept things like that. What would I say to Johnny Carson, for example, if he asked me if I spoke to the coyote or not? What would I say? I'd say, yes... and then? Indubitably, the situation could have become very ridiculous.

Don Juan was the one who put me in charge of giving testimony of a tradition, said Castaneda. He himself insisted that I accept interviews and give conference to promote the books. Later he made me cut everything because that type of task burns a lot of energy. If you're into those things you have to give them force.

Castaneda explained clearly that with the production of his books, he is in charge of taking care of the expenses of the whole group. Castaneda allows everyone to eat.

Don Juan, he insisted, gave me the task of putting in writing all that the wizards and sorcerers said. My task doesn't consist in anything but in writing until one day they tell me, Enough, here you stop. The impact or not of my books, really is unknown to me because I'm not dealing with what's happening here. To Don Juan before and to the Toltec Woman now belong all the material in the books.

They are responsible for all that is said there.

The tone of his voice and his gestures impressed us in a lively way. It was evident that in that terrain the task of Castaneda consists of obeying. His objective isn't anything but to be impeccable as receptor and transmitter of a tradition and of a teaching.

Personally, he continued after a pause, I am working on a kind of journal; it's something like a manual. For this work, yes, I am responsible. I would like a serious publisher to publish it and to be in charge of distributing it to interested persons and to centers of study.

He told us that he had worked out some 18 units in which he believes he has summarized all the teaching of the Toltec nation. To organize the work, he has made use of the phenomenology of E. Husserl as a theoretical framework to make comprehensible what they taught him.

Last week, he said, I was in New York. I brought the project to the editors of Simon and Schuster but I failed. It seems they got scared. It's that something like that can't have success.

Of those 18 units I am the only one responsible, he continued in a meditative tone, and, as you can see, I wasn't successful. Those 18 units are something like the 18 falls in which I was bumped hard on the head. I agree with the editors that it's a work of heavy reading, but there I am... Don Juan, Don Genaro, all the others are different. They are fickle! (According to what Castaneda communicated to us by telephone, Simon and Schuster finally decided to accept the project of the journal that had seemed to worry him so much.)

Why do I call them units? he asked, moving ahead of us. I call them that because each one of them claims to show one of the ways to break the unit of the familiar. That unique perceptive vision can be broken in different ways.

Castaneda, trying once again to clarify this, gave us the example of the map. Each time we want to arrive at some place we need a map with clear points of reference to not get lost. We can't find anything without a map, exclaimed Castaneda. What later occurs is that the only thing we see is the map. Instead of seeing what there is to see, we finish seeing the map we carry inside.

Therefore, to break that arc of reflexibility, to constantly cut the bonds that lead us to the known points of reference, is the ultimate teaching of Don Juan.

Many times during that afternoon, Castaneda had to insist that he was just a contact to the world. All the knowledge of the books belongs to the Toltec nation. In the presence of his insistence, I couldn't but react and tell him that the labor of arranging the material from notes into coherent and well organized book must have been immense and difficult.

No, responded Castaneda. I don't have any work. My task consists, simply, in copying the page which is given me in dreams.

According to Castaneda, you can't create something from nothing. To pretend to create like that is an absurdity. To explain this to us, he brought up an episode in the life of his father. My father, he said, decided that he was going to be a great writer. With that idea, he resolved to fix his office. He needed to have an office that was perfect. He had to keep in mind the smallest detail, from the decorations of the wall to the type of light on his work table. Once the room was ready, he spent much time looking for a suitable desk for his task. The desk had to be of a determined measurement, wood, color, etc. Another such incident occurred with the selection of the chair on which he would sit. Later he had to select the suitable cover so as to not ruin the desk's wood. The cover could be plastic, glass, leather, cardboard. On this cover my father was going to rest the paper on which he would write his masterpiece. Then, seated at his chair, in front of the blank paper he didn't know what to write. That is my dad. He wants to begin writing the perfect phrase. Surely you can't write that way! One is always an instrument, an intermediary. I see each page in dreams, and the success of each one of those pages depends on the degree of fidelity with which I am capable of copying that model from the dream. Precisely, the page which impresses or impacts most is that in which I have achieved reproducing the original with most exactitude.

These commentaries of Castaneda reveal a particular theory of knowledge and of intellectual and artistic creation. (I thought immediately of Plato and of St. Augustine with his image of inner teacher. To know is to discover and to create is to copy. Neither knowledge or creation can ever be an undertaking of a personal nature.

While we ate dinner I mentioned to him some of the interviews which I had read. I told him that I had enjoyed greatly that which Sam Keen had done and which had been published first in Psychology Today. Castaneda was also satisfied with that interview. He has much appreciation for Sam Keen. During those years, he said, I knew many people with whom I would have liked to have continued being friends... one example is the theologian Sam Keen. Don Juan, however, said, Enough.

With respect to the interview in Time, Castaneda related to us that first a male reporter came to meet with him in Los Angeles. It seems it didn't go well, (he used some Argentine slang) and so he left. They then sent one of those girls that you can't turn down, he said making us all smile. It all came out well, and they understood each other magnificently. Castaneda had the impression that she understood what he had told her. In the end, however, she didn't do the article. The notes which she had taken were given to a reporter that I think is now in Australia, he added. It seems that this reporter did what he wanted with the notes they gave him.

Every time that for one reason or another, the Time interview was mentioned, his annoyance was evident. He had observed to Don Juan that Time was too powerful and important a magazine. Don Juan, on the other hand, had insisted that the interview be done. the interview was done, 'just in case' concluded Castaneda informally using once again a typically port area (Argentinian) expression.

We also spoke of the critics and of that which had been written about him and his books. I mentioned to him Richard deMille and others who had put in doubt the veracity of his works and the anthropological value of them.

The work that I have to do, affirmed Castaneda is free from all that the critics can say. My task consists of presenting that knowledge in the best way possible. Nothing they can say matters to me because I no longer am Carlos Castaneda, the writer. I am neither a writer, nor a thinker, nor a philosopher... in consequence, their attacks don't reach me. Now, I know that I am nothing; nobody can take anything from me because Joe Cordoba is nothing. There isn't in all this, any personal pride.

We live, he continued, on a level lower than the Mexican peasants, which is already saying a lot. We have touched ground and we can't fall lower. The difference between us and the peasant is that he has hopes, wants things, and works to one day have more than he has today. We, on the other hand, don't have anything and each time we will have less. Can you imagine this?

Criticisms can't hit the target.

Never am I more full than when I am Joe Cordoba, he exclaimed vehemently standing up and opening his arms in a gesture of plentitude. Joe Cordoba, frying hamburgers all day with my eyes full of smoke...Do you understand me?

Not all the critics have been negative. Octavio Paz, for example, wrote a very good preface for the Spanish edition of The Teachings of Don Juan. To me his preface was most beautiful. Yes, Castaneda said feelingly, That preface is excellent. Octavio Paz is a complete gentleman. Maybe he is one of the last who remain.

The phrase, a complete gentleman doesn't refer to the undeniable qualities of Octavio Paz as thinker and writer. No! The phrase points to the intrinsic qualities of being, the value of a person as a human being. That Castaneda might point out that he is one of the last ones who remain accented the fact that he is relating to a species in danger of extinction.

Well, continued Castaneda trying to soften the impact, maybe there remain two gentlemen. The other is an old Mexican historian friend of his whose name wasn't familiar to us. He told us some anecdotes about him that reflected his physical vitality and intellectual vivacity.

At this juncture in the conversation Castaneda explained to us how he selects the letters that arrive to him. Do you want me to explain how I did it with yours? he asked directing himself to me.

He told us that a young friend receives them, puts them in a bag and keeps them until he arrives in Los Angeles. Once in Los Angeles, Castaneda always follows the same routine: First he dumps all the correspondence into a large box, like a toy box, and then he only takes out one letter. The letter he takes out is that which he reads and answers. Clearly nothing is done in writing.

Castaneda doesn't leave tracks.

The letter I took out, he explained, was the first one that you wrote. Later I looked for the other one. You can't imagine how many problems I had to get your phone number! When I already believed that I wasn't going to have any luck, I obtained it by the intervention of the university. I had really already thought that I wasn't going to be able to speak with you.

I was very surprised to know all the inconveniences that he had had to get to me. It appears that once he had my letter m his hands, he had to try to exhaust all means. In the magical universe much importance is given to signs.

Here in Los Angeles, continued Castaneda casually, I have a friend who writes me a lot. Each time I come I read all his letters, one after the other as if it were a diary. One certain time, between the letters I bumped into another one that without realizing I had opened. Even though I immediately realized that it wasn't from my friend, I read it. The fact that it was in the pile was for me a sign.

That letter put him in contact with two people who reported a very interesting experience to him. It was night and they had to enter the San Bernardino Freeway. They knew that to meet it they had to continue ahead until the end of the street. Then they had to take a left and continue until they reached the freeway. So they did it, but after some 20 minutes they realized that they were in a strange place. It wasn't the San Bernardino Freeway. They resolved to get off and ask, but nobody helped them. At one of the houses where they knocked they were met with screaming.

Castaneda continued telling us that the two friends went back down the road until they reached a service station where they asked for directions. There they were told what they already knew. So they again repeated the same steps, and without any inconveniences arrived at the highway.

Castaneda met with them. Of the two of them, it seems that only one is truly interested in understanding the mystery.

On the earth, he said as means of explanation, there are sites, special places or openings, through which you can enter and pass through to something else.

Here he stopped and offered to bring us. It's near here... in Los Angeles... If you want, I can take you, he said. The earth is something alive. Those places are the entrances from where the earth periodically receives force or energy from the cosmos. That energy is that which the warrior must store up. Maybe, if I am rigorously impeccable, I might get close to the eagle. May it be so!

Every 18 days a wave of energy falls upon the earth. Count, he suggested to us, starting on the third of next August. You will be able to perceive it. This wave of energy could be strong or not; it depends. When the earth receives very large waves of energy, it doesn't matter where you might be, it always reaches us. Before the magnitude of that force, the earth is small and the energy reaches all parts.

We were still animatedly conversing when the waitress approached and in a cutting tone asked if we were going to order anything else. As nobody wanted dessert or coffee, we had no other remedy than to get up. No sooner had the waitress moved away when Castaneda commented, It seems we are being thrown out...

Yes, we were being thrown out and, maybe, with reason. It was late. In surprise we checked the passing of time. We got up and left for the avenue.

It was night, the street and the people had the appearance of a fair. A mime dressed in tails and top hat was clowning around behind our backs. Everything we saw made us smile while our eyes searched for the plate that is always passed during those representations. To our right, under the eaves of an old theater, someone was trying another representation on a miniature stage. I believe I saw a cat ready for its function. Really there you could see everything.

In other times; a man disguised as a bear tried to compete with a human orchestra. The question is to look for alternatives each time more extravagant, someone commented. While we walked, returning to the campus, Castaneda spoke about a prospective trip to Argentina.

There a cycle is closed, he told us. To return to Argentina is very important for me. I'm still not sure when I can do it, but I will go. For now I have things to do here. Just in August three years of tasks will be accomplished, and it's possible that then I might go.

That afternoon, Castaneda spoke to us a lot about Buenos Aires, about its streets, neighborhoods and sports clubs. He remembered nostalgically Florida Street with its elegant stores and the itinerant multitude. He was even reminded with precision of the famous street of cinemas. Lavalle Street, he said making memory.

Castaneda lived in Buenos Aires during his childhood. It seems he was enrolled in a downtown school. Of that era he remembers with sadness that it had been said that he was wider than he was tall words that when one is a child hurt a lot. I always looked with envy, he commented, on those Argentinians so tall and handsome.

You know that in Buenos Aires you always have to belong to some club, continued Castaneda. I was from Chacarita. To be from River Plate isn't surprising, right? Chacarita, on the other hand, is always one of the last.

In those times, Chacarita always came out last. It was touching to see him identified with those who lose, with the 'underdog.'

Surely La Gorda will come with me. She wants to travel. Clearly she wants to go to 'Parice', he declared. La Gorda buys now in Gucci, is elegant and wants to go to Paris. I always say to her, Gorda, why do you want to go to Paris? There there is nothing. She has a certain idea about Paris, 'the city of light' you know.

Many times that afternoon, La Gorda was named. With her, Castaneda brought us to an extraordinary person due to the fact that he, without a doubt, feels great respect and admiration for her. What would be the sense then, of all that circumstantial information that he gave us about her? I believe that with those commentaries, as well as those in which he referred to the way of eating and sleeping of the Toltecs, Castaneda tried to prevent us from forming a rigid image of what they are. The work that they are doing is very serious and their lives are austere, but they aren't rigid nor can they be squeezed into the traditional norms of society. The important thing is to liberate oneself from schemes, not to replace them with others.

Castaneda gave us to understand that he hasn't traveled much in Latin America, if you exclude Mexico. Lately I've only been in Venezuela, he said. As I've already told you, I have to go to Argentina soon. There a cycle is closed. After that I will be able to leave. Well... the truth is that I don't know if I want to leave yet. His last words were said smilingly, Who doesn't have things that hold him down.

He has traveled through Europe several times for business related to his books. In 1973, however, Don Juan sent me to Italy, he affirmed. My task consisted of going to Rome to obtain an audience with the Pope. I didn't claim to obtain a private audience but one of those audiences which are conferred on groups of persons. All I had to do in the interview was to kiss the hand of the Supreme Pontiff.

Castaneda did everything that Don Juan had asked him. He went to Italy, arrived in Rome and asked for the audience. It was one of those Wednesday audiences, after which the Pope officiates at a public mass in the plaza of San Pedro. They did confer on me an audience but... I couldn't go, he said. I didn't even arrive at the door.

That afternoon, Castaneda referred several times to his family and to his typically liberal and frankly anticlerical background education. In The Second Ring of Power, Castaneda also makes reference to the anticlerical heritage that he received. Don Juan, who doesn't seem to justify all his prejudices and battles against the Catholic Church, says: To conquer our own foolishness requires all our time and energy. This is the only thing that matters. The others lack consistency. Nothing that your grandfather and your father have said about the Church has made them happy. To be an impeccable warrior, on the other hand, will give you force, youth and power. Thus, the appropriate thing for you is to know how to choose. (p. 236) Castaneda didn't theorize about these themes.

With respect to the disjunctive 'clericalism-anticlericalism' he only wanted us to receive a teaching with the example of his experience. That is to say, he makes us understand that it is very difficult to break the schemes which have been formed in youth.



Copyright 1985 Magical Blend Magazine



1992 - Dimensions - Being in Dreaming - Florinda Donner Interview by Alexander Blair-Ewart


Version 2011.07.09

Dimensions, February 1992

BEING-IN-DREAMING

FLORINDA DONNER IN CONVERSATION WITH
ALEXANDER BLAIR-EWART

Florinda Donner is a longtime colleague and fellow dream-traveler of Carlos Castaneda and the acclaimed author of "The Witch's Dream" and "Shabono". Her latest book "Being-In-Dreaming: An Initiation into the Sorcerer's World", an autobiographical account of her halting, sometimes unwilling, often bewildering initiation into the inner works of being-in-dreaming, has recently been released and will be available in Canada in the Spring. Anthropologist and sorceress, Florinda Donner lives in Los Angeles, California and Sonora, Mexico.




ALEXANDER BLAIR-EWART: [ABE:] Now, at the beginning of the book, you talk about how you become drawn into a living myth. Can you talk about that mythology?


FLORINDA DONNER: It's a living myth. Well the myth of the Nagual is a myth, but a myth that is being relived over and over again.

You see, the myth that exists is the myth that there is the Nagual and that he has his troop of people, apprentices, sorcerers. Actually I'm not an apprentice of Don Juan. I was an apprentice of Castaneda who was an apprentice of Don Juan. And I am one of the 'sisters' who were actually of the women of Florinda, and she gave me her name. So, in that sense, it is a myth which exists.

They didn't care that I called them witches. It has no evil connotations for them. From the western point of view, the idea of a brujo, or a witch, has always a negative connotation.

They couldn't care less, because for these people, the abstract quality of sorcery voids automatically any positive or negative connotation of the term. We are apes on one level, but we have this other magical side. In that sense we relive a myth.


ABE: So the myth of the Nagual is that there is an unbroken lineage from the ancient Toltecs right down to modern times. I'm wondering if I can get you to talk about what the pattern of the myth actually is.


FLORINDA D: Well, there is no pattern of the myth. That's why the whole thing is so baffling and so difficult.

When I first got involved with these people my main quest, my main aberration, which I came to call it later, was that I wanted to have some rules and regulations about what the hell it is I had to do.

There were none. There is no blueprint because each new group has to find their own way to deal with this idea of trying to break the barriers of perception.

The only way we can break the barriers of perception, according to Don Juan, is that we need energy.

All our energy is already deployed in the world to present the idea of self: what we are; who we want to be perceived as; how other people perceive us.

So Don Juan says 90% of our energy is deployed in doing that, and nothing new can come to us.

There's nothing open to us, because no matter how "egoless" we are, or we pretend to be, or we want to believe we are, we are not; even, let's say, "enlightened" people, or gurus that I have met.

At one time Carlos Castaneda was going around trying to meet gurus- and the ego of those people was so gigantic; in how they wanted to be perceived in the world.

And that is, according to Don Juan, exactly what kills us. Nothing is open to us anymore.


ABE: A real Nagual; a real seer wouldn't care how the world perceives them, particularly, would they?


FLORINDA D: No, they don't. But they still have to fight it. Castaneda has been at this for thirty years. I've been at this for over twenty years, and it's ongoing; it doesn't stop.


ABE: What's the nature of the battle? Because you use the language of the warrior. What's the nature of the battle? What are you fighting?


FLORINDA D: The self.


ABE: The self.


FLORINDA D: It's not even the self: it's an idea of the self, because if we would really get the self below the surface, we don't really know what it is.

And it is possible to curtail this idea; this bombastic idea we have of the self, because whether it's a negative idea or a positive idea doesn't really matter. The energy employed to sustain our idea of ourself is the same.


ABE: So there's tremendous emphasis in this tradition on overcoming what is called self-importance.


FLORINDA D: Self-importance, exactly. That's the main battle; to shut off our internal dialogue.

Because even if we are isolated someplace, we are still constantly talking to ourselves. That internal dialogue never stops.

And what does the internal dialogue do? It always justifies itself, no matter what. We replay things, events, what we could have said or could have done, what we feel or don't feel.

The emphasis is always on me. We're constantly spouting this mantra- me...me...me, silently or verbally.


ABE: So, an opening emerges when...


FLORINDA D: ...when that dialogue shuts off: Automatically. We don't have to do anything.

And the reason people reject Castaneda as not true is because it's too simple. But its sheer simplicity makes it the hardest thing there is to do for us.

There are about six people in our world engaged in the same pursuit; and the difficulty we all have is totally shutting off that internal dialogue.

It's fine if we're not threatened; but when certain buttons are pushed, our reactions are so ingrained in us that it's so easy to go back on automatic pilot.

You see, there's one great exercise that Don Juan prescribes- the idea of recapitulation.

The idea is that you recapitulate your life, basically; and it's not a psychological recapitulation.

You want to bring back that energy you left in all the interactions you've had with people throughout your life, and you start of course from the present moment and you go backwards in lime.

But if you really do a good recapitulation, you discover, by the time you are three or four years old, you have learned all your reactions already. Then we become more sophisticated, we can hide them better, but basically the pattern has already been established- how we're going to interact with the world and with our fellow human beings.


ABE: So here is the image, then, or the awareness of a kind human being who is travelling a parallel path to the world of the Tonal, or the world of the person; the social person. This other world, his other opening, is something that has apparently always been there.


FLORINDA D: Yes, it's always there. It's available to all of us.

Nobody wants to tap into it, or people think they want to tap into it, but as Don Juan pointed out, the seeker is involved in something else, because a person who seeks already knows what he's seeking.


ABE: Yes, that's clear.


FLORINDA D: The disappointment that so many people who are "seekers" have with Castaneda is because, when he talks to them, well, they have already made up their mind how things should be; and they are not open.

Even if they're listening, they're not open to anything anymore, because they already know how it should be; what it is they're seeking.


ABE: My version of that is that I am not interested in self-improvement.

I'm interested in self-realization, but not im- provement, and I'm not concerned with whether or not what I turn out to be in the process of recapitulation is something nice and spiritual and acceptable, because it's going to contain elements of madness as well as everything else.


FLORINDA D: Exactly.


ABE: But this is a very deeply disturbing idea for most people.


FLORINDA D: It is, yes, definitely. You see, we believe in this idea that we are basically energetic beings.

Don Juan said everything hinges on how much energy we have.

Our energy to fight, even to fight the idea of the self, requires an enormous amount of energy.

And we go always to the easiest path. We go back to what we know, even us who have been involved in this for so long.

It would be a lot easier just to say, oh, to hell with it, you know, I' m just going to indulge a little bit. But the thing is, that little bit of indulging would plunge you right back to point zero again.


ABE: Except for one thing that we both know, Florinda, which is this: that once you pass a certain point within yourself, if you have reached that silence, I believe, even for one moment, if its real...


FLORINDA D: ...you can't stop it. Exactly.

But to reach this moment of silence you need the energy. You can stop it- what Juan calls this momentary pause, this cubic centimetre of chance- and you can stop it immediately.


ABE: And once it's happened, you'll never be the same again.


FLORINDA D: Absolutely.


ABE: And you might want to go back to your old ways and indulge, but you can't get any satisfaction out of it.


FLORINDA D: Exactly. No, you can't. There's no satisfaction. That's totally correct.

I think, if we would really arrive... let's say a critical mass would arrive at that feeling or at that knowledge, we could change things in the world.

The reason nothing can change is because we're not willing to change ourselves, whether it's political dogma, economic or social issues, it doesn't really matter.

What the hell is the whole thing with the rainforest and the environment at the moment?

How can we expect someone to change if we're not willing to change ourselves? The change is phony; the change is restructuring or replaying the pieces, but there's no change.

Basically we are predatory beings, you see. That hasn't changed in us. We could use that predatory energy to change our course, but we're not willing to change ourselves.


ABE: Now, in the myth, the individual seer and/or Nagual is selected by providence, the unknown, the ineffable.


FLORINDA D: ...actually selected. Carlos has been "tapped" energetically.

Let's look at our energetic configuration... some people are basically energetically different. They call Carlos a three-pronged Nagual; Don Juan was a four-pronged Nagual. So what does that really entail?

Basically, Naguals have more energy than the rest of the group, and that's something very curious. Why the hell him, or why, for instance, are always the men Naguals?

We have women Naguals in the lineage, but the men have more energy- the men that have been selected so far: They're not better.

There were people in Don Juan's world who were infinitely more spiritual, better prepared, bigger men of knowledge in the sense that they knew more, and it didn't make any difference.

It is not that the Nagual is more or less than somebody else. It's just that he has that energy to lead.


ABE: And he can give some of that energy to somebody, too, and give them a boost.


FLORINDA D: We draw from that energy, yes. It is not that you get that energy, but he has that energy, if nothing else, not-to become whatever the world presents.

For instance, in that sense, being with Castaneda for so long, the worldly goodies that have been presented to him are unbelievable, yet he has never wavered from his path.

And I, personally, could say now, that if I had been put in that position for that many years, I could not honestly say that I would have been so impeccable.

And you see, I have to acknowledge that, because the worst thing, of course, we can do is to try to hide certain things. And for me to have witnessed Castaneda's journey, I mean, there were incredible worldly things presented to him which he never took. And you see, for that you need energy.

That's where energy comes in; that's when you need whoever is then the leader of the group to point out that way. Because if somebody else would have been the Nagual that doesn't have the energy, he would have succumbed.


ABE: Can a Nagual succumb and then recover?


FLORINDA D: No. There is no chance.


ABE: How come?


FLORINDA D: Go back to the myth. The eagle flies in a straight line. It doesn't turn around. You might be able to say okay, you have to run harder after it. But what does that mean? It's a metaphor.


ABE: So, the Nagual works in different ways to fulfill the unfolding of the myth.


FLORINDA D: Don Juan had more people behind him. Energetically he had a larger mass, so he could practically pluck you in and put you some place.

Carlos will not do that. For him, whatever the people he is working with- and there are six of us- it's a matter of decision. That's all. Our decision is all that counts, nothing else.

He will not cajole us; he will not beg; he will not tell us what to do. We have to know.

Having been exposed to this for so long; having been with Don Juan, any way we can try to walk on this path, that has to be enough for Carlos. There was nothing he would do forcefully to make sure that we stayed on this path.


ABE: Different Naguals work in different ways. Is it true of Carlos Castaneda? I've heard him described as the Nagual of stalkers.


FLORINDA D: Yes, but I would say... I don't know. He's a dreamer.


ABE: Yeah, that emerges, too.


FLORINDA D: And then, what is this idea of dreaming, dreaming and being awake? It's a different state. It's not that you're zonked out. No, you are totally normal and coherent, but something in you plays energetically on a different level.


ABE: There's something in your eyes, too.


FLORINDA D: Yes.


ABE: Something in your eyes that is too to learn to look at two worlds simultaneously.


FLORINDA D: Exactly. And again this idea is that you have collapsed the barrier perception in terms of what we see.

Whatever we perceive has been defined us by the social order, no matter what. Intellectually we are willing to accept at perception is culturally defined, but we will not accept it on any other level. But it's absurd, because it exists on another level.

And I can only say, because we have been involved with these people- and certainly I'm also in the world- that is possible to see on those two levels and to be totally coherent in both, and impeccable on both levels.


ABE: Talk about impeccability. What is impeccability?


FLORINDA D: You know exactly what you have to do. Especially for women, we are reared to be very petty beings. Women are so petty, it's unbelievable.

And I'm not saying that men are not, but with men, no matter how we want to express it, men always are on the winning side. Whether they are losers or not, it's still male.

Our world is a male world, regardless how well off they are or not, regardless whether or not they believe in any kind of feminist ideology, it doesn't really matter. Men are the winners in our society.


ABE: In the book you talk about how women are actually enslaved by their attachment to the sexuality of men. Can you talk about that?


FLORINDA D: Definitely. First of all, to me, one of the most shocking things which I denied and refused to believe for quite some time, was this idea of the fog created by sexual intercourse.

They went even further to explain that basically what really goes on is that, when we have sexual intercourse, when the male ejaculates, not only do we get the semen.

In that moment of energetic outburst, what really happens is that they are what Don Juan calls 'energetic worms', filaments, and those filaments stay in the body.

From a biological point of view, those filaments ensure that the male returns to the same female and takes care of the offspring. Thc male will recognize that it is his offspring by the filaments at a total energetic level.


ABE: What is the exchange of energy in sexual intercourse?


FLORINDA D: She feeds the man energetically. Don Juan believes that the women are the cornerstone for perpetuating the human species, and the bulk of that energy comes from women, not only to gestate, to give birth and nourish their offspring, but also to ensure the male's place in the whole process.


ABE: So, the woman is enslaved, then, by this fog. How does she release herself?


FLORINDA D: If we talk about it from a biological point of view, is she enslaved? The sorcerers say yes, in the sense that she always views herself through the male. She has no option.

I used to be excruciatingly mad about this whole discussion. I used to go over and over it with them, and go back to this whole idea, especially because this was in the early seventies when the women's movement was at its peak.

I said "No, women have come a long way. Look at what they have accomplished.", and they said, "No, they haven't accomplished anything."

To them, the sexual revolution- and they were not prudes- they were not interested in morality, they were only interested in energy- so they said, that for women to be liberated sexually, in a way enslaved them even more, because suddenly they were feeding energetically not just one male, but many males.


ABE: That's interesting.


FLORINDA D: So for them it was absurd, and whatever's happening at the moment, he foresaw that in the seventies.

He said they're going to dive down on their noses. They're going to be weakened. And they are.

The few women I've talked to- I've given certain lectures, and the books- and when I've talked about this, it's very interesting that the women do agree. And I first thought I would have a great deal of difficulty with this subject, but especially women who have gone through the process of having multiple lovers said they were exhausted, and they don't know why.


ABE: So we are talking about something beyond the sexual.


FLORINDA D: Originally, beyond the the sexual aspect, the female, the womb ensures that the woman is the one that's closest to the spirit in this process of approaching knowledge as being-in- dreaming.

The man cones upward, and by the sheer definition of the cone, it comes to a finite end. It's an energetic force. He strives because he is not close to the spirit, or whatever we want to call that great energetic force out there.

According to the sorcerers, the woman is exactly the opposite. The cone is upside down. They have a direct link with it, because the womb for the sorcerer is not just an organ of reproduction. It is an organ for dreams; a second brain.


ABE: Or heart.


FLORINDA D: Or heart, and they do apprehend knowledge directly. Yet we have never been allowed to define what knowledge is in our society or in any society. And the women who do create or help to formulate the body of knowledge, it has to be done in male terms.

Let's say a woman does research. If she does not abide by the rules already established by the male consensus, she won't be published. She can deviate slightly, but omly within that same matrix. It is not allowed for women to do anything else.


ABE: So the sorceress is removed from the hypnotism of all that.


FLORINDA D: Of the social, yes. It's very interesting that you mention the idea of hypnotism, because Don Juan always said at the time when psychology produced Freud, we were too passive. We would have followed either Mesmer or Freud. We are mesmeric beings. We never really developed that other path...


ABE: Yes. The path of energy.


FLORINDA D: ...and this would never have happened to us if Freud wouldn't have had the upper hand.


ABE: Well, he's lost it now.


FLORINDA D: No, not really, because with all we do, who knows how many generations it takes? Let say he has been discredited intellectually, but our whole cultural baggage... We still talk in those terms, even people who don't even know who Freud is. It's part of our language; our culture.


ABE: Yes, I know. It's very frustrating, dealing with people who approach the whole of reality from this hackneyed psychological viewpoint.


FLORINDA D: Yes. And they don't even know where it comes from. It's part of our cultural baggage.


ABE: So the sorceress is freed from this condition.


FLORINDA D: Well, free in the sense that once you see what the social order really is- it's an agreement- at least you are more cautious in accepting that.

People say, "Oh but look how different life is from your grandmother's or mother's time." I say, it's not. It's only different in degree. But nothing is dif- ferent.

If I would have lived my life the way it had been established for me... yes, I was more educated, I had a better chance. But that's all. I still would have ended up the same way they had ended up. Married, frustrated, with children that by now I probably would hate, or they would hate me.


ABE: I keep trying to get you now to cross that line, and talk about what occurs now that you've realized that there is that thralldom and you begin to free yourself from it. What is it that opens up to perception?


FLORINDA D: Everything.


ABE: Everything. Good.


FLORINDA D: First of all, in your dreams you can see. For instance, my work is done in dreaming. Not that I don't have to do the work, but it comes in dreaming.


ABE: Now you're using the word dreaming in this very specific sense, which is in this tradition. Can you talk about what dreaming actually is?


FLORINDA D: In the traditional sense, when we fall asleep, as soon as we start entering a dream, in that moment when we're half awake and half asleep, and still conscious, you know from Casta- neda's work that the assemblage point flutters: It starts shifting, and what the sorcerer wants to do is that he wants to use that natural- that happens to every one of us- shift to move into other realms.

And for that you need an exquisite energy. Again it comes down to energy. We need an extraordinary amount of energy because you want to be conscious of that moment and use it without waking up.


ABE: Yes, a very high accomplishment.


FLORINDA D: For me, it's very easy to enter; to use it. The thing is, I had no control at that time- although I have now- over when it was going to happen.

But I could center into this state of what they call... I mean, the women were not interested in calling it the 'second attention': They were interested in calling it 'dreaming awake', because it is the same thing.

And you'd reach different levels, and what you do is that in that dreaming state eventually you have the same control you have in your daily life. And that's exactly what the sorcerers do. It's the same thing; there's no difference anymore.


ABE: So you are now able to exist in another reality?


FLORINDA D: Well, I don't really know. You see, we don't have the language to talk about it, except to talk about it in known terms. So in a weird way, when I ask myself, "Do I exist in another reality?", yes and no.

It's not quite right to really say that, because it is one reality. There is no difference.

Let's say there are different layers, like an onion. But it's all the same. And it becomes very bizarre. How am I going to talk about it? In metaphors? Our metaphors are already so defined by what we already know.


ABE: Yes, the problem of language.


FLORINDA D: You see we don't have the language to really talk about what then really happens when you are in the 'second attention', or when we 'dream awake'.

But it is as real as any other reality. What is reality? It is, again, a consensus. And you see, the thing is, we only want to agree about this intellectually on one level. But reality is more than just an intellectual agreement: Let's say, it can be more. And for that, again, we go back to that same thing- it all hinges on energy.


ABE: That's right. But it also hinges on something called 'intent'.


FLORINDA D: Exactly. But in order to hook yourself to 'intent'... See, 'intent' is out there, it's this force- Don Juan was not interested in religion- but, in a weird way maybe it is exactly what we call God, the supreme being, the one force, the spirit.

You see, each culture knows what it is. And the thing is, Don Juan, again, said you don't beg for it. You ask, and in order to ask for it, you need energy. Because not only do you need energy to hook yourself onto it, but you want to stay hooked.


ABE: Yes. So, this thing of intent, I mean it's an easy word to say, but it's actually a quite complex operation.


FLORINDA D: Yes, exactly, very complex. For Don Juan and his people, to talk about sorcery and witchcraft, with all those negative connotations, they couldn't care less what we called the practices.

For them it was very very abstract. To them sorcery is an abstraction, and it was this idea of expanding the limits of perception.

For them, our choices in life are limited by the social order. We really have boundless options; but by accepting the social order's choices, of course, we set a limit to our limitless possibilities.


ABE: And yet the human being seems...


FLORINDA D: ...constantly searching for that which has been...


ABE: ...lost...


FLORINDA D: ...lost or caged in by the social order. They put blinds on us the moment we are born. Look at the way we coerce the child to perceive the way we perceive.


ABE: Yes, the transmission of culture.


FLORINDA D: It's the most perfect example.

Children truly perceive more, obviously, a great deal more. But they have to make some order out of that chaos, and we, of course, are the perennial teachers of what is proper to perceive within our group.

And if they don't abide by that, my god, we shoot them with drugs, or lock them up in therapy with psychiatrists.


ABE: There have been these traditions, which have existed for a long, long time, and now in the last, say, twenty or thirty years in particular, we start to hear about them. Why did Castaneda write his books?


FLORINDA D: Because it was a task; it was a sorceric task that Don Juan impressed upon him. Castaneda is the last of his line. There is no one else. There's a group of Indians that we work with.

You see, Don Juan, in a weird way made almost a mistake with Castaneda when he first was put in touch with him; whatever the design or power of the spirit was which put Don Juan face to face with Castaneda.

And don Juan rallied right away with his circle of apprentices.

And I think it's in Tales of Power and The Second Ring of Power, when he talks about the people in Oaxaca and the Little Sisters and all those people.

And then, years later, Don Juan realizes that that's not the way Castaneda is going. Castaneda was even more abstract than Don Juan was. His path was a totally different path.

And then when don Juan gathered these other people- the people that are with Castaneda, we all met Don Juan before we met Castaneda.

Actually there was only five of us before- four of us and Castaneda.


ABE: So, there was the sorcerer's task of writing the books. What I'm trying to get at is that this knowledge, just as knowl- edge, becomes available now and is available to millions of people in this form. What is the purpose of that?


FLORINDA D: Well, somebody has to get hooked by it. And people do.

For us, for our mentality as the westem ape, as Don Juan always called us, you see, we have to be hooked first intellectually, because obviously that's how our whole being works.

When I was in school, I was just a step away from going into graduate school, and I had been in this world for two or three years, and I said, "What am I doing by continuing school? Why should I get a PhD.? It's absolutely redundant."

And Don Juan and all the women said it's absolutely not redundant, because in order to reject something you have to understand it at its most sophisticated. Because for you to say you're not interested in philosophy, or you're not interested in anthropology, it's meaningless. You can only say it after you have at least have made some attempt to understand it.

There's no reason to reject it, and when plunging into this world of the 'second attention' and 'dreaming awake', your mind has to be so well trained for you to emerge again, to come out with the knowledge. Because if you have not the brain or the mind to do it, you might as well just go throw stones in the desert; because it's meaningless.

For them it was extremely important that all of us are very well trained. Everyone working within this little group has a degree. There are historians, anthropologists, librarians.


ABE: So, the knowledge is made available to millions of people, and people become hooked by it.


FLORINDA D: On one level, they will, yes.


ABE: And does that mean that the tradition has now begun to proliferate itself in that way, also?


FLORINDA D: I don't know. If I go by Castaneda's mail, which he doesn't read, I would say yes.

But then, most of the stuff... I mean I open letters from time to time, and they're mad: They're crackpots most of them. Some of them are very, very serious enquiries, and most of them are just truly cracked people.

(laughter)

I mean they're cracked. Like, "I am the new Nagual." Or "I have been visited by you in dreams." I mean truly bizarre things.


ABE: Well, there are many levels to that, as you know. But I think that you women, you sorcerers there, and the whole Castanedan reality has actually affected the mass collective consciousness of, particularly, North America.


FLORINDA D: It is as you say; the work is out there. There's a great many people reading it. And some people are truly very serious about it.


ABE: And some of them are people who are non-Natives who have become involved in Native spirituality.

In a way, the work that has come from your group has had a tremendous quickening effect on Native spiritualities all over this continent, who have found a track back into their traditions.


FLORINDA D: You see, the whole point of Don Juan was that you don't go back, because we are caught again in the myth and the rituals.

And for Don Juan, myth and rituals... myth in the sense that yes, that you're part of this matrix, but not in the sense that you're going to live it by invoking certain rituals; certain powers that were, let's say, successful in the l9th century.

Because, he said, that's exactly the fallacy because originally a ritual is only to hook your attention. Once your attention is hooked, you drop it.

As the apes that we are, we of course are very comforted by the ritual. People that truly transcend a certain knowledge do it by exactly getting out of it. Yet the rest of the mass is mesmerized by the ritual.


ABE: Seeing the truth of that and the fact that Castaneda describes you as the new seers, how does that emerge?


FLORINDA D: The new seers? For the women it is very important, this idea that the womb is not just an organ of reproduction.

In order to activate this, our intent has to be different. In order to change our intent we go back again to energy.

You see, we don' t really know what it means to use the womb as an organ for being; an organ of light; of intuition.

For us, intuition really is something that has already been defined. There is no real intuition anymore, because we intuit with our brains.

Don Juan was interested in women, and people always ask, "Well, how come there's always so many women? Do you have orgies? Is there all kinds of stuff going on?"

He said, "No, it's because the male doesn't have the womb. He needs that magical 'womb power' (laughter)." It's very important, you see.


ABE: Let me ask some technical questions there, if I may, on behalf of my female readers. Does the womb have to be fully functioning? I mean, if a woman had her tubes tied, would her womb still work?


FLORINDA D: Yes, as long as she doesn't have a hysterectomy.


ABE: So long as the womb isn't removed...


FLORINDA D: ...if the womb is there, yes.


ABE: Then it can work.


FLORINDA D: Oh, absolutely. But the only thing is you need to summon that intent.

Like certain of the Goddess cults- "When God Was A Woman"- and I was talking to some women a month ago, and they were all in goddess groups. And every month they go into the forest; they go someplace up to Sequoia and they groove in the forest, in the trees, and oh, they have a great time hanging out, debating, making rituals in the river.

And I said, "But what the fuck are you doing? You go back home, and then you are the same assholes you were always. You open your legs whenever the master says "I need you""

And they were shocked. I mean, they quite dis- liked me, because they don't like to hear that. They said, "But we felt so good for three days."

And I said, "But what's the point of feeling good for three days if your life continues the same way?"

What are we resting from? Because our life is going to continue. Why don't we change? This idea of the rituals and even going back to the Native beliefs, it didn't even work back then, on one level. We were conquered.


ABE: So it's something that has to live now in a completely authentic way.


FLORINDA D: It has to be fluid, and the practitioner has to be fluid to accept these changes. Even within us, things are changing constantly, and we're so comfortable in a certain groove, until something blasts us out of it. And we resent it, but we have to be fluid. Only energy will give us that fluidity.


ABE: How do you accummulate energy?


FLORINDA D: To start off with, at least at the beginning, it was Don Juan's idea that the best energy that we have is our sexual energy. It's the only energy that we really have, and most of our sexual energy is squandered.


ABE: Now, is it the same for men and women?


FLORINDA D: Of course it's the same for men and women. The only thing is with women you see that energetically the woman takes on the burden of feeding the man through their energetic fila- ments. So, in that sense, it's worse for women. And for the man too, because the man is hooked. Energetically he is hooked, no matter what.

And we have all kinds of psychological explanations. People who we've had affairs with, and we can't get her out of our minds, whatever. You see, we have this gray barrage of description, but what really is going on is on a totally different level that we don't want to talk about because it's not part of our cultural kit.


ABE: So the primary way of accumulating energy, then, is to be celibate?


FLORINDA D: Well, it's very difficult, but it would be a good try, at least to start out with.


ABE: If a woman was called to this way, if she got hooked, or a man got hooked by this tradition, how would they know? How would they know that they had been hooked by a tradition and not just by some damn obsession?


FLORINDA D: For instance, Castaneda's books spell out very clearly... if you read Castaneda's books carefully, they're almost manuals.


ABE: Yes, I know. And you read them again and again, and you finally understand what they're talking about


FLORINDA D: You will know that something has changed, because you will feel it energetically.

And then there's this whole idea that you can abandon this idea of the self. It's not that you're going to laugh at others. But you find them despicable, and yet you don't want to judge them, either, because who the hell are we to judge anybody anyway?

But you know that you are not part of it, in the sense of the social agreement, and it's almost like a phony part of you that is clinging to you, because you do have to function in the world. You have to present a coherent idea of the self.

You know, Don Juan always said if some truthful change has taken place there is no way to be rejected, whatever it means to be rejected. I don't know. By intent coming in contact with us? I don't really know.

There have been two people that have come in contact with us, and they are there. I mean, we're never together anyway; each person lives on their own, and just from time to time we do get together.

Originally we had this little class when Castaneda was here. He teaches certain very interesting movements, basically to store up energy.

So, these people have been there for two years, and they're changing little by little, and it's amazing. You see, if you let something go, something in you will know.


ABE: You have published this book, for instance, and I read it. Now I don't have a physical image of you, but my feelings form a sense of who you might be, or what you might be like. Now, does that energy field affect you, now that there's this book out there?


FLORINDA D: One of the things that Don Juan made very clear to Castaneda... see, once the book is out, the book is out. It has nothing to do with you anymore.

For you to be wondering; living in hope- is the book doing well or not doing well?- see, that's a very, very difficult thing to divorce yourself from. Because somehow you are involved.

To truly let go is very very difficult. I had two other books- The Shabono and The Witches Dream- and it was very easy. With this one, because it's the first time I talk about my involvement with Don Juan, it's very difficult.

And maybe because for the first time I'm talking more openly- with the other ones I did absolutely nothing. With this one I am more involved. I have given lectures in bookstores to groups of people, which is very interesting, because, as you said before, there are a great many people who are truly very seriously interested, but intellectually, again.


ABE: Oh, I think I know a know people who've gone a little beyond intellect with it.


FLORINDA D: There are, definitely. I do believe that, yes.


ABE: Because we talk about different kinds of luminous bodies. There are people who read these books and suddenly it's self recognition time.


FLORINDA D: Precisely, yes.


ABE: Now these books, then, are affecting a change in the way people perceive themselves.


FLORINDA D: Yes. Basically the goal is how we perceive the world, and breaking those parameters of perception, in terms of how we perceive ourselves, too.

But, we don't want the focus on the 'I'. We want to be a witness. Because everything in our society is filtered through the 'I', through the 'me', we are incapable of telling a story or recounting an event without making us the main protagonist, always.

You see, Don Juan was interested to let the event unfold itself, and then it becomes infinitely richer because then it opens up. And even in the world, as an exercise, just become a witness; don't be the protagonist. It's amazing what opens up.


ABE: Now, on this long path, one of the things that's described in the literature is that the person, the seer and the Nagual, everybody, will reach a period of despondency where they're sure it's going to fail; nothing's going to ultimately happen.

And the reason I raise this is because I have a sense that this feeling is actually being shared by many people now. So, please talk to that for a moment.


FLORINDA D: Yes, exactly. (laughter) I'm going to add to your depression (laughter).

No, it is true. Something in us knows, and that's why there's the urgency with Don Juan.

The imperative from the point of view of Nature is the perpetuation of the species, and we are no longer interested.

We are interested in evolution, because evolution is an equal, if not a greater, imperative than procreation. Because if we don't evolve, if we don't mutate into something different, we are truly going to blast ourselves out of this planet, I think irredeemably.

We have destroyed our resources, I mean totally. Whether we have fifty or a hundred more years in terms of time, as a planet, is immaterial. It doesn't really matter.

We as a species are doomed. And in that sense, evolution is our only way out. And again, as Don Juan stresses, evolution is in the hands of women, not of men.


ABE: So, as a male, what do I do? I just sit here and wait for women to save the world?


FLORINDA D: Yes and no. You see the man has to relinquish his power, and he's not going to do it, not peacefully. He's not.

I'm not saying that, you know, you're beating your chest, saying "I will not relinquish my power". No, it's much more insidious than that.


ABE: Go into that. Talk about it.


FLORINDA D: Well, I don't think it's ever stated. For instance, okay, here's these sensitive men who have been in men's groups, trying to come to terms with their spirituality, and have become totally in agreement with their wives, their partners, the female they are with- but not quite. There are certain things they will not relinquish, it's too threatening.

Even this whole idea of the men's movement originally started out as a truly spiritual movement. But something in the male is threatened. It is this fear of relinquishing something that some of them do sense will have to be relinquished for us as a species to go on.

We certainly know that the female has to be given time, and has been given time in the past for something to evolve. For instance, for us to become erect, when the vagina had to change position, well, who had to adapt? The males. The penis had to grow larger. The female again needs time. And the male has to give her that time.

From one point of view the male has to give the female time for the womb to try to switch into its secondary function.


ABE: And that can't happen if the man is relating to the woman sexually. Is that what you're saying?


FLORINDA D: No. See, there have to be enough females who have that time that something will have to change in the womb. They have to drawn a new possibility. Don Juan said our evolution is intent. You see, that leap from the large reptiles to flying, this idea of wings, was intended. It was an act of intent


ABE: That's very interesting. So you feel that women all over the world currently, sisterhoods of different kinds, are intending a new human future?


FLORINDA D: They're not aware of it. Some women, I think, are, totally.


ABE: So the man is now going to take a back seat in the evolution of the species.


FLORINDA D: Exactly, right. Not a back seat. Again, those are words that define a positive/ negative kind of connotation. No. You have to provide the time.


ABE: How can the man do that? Talk about that functionally.


FLORINDA D: You see, we women are relegated to the status of second class citizens. No matter what power we have, we still don't have any real power.

We don't decide anything. And even for us to talk in little groups, it's almost like banging against a huge iron door, because whoever decides, whoever's in power, is not going to relinquish this for the hell of it.

Let's look in terms of politics, let's say Washington or your capital. I mean, do you think for a moment those men are going to even listen to what we're saying? Not in the least.

But some kinds of pockets have to be found for something new to develop. Otherwise we're doomed. And this idea for us to save the planet, the environ- ment, all we are really thinking is that we as a species will not survive.

The earth will certainly survive: It might go into some kind of horrendous winter, but eventually it will come out of it. But we as a species will not survive.


ABE: Why would a woman read this book Being-in-Dreaming?


FLORINDA D: Very interesting, hm. Well, if nothing else, I think people who have been interested in the Castaneda work would be interested to see it presented from a female's perspective; from somebody who has been in that work for over twenty years.

I do approach the problems differently, probably more directly. The thing is perception. Even our human bodies... the body is, again, a consequence of perception. We are trapped as persons; we are trapped in language, and that's exactly what the sorcerer, through energy, wants to get out of.

END



1992 - Magical Blend - No. 35 - Florinda Donner Interview by Brian S. Cohen


Version 2011.07.09

Magical Blend #35 - 1992

Being in Dreaming:
an introduction to TOLTEC SORCERY
an interview with Florinda Donner
by Brian S. Cohen

Magical Blend magazine, issue #35 (First quarter 1992)

Late one afternoon at a coffee shop in Tucson, a woman sporting a peculiar hairstyle sits at the counter and orders a hamburger. In an effort to humiliate the cook for allegedly refusing to serve an Indian friend of hers, she deftly deposits a large, dead cockroach on her meal and shrieks in revulsion. The cook picks up the food and studies the woman intently. "Either this cockroach fell from the ceiling, he replies, looking at her, "or it dropped out of her wig." Before the woman can reply, she is offered any meal, compliments of the house, and so she humbly enjoys a steak and baked potato. Yet when she gets to her salad, she notices a rather large spider crawling in her lettuce. Looking up, she sees the cook waving to her, a dazzling smile lighting his face.

Scenes like this one occur frequently in a society where many different cultures are vying for acceptance and control. Upon further inspection, however, this episode is not as straightforward as it seems. It is an introductory chapter into a world that we normally don't perceive, a parallel world inhabited by brujas and brujos—sorcerers descended from the Indians of the Oaxaca Valley prior to the Spanish conquest. You see, the cook's name is Joe Cortéz, known to his companions as Carlos Castaneda. The woman's friend is the nagual don Juan Matus.

Florinda Donner's introduction into this world, a world that we have filtered from our perception, a world that has been encrusted with layers of social norms and acceptance, pushed out of sight and forgotten, is the subject of her third book, Being-in-Dreaming (Harper-SanFrancisco, 1991). In it she tells her tale of the disruption of all her assumptions about space, time, reality, and femininity by a group of people who interact in a state of awareness that resides somewhere between being asleep and being awake. Drawn into this world through the energy of don Juan, Castaneda, and the female members of their group, Florinda experiences a clear, albeit confounding, perception of human ability and energy. Her experiences are not without discomfort, however, for she must reassess all her current knowledge and beliefs into a world that few are able to see.

I had the chance to speak with Florinda about her twenty-some years of association with don Juan and Castaneda, and it was easy to understand the benefits of being able to perceive that which we usually overlook. Highly spirited and energetic, Florinda is as comfortable talking about parallel realities as she is about her favorite pastime, going to the movies.

How do you describe yourself, and what are you currently doing?

Florinda Donner:   I am an anthropologist who no longer practices anthropology, and I have an interest in non-Western healing practices. My work with the Yanomamo Indians in South America was the subject of my first book, Shabono. I then did another study in which I worked with a healer in Northern Venezuela. By that time I had already been exposed to the world of don Juan, and carried a desire to continue with it. I am no longer involved in academic research. What I am trying to do now, along with the other people who are involved in the same quest, is to work and live the way don Juan taught us, within a whole other world that he and his cohorts opened for us.

What is, or is there, an objective of sorcery?

Florinda:   Sorcerers are interested in the inherent capacity to see energy directly. They describe their knowledge as the pursuit of this capacity to see the essence of things. What one normally does in everyday life is to perceive a world one already knows and just revalidate it. Apparently the job of civilization is to give one an a priori idea of thinking, and therefore no experiences are really new. People force their children to perceive the way they perceive, by hook or by crook. And once they have accomplished that, of course, their children are bona fide members of the group.

Once you are able to see energy in the environment around you, what do you do with that knowledge, that ability?

Florinda:   Most people are limited in terms of what they see. What sorcerers, including myself, want to do is expand the limits, the parameters, of normal perception. Not only do sorcerers see energy directly, we relate to it differently than most people. Our whole spectrum of what we are capable of as human beings changes. One's choices in life are very limited, because the choices have been defined by the social order. Society sets up the options, and the individual does the rest, because the options are only those that have been made available. One's only source of possibilities, it seems, comes from within those limitations. Sorcerer, the emphasis in the everyday world is to stay within socially accepted boundaries of perception.

How do you go about teaching people to enhance their perception?

Florinda:   Whether we are trained as a male or a female, we are conditioned to react in a certain manner. If we can stop that, or at least examine it, we can free up an enormous amount of energy. That energy can then be utilized for dreaming. For don Juan the whole thing always boils down to having enough energy. In the United States we are conditioned for instant gratification; we want an instant formula that will work right now. On one level the immediacy is extremely appealing, but, on the other hand, nothing is good unless you can push a button and have it instantly.

So, a sorcerer tries to re-channel this energy?

Florinda:   Not only that, we try to break the barriers that block our potentials. It is possible to break those barriers by the rigor of self- examination. One of the first exercises all sorcerers do—one that I did not do for years because I did not believe in it—is a recapitulation of their lives with all the people with whom they have had any kind of interaction. They start working on the present and work toward the past, and, of course, they end up with their parents. They don't, however, make a psychological interpretation. Sorcerers want to feel how they have interacted, what kinds of emotions they felt. As they go further and further back in time, they realize that the repetitiveness of their way of perceiving or interacting is so horrendously boring that there is nothing special about them.

Don Juan says there is this parallel world existing around us, a force of energy that we don't let in because we are too busy with upholding what the social order dictates. Dreaming is one of the main techniques for perceiving this parallel world. This "second attention," as Castaneda calls it, takes a lot of energy, energy which can only be gained by canceling the idea of the self. In dreaming, basically what we want to accomplish is the same control we have over the everyday world. The dream becomes as real as our everyday life. The gains are gigantic, tremendous, in terms of what we are capable of being. We realize that we are energetic beings.

Is lucid dreaming something similar to being-in-dreaming?

Florinda:   In Carlos' books, he talks a great deal about what the sorcerers call the "assemblage point." Perception takes place wherever that assemblage point becomes static. The greatest accomplishment of our human upbringing is to lock our assemblage point on its habitual position. Once immobilized there, our perception can be walked and guided to interpret what we perceive. We learn to perceive in terms of our system first; then in terms of our senses.

In dreaming, one sees the body as a luminous egg of energy. The assemblage point shifts inside the egg and assembles different perceptions; perceptions produced by the energy filaments that traverse the egg. In dreaming, prior to that moment that one falls asleep, the assemblage point starts to flutter. The sorcerer tries to control where that assemblage point fixes itself. The sorcerer is interested in manipulating it and using it at will. Someone who is adept at lucid dreaming can go into their dream and totally control it. And that is exactly what don Juan wants to do. Through dreaming it's possible to accomplish the ultimate goal of sorcery: to liberate perception from its social bindings in order to perceive energy directly.

One of the differences between your initial experiences and those of Castaneda is the use and non-use of drugs. There is no mention of drugs in your book.

Florinda:   Carlos was given psychotropic plants because it was so difficult for him to break through the barriers of perception. For a man it is much more difficult, if for no other reason than because they are the upholders and shapers of our definition of reality.

The conceptualization of reason has been done exclusively by man. This has allowed men to belittle women's gifts and accomplishments. Even worse, it has allowed men to exclude feminine traits from their conceptualized ideals. Women have been reared to believe that only men can be rational and coherent. Men define the very nature of knowledge and from it they have excluded all that is feminine. Though maybe we don't verbalize it, women instinctively know that man's rationale is not our own. Our commitment to this man-made reality, therefore, is not as strong as the male's. This gives us the ability to weave in and out of the parallel worlds, or to go more easily with the flow. The importance of women healers in the shamanistic practices has been ignored in the shamanistic literature. In the history of Western Medicine the role of women is not even acknowledged.

So how do you feel about male sorcerers?

Florinda:   Don Juan was the nagual of a group of 14 sorcerers. Castaneda is the nagual of a much smaller group. The male sorcerers know that without the female sorcerers, there is nothing. Don Juan and Castaneda are not the leaders in the sense that they are better or have more knowledge. The only reason that they are the leaders of their groups is that they have more energy. Don Juan knew that he did not have an inch of ground to stand on without the women. In that kind of relationship, men and women never take advantage of each other, because, energetically, they know that they need each other to such a large degree. The male sorcerers know that it is the female who has a direct link to whatever it is that is out there—knowledge, spirit, energy, whatever you want to call it.

Carlos' books reflect a different process, a process he is still going through. Men build knowledge step-by-step; they "cone" toward knowledge. This coning process limits men as to how far they can reach. The male wants the order, the structure, first. The female plunges into something, and then she makes order out of it. In women, the cone is inverted; it is open like a funnel. Women are able to open themselves directly to the source, or rather, the source reaches them directly.

When you first came across Castaneda, he was working as a cook in Tucson as part of a task assigned to him by don Juan. Did you have an assigned task?

Florinda:   My task was to finish school, get a Ph.D., and continue to study. From the sorcerers point of view it is useless not to utilize what the world has to offer. The way the rational mind has been developed, and works, is one of the most exquisite things we have. To negate that is criminal. It is very important to be very well trained both from the perceptual level and the rational level, for we can only reject something, or find its flaws, if we understand it to perfection. I had always thought, "I don't care." Why should I go through with my academic education if I'm not going to use it?" the sorcerers made me see how important it is to embody rational knowledge the same way I embody sorcery. We cannot reject it, because the best that man has to offer is his intellectual achievements. All the people of this group have upper degrees, because when you plunge into the darkness, if your mind is not so keen and so well trained from a rational point of view, you cannot make sense out of what you find in the darkness.

Even if the object is to understand it from a non-rational point of view?

Florinda:   In order for us to make sense as human beings, we have to be rational. If you have a keen intellect you can very easily go from one stage to another. From don Juan's point of view, we are "reasonable men," but not "men of reason." That is our own fault. We have the capacity for incredible intellectual possibilities. We haven't really profited from them because we don't take it's possibilities at face-value. The world of the sorcerer is a sophisticated world; it is not enough to understand its principles intuitively. One needs to absorb them intellectually. Contrary to what people believe, sorcerers are not practitioners of obscure, esoteric rituals. Sorcerers are men of reason. They have a romance with ideas. They have cultivated reason to its limits, for they believe that only by fully understanding the intellect can they embody the principles of sorcery without losing sight of their own sobriety and integrity. This is where sorcerers differ drastically from other people. Most people have very little sobriety and even less integrity.

That is quite a difficult change for most people to comprehend.

Florinda:   Yes, because what we are trying to do is reduce our involvement with the world by changing our routine ways of interacting and being in the world. You see, we always want to be the protagonist, we always want to be the "I." Every story, everything we see, everything we perceive, everything we tell, is always through the "I." If you can curtail the "I," and truly see as a witness, it is more enchanting. The enjoyment of experiencing the ability of a human being is gigantic. Any kind of normal situation becomes an event, becomes a story. It is very interesting to let the other person be the protagonist.

That is not something that Western culture tends to allow.

Florinda:   Of course. If you want to analyze it, the whole idea of the West is succeeding the "I," of seeing what you think. Yet what we don't see, which exists just as well, is limitless.

Your idea sound analogous to Buddhism's idea of no-self.

Florinda:   Except that Buddhism is a system that works inside the social order. Sorcery doesn't work within the social order. To truly embody sorcery, one has to be almost outside the social order. It is not that one is a deviant, but that one has to extract oneself. One has to truly see, to look from the bridge. Trying to grow by retreating to a monastery or to the desert is useless. Only by being challenged by our daily life, by what we know, will we be able to change. The pressure always becomes such that we cannot uphold this new rationale, precisely because we are being pressured. And we are only going to be pressured by the world we know. The thing is not to hook into our routine ways. To accomplish that one needs energy. The important thing is to convince ourselves of the need to modify our deep socialization in order to acquire that energy.

So sorcery is action, not just thought.

Florinda:   Exactly. Sorcery is not illusory; it is abstract. Sorcery is an abstract pursuit of re-making ourselves outside the parameters of what the social order has defined and allowed us to be.

We talked about the social value of sorcery before, but it doesn't seem that your work would have an effect on a large amount of people.

Florinda:   We, as individuals, have to change in order for us to assume that we can change anybody else.

And we can't just have intellectual change.

Florinda:   No. Intellectually we are willing to tease ourselves with the idea that culture predetermines who we are, how we behave, what we are willing to know, what we are able to feel. But we are not willing to embody this idea, to accept it as a concrete practical proposition. And the reason for this is that we are not willing to accept that culture also predetermines what we are able to perceive. On a practical level, we want everybody else to change, but we ourselves don't change. The civil wars in Central America, for instance, are not changes. They are merely switches in power. It is the same thing in this country. We haven't changed. The one hope is that people begin to realize that their predetermined world doesn't make sense. Collectively, we know that something is terribly wrong. What we have done to the Earth has already been done, and we can't change that. The Earth will continue its existence whether we are here or not. We are not doomed because the Earth is doomed; we are doomed because of our unwillingness to change.

To break with our habitual patterns, we need energy and the commitment that we truly want to do it. Don Juan was extremely forceful in the sense that he could practically grab you by the neck and put you into another world. Castaneda is different. All he is interested in is the person's commitment. It has to be your decision. He will not influence you. He will help you if something has to be explained, but he is not interested in coercion or in trying to brow-beat somebody into changing the world we live in. The change has to come from within first.

Copyright 1992 Magical Blend Magazine



1993 - KPFK - Taisha Abelar Radio Interview


Version 2011.07.09

KPFK Radio Interview - 1993

Taisha Abelar
KPFK Radio Interview (1993)

John Martinez: Taisha Abelar is author of The Sorcerers' Crossing, A Woman's Journey. She tells of her experience, how she became acquainted with sorcerers and the actual practice of sorcery. A colleague of Carlos Castaneda, Carol Tiggs, and Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar in the following interview speaks on the validity of experiences in the non-ordinarily reality and explains in detail the sorceric process, as well as sorcerers' perspectives with implications regarding the social order, feminism and freedom.

Once again the author of The Sorcerers' Crossing, Taisha Abelar. And we are here with Taisha Abelar, author of The Sorcerers' Crossing, A Woman's Journey. First of all, Ms. Abelar, welcome to KPFK.

Taisha:   Yes, it's a great pleasure to be here and be given the opportunity to talk about my work and some of the concepts of sorcery.

John:   Taisha, if you could please start off with a short biography of yourself, your life prior to the actual material that's listed in the book to give our readers a background of who, exactly, Taisha Abelar is.

Taisha:   I mean the closest Taisha Abelar that -- the question you just asked don't really refer to Taisha Abelar because Taisha Abelar is a sorceric name that was given to me upon completing a certain amount of training. And the training that was involved was really moving the assemblage point -- and I'll talk about that -- to another position. So that's the position that I'm speaking to you from at this point, is the sorcerer's position, the position of a sorceress. And that is who Taisha Abelar is.

Prior to that I was an ordinary person. I entered Don Juan's world when I was in my early 20's an I had no special qualifications. I was just an ignorant young woman who had absolutely no interest in anything except finding a romance or being liked, worried about what people say about you. I had no academic training whatsoever.

So my background before coming into Don Juan's world is really comparable to anyone, any person. So I'm often asked the question, well, do you have any special qualifications in your past that made you open to this, or were you selected somehow? No, just think of myself as just a normal, regular person who somehow stumbled into Don Juan's world.

Or from my point of view it was stumbling because I was simply in the desert. I used to do drawing and I was doing some sketches and a woman approached me. And we started talking and I thought she was a very interesting person because she said she been in China and she had done martial arts. And prior to entering Don Juan's world, I did do some martial arts.

So that was some background. I was interested in movement and also drawing, but other than that there was nothing else of interest. She invited me to go with her to Mexico to stay with her for a few days and I accepted because I thought we were going to talk about Buddhism and oriental philosophy and things like that.

And so I went with her. I stayed with her a few days in Mexico and the days turned into weeks and eventually months and then she put me to doing this series of exercises which -- she said she took one look at me and she saw I was energetically depleted, and therefore I should do this training that she was showing me. And I had no idea that this was sorcery.

There was a cave near her house and I would go every day and sit in the cave. And she said I should do this process of recounting my life. And I didn't know that this was really an ancient sorceric technique called the recapitulation. And it merely involved breathing in the memories of the past, pulling back the energy of one's past history.

An I bring this up now because what happened during that procedure was that slowly I began to lose myself as I was as an ordinary person in the world. So that's the recapitulation sort of wiped out one's human self or one's regular self in terms of past, in terms of where one was born. All those things get dissolved and you lose your personal history so that you could build up your sorcerer's persona, personality.

So then I met Don Juan. When I had stored enough energy I was introduced to Don Juan Matus and some of his other cohorts, his colleagues, and they taught me some of the other techniques that were involved in sorcery.

And one of the things, the stipulations, was going back to my state at that time, was since I had no interest in education or knowledge or -- I couldn't think; I couldn't talk, prior to coming into this world. I was one of these people that I grew up learning you shouldn't speak unless you're spoken to, children should be seen but not heard. So there was no way of really expressing oneself -- couldn't have any idea of conceptualizing. Abstract thought was so foreign to me because I was only interested in the pragmatic things of everyday life, of meeting people, finding love, whatever interests women at that age.

So I was not unusual in that sense. So given as part of my training, they gave me the mandate of going to the university and receiving an education as part of the sorcerer's training. And the reason for that was not only to be able to alter the expectations that society has of women in terms of well, it's men should be educated and should get jobs and careers and things, but women well, it's sort of left up to them. If they want to, yes; if they don't, that's okay, too, because their fate is really already preset in terms of finding a husband, getting married, and having families and things like that, which was also my destiny.

So by receiving an education it had two aspects. One was that it sort of undermined my own expectations of my possibilities, my capabilities, or the expectations others had of me. And second, it gave me the opportunity to be able to think analytically, to conceptualize, to understand what sorcery is. Because even though they were teaching us techniques, certain practices, procedures, they also were giving us very abstract concepts as to what is sorcery. Why even be interested in something like this, how do sorcerers perceive the world, how do they see reality. And that requires a very keen intellect to be able to grasp the essence of what it is they're saying.

Otherwise you're at a certain level and you look at sorcery the way, let's say, anthropologists look at it, just from the outside and just see the surface of it. And you think sorcery involves chanting, curing, dances, wearing masks, doing weird ritualistic things. Those are our conceptions from the point of view of our society of what sorcery is and what sorcerers do.

I didn't know anything about sorcery at that time and I didn't even know that that's what they were teaching me, but it came out little by little. And as it came out, I had to understand not the superficial gloss of what sorcery is but what it really entails, and for that you have to have a very keen intellect and a deep education to be able to grasp those concepts.

John:   Taisha, could you -- I know Carlos Castaneda, who has written about the Yaqui way of knowledge and his quest to be a man of knowledge, and with the ingestion of peyote his work was popular in the late 60s and early 70s and is still read widely today. I know Castaneda writes your forward in your book. Could you address some of the issues that are constantly raised with Castaneda, first of all that it is fictional, his work, and that it promotes or gives the okay for what is now called illicit drug use and abuse. Could you mention anything in terms of Castaneda's influence now 20 years later?

Taisha:   Absolutely, because the training that I received in Don Juan's world was very similar to the training Carlos Castaneda received, because we're really a group of very few that were trained by Don Juan himself and his associates. And that's myself, Florinda Donner, who writes about her training in Being-in-Dreaming and Carol Tiggs and just a very handful of people, and we all received basically the same training.

But the works of Carlos Castaneda, of course, came out very early in the 60s and people read his works. And the first two books, The Teachings of Don Juan and A Separate Reality deal with the use of drugs -- well, not drugs but hallucinogenic plants. These are hallucinogenic substances that we call like mind-altering drugs, things like that.

Now there is several reasons. I can address this issue first and then go on to the validity of things later. The reason for Don Juan exposing Carlos Castaneda to these drugs in his training is twofold. One is because Carlos Castaneda was the new nagual. He was the one that was seen at that time to be a leader of a new group, although that altered dramatically. There is really no group at this point.

Something along the course of the training made Don Juan and his people realize that this generation is not the same as his generation. So there was marked, marked changes in his training as opposed to the traditional sense of training a sorcerer, but he did want to pass on -- at that point Don Juan thought that he would pass on the tradition of the use and how to prepare these plants because that was part of the sorcery tradition for Don Juan. And it was his duty to pass it on to his apprentice. So he taught him all the lore, all the preparation, the detail of the use of these plants.

Then the second reason was that the purpose of using the plants is to what sorcerers say, to move the assemblage point. I think I have to mention what the assemblage point is at this point because it will be coming up and otherwise it won't be clear to the listener.

When a sorcerer sees the energetic body of a person, they see a spot of luminosity, very intense, made of very brilliant light. And that is situated in a certain point on the energetic body and it lights up certain energetic filaments that are matched with the energetic fibers in the universe at large. So because there's an infinite number of possibilities making up the universe and also making up our energetic bodies. Only a very select few -- one band -- gets matched to what's outside in making, let's say, the perceptions that are out in the universe.

When that matching takes place, sorcerers say perception takes place; we constitute our reality. And that is dependent on the position of the assemblage point. So we are all born into a certain place. We have our assemblage points at a certain place that we can agree upon as to what we see, we can agree upon as to what we are perceiving.

The use of drugs, or the psychotropic plants, moves the assemblage point to a different position and lights up different filaments so that we perceive different things. Drugs through chemical reactions -- they affect the energetic body and you have different perceptions, you perceive things.

Now the reason Don Juan had Carlos exposed to the psychotropic plants was because of not just tradition, but as a rational being, it was very difficult for him to move his assemblage point using natural methods or the other sorceric practices. He had to be jolted out of that position fast, and that's what these the plants do, the use of the smoke or peyote. They move the assemblage point violently and very drastically to another position.

The dangers involved are tremendous, however. One is that there's no control. There is no telling where is it going to move, what universes are you going to perceive under the influence of the little smoke or in our day just drugs, whether it's marijuana, even tobacco -- doesn't have to be cocaine, things like that. The dangers are the same. We have no control as to what is going to happen to our perception of reality. And the physical dangers of the harm it does to the body, how harmful it is to the energetic body because it drains energy.

Any time you have an experience of moving the assemblage point, unless you do it with control, it's energetically depleting and you -- of course, the ultimate danger is that you can either die or go crazy or lose your mind, whatever. These things happen. We see that every day.

But Don Juan, of course, when he gave the tradition of the plants to Carlos Castaneda, he was always there and Don Genaro flanking him, to make sure that they knew where his assemblage point was moving. They knew exactly what realities he was lighting up through their seeing and they supplied the control to him that he was unable to supply himself because he was under the influence of something else, an external force. So they supplied the control and made sure that nothing happened to him, nothing bad happened to him, and to make sure that he could come back, that his assemblage point could move back, which it usually naturally does when the effects wear off.

But sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes sorcerers get lost in other realms and they just don't wake up; they don't come back; and they die. So there's extreme danger involved there. And to do this without a guide or leader is suicidal, really.

So the purpose is to get out of the rational fixation that we have, that this reality is the way it is; which from our point of view is a given, but from the point of view of sorcerers, it's an act of creation.

And phenomenologists also -- okay, I'm going to talk a little bit about phenomenology and then talk about the validity of his work. So we will hit both questions.

Just to conclude the part about the psychotropic plants, our training did not include any of these, the use of drugs or the peyote. That includes Florinda Donner, Carol Tiggs. Women do not have to be drastically jolted out of their hold on reality. Their assemblage points are very fluid and they move automatically. All of ours move during sleep when we dream, but, of course, they just jump back and forth and we have no control. But it's a natural movement of the assemblage point in sleep.

The women when they menstruate, their assemblage points get displaced very slightly. But they may see things; they may catch glimpses; they may hear things; they get emotionally very, very sensitive, because their assemblage point is being displaced monthly. They can use that natural displacement to do dreaming and to do sorcery, which is what the women, the female sorcerers do.

So only in rare cases and because Carlos Castaneda was the nagual, was he given the plants to actually understand and to use. His first two books deal with that work, but after that you don't hear much about them anymore. And you don't because he no longer -- his assemblage point was loosened enough so that it could move through other means, softer means, more natural means. And the rest of his training, all the other books, deal with the movement of the assemblage point using other sorceric means.

So I was going to talk a little bit about our conception of reality and the sorcerer's conception of reality because it ties in with the movement of the assemblage point. The sorcerers maintain that whatever we perceive in front of us is determined by the placement of that assemblage point. And we are born into that reality as children. Of course the assemblage point is erratic. Infants, they can't speak; they don't have language. They perceive the world differently. But as they grow, their perception of the world matches that of everyone around them so there's a matching that takes place.

Phenomenologists say that the facticity of the world is constructed; it's not a given although we assume that it is. Phenomenologists take that tacit agreement that we have of everyday life, that there was a yesterday in terms of temporality and spaciality and intersubjectivity that we can agree upon what others in the room are doing. Phenomenologists take those assumptions or taken-for-grantedness of those things and turn them into their phenomena for investigation.

The fact that we know that there was a natural history to things -- let's see, I'll give you some examples just to make this clearer. So that we know that, let's say, that door over there didn't just appear, we know that it was there before we came into the room. We know that it's going to remain there after we leave. That's a temporal continuity that's built into their perception of reality. Spatial continuity is built in.

We know that there is a street outside and beyond the street there is buildings, even though we don't directly perceive them. We know that there is an ocean a certain number of miles. We have mapped out our space, our spatial realm. Reality is based on our conception of space and time and the certainty that we have that other people also know that we're in a room. We built up the same glosses based on our language, of door, of street, of house.

Now sorcerers, they look at perception immediately. Instead of working on glosses the way we do in our everyday lives -- we don't perceive directly. We have already filtered perception through language, through our culture, through our past experience. We're not perceiving immediately. The sorcerers training is to get oneself back to that immediate perception of reality.

They ask the same questions as phenomenologists do: What is perception, what is reality, what is agreement. But they say that perception is really a question of having the assemblage point on the same position. Or let's say agreement is everyone having the assemblage point on the same place. When that moves, other realities just as real as the one we're in now are constituted.

The validity of anything can only be determined by actual experience. Everything that we do in our daily lives is real because we have experienced it or others have experienced it, and we share -- we have an intersubjective agreement and a common language that enables us to understand what it is we are talking about.

For example, an astronaut or a man walking on the moon, we saw that on television; we read papers; we even heard them speaking the "giant step for mankind" words that now have become so famous. So even though we didn't see them on the moon, we look up at the moon at night and say well, men were up there. Now is that a leap of faith? No, not exactly, not like the virgin birth or the immaculate conception. It's based upon the work of the men in NASA, the aerospace industry.

Each subgroup has what phenomenologists or even sociologists call membership in their group. They're able to validate their small segment. It's like layers and layers, like the layers of the astronaut suit. They have 24 or 25 layers in their suits. To me that defies imagination. We're used to thinking of a single layer duofold, two-ply wool and cotton. But no, they have 18, 20 layers, each one doing something very specific. The people that made those suits knew what they were doing, what they are talking about. We have to assume that they do because we don't have that direct knowledge.

Everyone working together with the tremendous concentration, years and years of training, have been able to make this feat reasonable, valid experience that there were men on the moon that now no one questions. But sorcery also takes years and years of training. You can't just say, lie down and all of a sudden you're a crow or something like that. Of course, that sounds absurd, and it is absurd. From the point of view of our everyday lives, from the reality of our being-in-the-world, the feats of sorcery are tales of energy, tales of power. They are only tales and therein arises the question of doubt and stories that people say that Carlos Castaneda's work, our work, is really basically fiction, they're tales. Well, from the point of view of everyday life, yes, because there's no way the average person has validated these things unless he gains membership.

But we can't go walking on the moon. That's not open to us. But to be a sorcerer or sorceress, yes, it's open to us. Anyone can validate for himself or herself what Carlos Castaneda or I am writing about in our books, because we don't just describe these other realities and say, oh, yes, they are out there and take it on faith. No, by describing them we're really being phenomenologists. We're describing what happened to us physically from the point of view of our physicality, our energetic body. We experienced those.

For us they're not tales of power, tales of energy, they're actually descriptions to the best of our ability. Depending on how much energy we have, we're able to describe these other positions of the assemblage point that we have moved to. And later on I want to be sure to talk about exactly how you can move your assemblage point.

The things that are in the book, the work, are guidelines. They tell everyone that if you do these things, if you practice the recapitulation, if you practice not-doing, if you practice losing your personal history, if you practice gazing, your assemblage point will move and your body will know. You will know with your very being what it is that sorcerers are talking about.

The validity is there, there for anyone to discover, but it's a process of creation just as putting a man on the moon is really a process of creation. It just doesn't happen at a snap of a finger. It takes tremendous energy, conceptual, mental power, mathematics, physics, astrophysics, physical training of astronauts. All of that gets put together to perform one single feat.

The same thing with sorcery. It takes years, our lives. I was in my early 20s when I came into Don Juan's world. From that moment on every single thing that I have done has been a training, sorcery training, and that includes going to the university. That was a mandate that they gave me. They said, "you have to cultivate a romance with knowledge". And I had to do the university training, receive a Ph.D., not from the point of view of the everyday person in the world the way people usually just go to school.

No, it was an exercise in stalking. I had to use petty tyrants that came around, professors. I had to curtail expectations that I grew up with through recapitulating. Recapitulating really enables you to see what your patterns are, your patterns of behavior and what your expectations are. So you apply what you learned through recapitulating. You apply it to your everyday life, your being in the world. And as you apply it, you're validating the sorcerer's position, rather than validating the position of everyday life, the position of your parents, the position of your peers, of what society tells you.

We're always validating that through our behavior and our thoughts and our language, our internal dialog. We keep repeating over and over the things that we should be repeating -- it's like a little circle -- to make sure that nothing else comes in. We're already loaded to maximum capacity in terms of our perception. It's a bubble. It's sealed so there is no escape. An opening has to come from outside, from another position of the assemblage point.

Don Juan gave us the entrance, the opening. He calls it the cubic centimeter of chance that pops up. And you either -- well, either you're so enthralled with yourself that you don't even see it, or you don't grasp it because of reasons of your own: You're too rational or too knowledgeable in the sense that you already know everything and you're closed minded, let's say. Or you do grasp it. And the people associated with us, Don Juan, we did grasp that quarter centimeter of chance. And we are continuing to validate everything that he had said sorcery is and the potentiality of being more than what was allotted in terms of being born into the world, into a certain position.

John:   If you would, just to finalize this point, there are critics in society that criticize Castaneda for his work and simplify it and say that it promotes drug use and abuse. Are they simply just showing their ignorance in terms of the context of Castaneda's path to knowledge?

Taisha:   What they're doing is looking at reading the books or looking at maybe they haven't even read some of the books -- maybe they haven't even read the books, maybe just the first two books and stopped there, because the first two books, as I said, deal just with the tradition of the psychotropic plants. But before they say anything, absolutely they should read all the books to see what the context is.

They're also speaking in terms from the point of view of everyday life, from the position that yes, drugs are bad. I don't think there is really a disagreement here in terms of drug use.

By we, I mean Carlos Castaneda and anyone practicing sorcery, we lead absolutely pure lives. And we're very careful of what we eat because anything that affects the energy body curtails the chances of sobriety, of control. If it affects the energetic body deleteriously, then you lack the control of what sorcerers call stalking, the stalker's ability.

And stalking is really the ability to take a new position of the assemblage point -- or it doesn't have to be a different one, it can be the one where we are -- and look at its ramifications, but for that you need energy. You need energy to observe what is reality, to rather than blindly going in and letting things happen to you, being at the mercy of the modality of the day, which is what Don Juan calls this particular point of where our assemblage point is.

We were born into that as characterized by the modality of our time. We are at the mercy of that whatever tumbles down on us, whatever our parents or peers, education system, whatever we hear and read in books and radios, newspapers. It all tells us certain things of what we can do and what we can be. So we are absolutely affected by that.

But to look at it, you have to have energy rather than be at the mercy of it. So let's say people who grew up, or the peers say yes, use marijuana, do this, do that. They don't have the energy to resist to -- I don't mean resist, but to question. They're sucked in by whatever their environment says and does. And they go with it no matter if it's suicidal or what.

Sorcery says the exact opposite. It says no, you question. You don't accept anything. You don't accept religious dogma; you don't accept what your friends say when they slip you a little packet of cocaine or whatever. But who can actually question these things? Only someone who has a strength that comes from elsewhere. And where is this elsewhere? Sorcerers say it's the energy body.

Every one of us has really two positions of the assemblage point: One, the one that is given to us, the one by our parents, the one we are born into, the one that makes this particular reality manifest itself and keep on going and be the force that makes us accept it as the one and only reality.

But we all have an energetic body in like a phantom position -- sorcerers call it the double -- another position we sort of activate in dreams, with intuition. We all have the feeling there is something else there but we don't have the energy to grasp it. Or we feel we might want to be different or more coherent, more clear, more alive. But we don't. We can't because of the burden of society, our work, the concerns of everyday life, our worries about ourselves, what is going to happen to me, me, myself, and I, are of primary concern. We don't have energy for anything else.

But Don Juan says yes -- or sorcerers, not just Don Juan. There is another position that we can all have and we should activate it. We should use that as a balance and that’s what's going to give us the energy to not be swayed by everyday life. It's going to give us -- it enables us to have a little perch, a little platform outside of the quagmire, let's say, where we are and enables us to see from a different perspective.

Where is this other perspective? It's another position of the assemblage point outside. And how do you get to it? How do you reinforce it? Because this is what sorcerers want to do. They want to be able to perceive more. It's a question of perceiving. They want to perceive more than is permissible or allowable from the point of view of our everyday reality.

Our reality says no, trees are trees, the house is there, you know there is an ocean. We have a system of glosses set up and those are like rigid. They're not flexible. Sorcery training enables the mind, the body, to acquire a flexibility of -- drugs or psychotropic plants move the assemblage point. Then it moves right back and you're again stuck worse off than before because you're energetically depleted; you have harmed your body; you've lost a sense of control, command. And you keep reinforcing that and you're not really going to be able to activate this energetic body. You're destroying it, in fact.

So the other methods of training, the recapitulation, is one of the key methods. And we all do it, all of us that train in sorcery. We practice; we do the recapitulation. Carlos Castaneda recapitulates constantly, constantly. All of us do.

What it is, is you're -- pragmatically it has two layers. By pragmatically, what it is, is you make a list of everyone you've ever known in your life, and you sit and you visualize from today, moving backwards, all the experiences that constitute your life, the memory of what you are, what makes up your persona, what you are.

And that, of course, includes your interaction with your family, your friends. All of that is intrinsically related to what makes you you because you have that intersubjectivity. You don't live in a vacuum and neither do sorcerers. But your assemblage point and your energy is constantly being bombarded by what others tell you and you respond, so there is this interaction.

What the recapitulation does is it allows you to look at that and to extricate your energy from your remembered self, from your past actions. So you close your eyes and you visualize your activities, very systematically. You have your list and you work backwards and you use the breathing, because breathing is a very subtle method of inhaling. You bring back the energy; you visualize; you begin on your --

Very specifically here I'm going to describe it, although it is described in The Sorcerers' Crossing. Begin on your right shoulder. You have your visualized scene and you inhale, moving your head to your left shoulder. And then you exhale everything that is extraneous to you, everything that they have poured on you verbally, physically, that you no longer want, because this is all in the past anyway. You push it; you exhale it. You give it back as you're moving your head back to your right shoulder and then you bring your head to the center. And you just continue sweeping the scenes in your memory and you're cleansing.

What you're doing is bringing back the energy that is trapped there so you can use it in the present. And where does it go? Of course you have to be very careful that you don't put it back into, like again reinforcing the self, but use it to build up your energetic body, to be able to have that extra energy so you can see what life is, what it is that you're doing. You have some control over your existence.

The recapitulation in an abstract sense, because sorcerers are very abstract, in fact, is so abstract that at this point, our bodies are really an idea. We're no longer at the position of the assemblage point of the facticity of the world that we have our physical body. The bench is here; the tree is there, no. We've questioned all that and we've seen that through the recapitulation, these things are only a matter of agreement. We were told this and our bodies themselves have responded to the agreement that we had no choice in because we were born into it.

So on an abstract level, what the recapitulation does is it builds another, a little platform for you to work off of, because while you're remembering the past, your energetic past, and you're working back, you are also working at two places at the same time. You're moving from here, from your energetic body, to these, the memories of the facticity of yourself, of what constituted your world. And you can see your patterns repeating themselves. You can hear what your parents told you and you see.

All of a sudden you see, but what is it that sees? Not you in the world, but this other being, the seer. Don Juan calls it the seer in you that's waking up. You're activating this phantom position of the assemblage point that we all have, but you're making it stronger. You're using it for once. Within your culture we're not allowed to use it. We don't even acknowledge that it's there.

Everything has all our concern, because of the modality of our day, really has gone into our immediate needs and wants and we don't even have a choice in the matter. This other position gets activated, becomes stronger, and then we're able to actually question and break through the barriers of perception that have been set up through the concerns of our everyday life.

John:   Taisha, you've talked now about terms and concepts within your book. Could you give us a general overview of your book in terms of the themes in your book, the issues raised, concepts. We can start like that.

Taisha:   Basically the first half of it deals with the recapitulation and it tells, explains in detail, how it's done and my own experiences with it and the difficulties in doing it and the procedures. And so that in itself gives the reader an opportunity to try it themselves. It's an invitation, really, for anyone, because sorcerers are not an elite group -- that you have to be selected or run into Don Juan or have a sorcerer as a leader.

No, anyone can pick up these books and do the things, the practices that are described in them. And that again is a means of validating what it is that we're talking about through your own experiences.

So the first part of the book is dealing with the recapitulation. And I was also, as I said, when I had enough energy, I was introduced to Don Juan and some of the other members of his group. And that's also described in the book, my encounters with them and the things that they taught me.

I was given certain practices that included gazing techniques, not-doing techniques. There are sorcery passes which work directly on the energy body, certain movements and breathing that activate again or cleanse the energy body and activate certain energy centers so that the assemblage point can move with fluidity.

And then the second part of the book, I suppose sort of near the middle, was because they though I was ready to make what they call the sorcerer's crossing, the great crossing, which all it is is a movement of the assemblage point, a displacement, because through the recapitulation it prepares you for that.

I was living or staying in this house and there was a left portion of the house that was always alluded to but I was never allowed to enter. And so at one point they decided yes, I'm ready to meet the other members of the party who were waiting for me on the left side of the house, which is really a movement of the assemblage point into a different reality because the left side of the house didn't exist in this realm as we know it.

And so I went through a series of techniques and energetic movements invoking intent. My energy body was able to activate itself, of course, also with the help of Nelida, who was there beside me. I activated my energy body, meaning I shifted my assemblage point. But rather than moving it harmoniously to a certain position they had expected me to, where they were waiting for me, I sort of shot out and had no recollection of where actually my assemblage point ended up. And I could not remember the details of my perceptual realm. That's the drawback. That happens also under some cases where there's no control. It's an erratic shift. In order words, my assemblage point shifted too erratically.

And so the second part of the book deals with different type of training. I found myself in a grove of trees in a tree house in the front part of the house. At that point I didn't know how I had gotten there. I just assumed that somebody had hoisted me up in a harness and I was up in a tree house. But what I didn't know then was that I did not wake up. My assemblage point didn't move back to it's normal position. It was a position where -- in another reality but not very far removed. I had come back from my wanderings and in that position -- so the second part of the training really dealt with stalking, which was to stabilize the position of the assemblage point wherever it is.

In my case this was in this grove of trees in the tree house in the front part of the house. But the training itself -- and it was conducted under the guidance of Emilito who also didn't exist in the reality of everyday life. He was in a position of the assemblage point, a dream position. So I had woken up in a dream position in a different place, but I had to cultivate stalkers technique in order to maintain that position and achieve a certain control over my energetic body.

And that training was very, very important for subsequent things that would be happening, because again, it doesn't make any difference at all if you move your assemblage point. Unless you can stabilize it at another position and stalk that reality, you have again, random glimpses, like what happens under, I suppose, under the influence of drugs. You have glimpses of random occurrences of monsters appearing or your assemblage point hops around and that's what's deleterious to the energetic body.

So you have to be able to stabilize it at another position. So the stalkers training - which was very, very important in my case because my assemblage point was erratic - was to explore the ramifications of a different reality. And in my case it was the realm of the trees in the tree house. But that tree house existed because other members of the sorcery group also -- whoever had that same problem, namely Zuleica, one of Don Juan's cohorts who was really Emilito, because Emilito was Zuleica's dream body in this other position. So whoever had the problem of erratic assemblage point movements was hoisted up in the harness, put in a tree house to learn to stabilize.

And why did they put them in trees? Because being surrounded by trees, being elevated from the ground, forces the body to develop a new relationship between what really was our energy body, but it really was as real and solid as our physical body and the ground and gravity. So by being in the trees, by climbing branches, by again recapitulating in the trees, by gazing in trees and all the other activities that you practiced in the trees off the ground, enabled me to explore a new position of the assemblage point, and was very limited because I never left the trees, the tree house. I stayed -- well, I would come down and enter the main house, you know, if I had to go to the restroom, the bathroom, but I would go right back up and my food would be hoisted up. Emilito would hoist up my food.

So well, all of my time was spent off the ground. I would sleep in the trees. And the concentration and sobriety it takes to climb trees is so intense, because any wrong movement you would fall, forced me keep all my attention focused on my immediate activity rather than letting my brain shift around in terms of past, present and future the way we do now at this position of the assemblage point.

We're hardly ever focus on the here and now where half of us is -- half of our energy is locked up in the past, past actions. The other is sort of projecting into some unknown future and not much of us is really engaged in whatever we're doing at this moment. But my being in the trees, everything, was -- and, of course, also having recapitulated already, there was no past, there was no temporal horizon.

So the sorcerers were really disrupting the spatial and temporal agreement that we have learned in our bodies by being in an enclosed space surrounded by something where you couldn't see the horizon. There was no spatial distance. You couldn't see very far, the trees were so dense. So there was no space in terms of distance and also there -- I could not assume the way we assume from this position of the assemblage point that yes, there's houses outside; there's streets; there's the ocean. I had no idea what was beyond the grove of trees. In fact, it was like a void.

All I had, my entire, quote, universe at that point were the trees. So the sorcery training had effectively disrupted the spatial and temporal continuity. There was not this here and there perspective that we have in our daily lives because we're -- like when we're sitting here from the point of view of everyday life there is always a there because we're here obviously. And we can get up and walk over there or we can imagine the there even if we can't get to it.

We can get to it by plane or train. I mean there is not -- I can't see it, but intentionality from the point of view of phenomenology makes us fill in the gaps, fill in the spatial blocks or deficiencies, but not in the sorcerers world. In the sorcerers world in the trees, whatever was in front of me was all there was to the world at that particular point. And that was a way of training to focus on what it is that you're doing.

Later, I used that stupendous training in my academic work to concentrate on what it is that I'm doing, not to assume that there's a university there somewhere. No, from the point of view of the trees and the tree house, the world of everyday life no longer existed. It was completely demolished or disappeared because there was no guarantee that I would ever come back either.

So the instructions, the things that I had to do, the recapitulation from the tree house was again a different layer of getting back anything that was left dangling in the past or other spaces, other areas, to bring everything in, to consolidate the energy body. And only by consolidating the energy body can you lean on it and use it. And so that was really the second part of my training.

I was given, also, dreaming tasks that I did from the tree house because after a while the immediacy of everything makes you want to expand. It's all right to be totally immediate but you also can from that position move the assemblage point elsewhere. So the second stage was to dream from the tree house which was already a dreaming position. So you use dream positions, use your energy body, to move.

The training of stalkers is to be absolutely fluid, to maintain a position of the assemblage point, but then also be able to move from that. But then wherever you are moving to, you move with sobriety and control and the same amount of discipline, and you explore your new reality in order to make that real. We create our reality as we move. As the assemblage point gets displaced, new realities get created in front of our eyes.

But we have to interact with them. So reality -- let's go back to our, to the reality of everyday life. It is not just there. It's there because we're interacting with it. We know that there is a here and there because we're moving through the room bypassing the furniture to get someplace. We're in it. We're creating this reality as we do things, as we think, as we're -- but we're creating it within the limits set up with our linear mind and our rational predilection.

This assemblage point limits to a great extent what it is that we can do from this point. We can't go through the wall, in other words, because it's solid. We know that it's there. But through gazing, which I did in the trees -- let's say, part of the training is gazing techniques because gazing is a very easy way -- basically anyone can do this -- a very fundamental way of realizing the validity of what I'm talking about.

See, all you do is look at a tree, a little plant. You start gazing at the leaves and pretty soon it becomes two dimensional. We're fleshing out the back of it. We don't see it. Intentionality says that a leaf has a front side and a back to it and has little veins through it. Botanists have many, many layers of intricate knowledge about trees and plants that we may not have, but there is definite layers of knowledge of something that we can agree upon. But when you start gazing at trees or leaves or gravel or whatever, you see just what is given to your energetic body, the immediacy. You really see; that's what you see. That is why sorcerers call it seeing, because that is when you're really seeing. You're placing your energy body at the disposition of the energy that emanates from what is out there and you're matching in a different way so that you're seeing energy. So you're looking at a tree or gazing at it and all of a sudden you realize no, it's not a fact; it's not solid; it's moving. It doesn't have a back to it the way we think or roots. We don't see that; we see swirls of light.

All of a sudden these leaves start to glow and you're seeing swirls of energy and you're saying oh, that is what a tree is. I had no idea until I started experimenting, playing around with this, some of these things. And if you try it you will also say oh, there is more to a tree than the gloss, tree. Really a tree is energetically alive just as the human body, just as we are energetically alive. And we can do infinitely more things than we were taught or we learned we're capable of doing with our physical bodies.

Gazing enables us to engage our energetic selves, a different position of the assemblage point, and that phantom position gets stronger and stronger. And then we see trees moving. All of a sudden we can shift them by focusing our energy on them and they're not rooted in one spot. Sorcerers say that entire groves of trees can all of a sudden be elsewhere.

Now, it's a tale of energy again, but they've actually seen, because when the world is fluid, nothing is rooted, is given, is a fact. It's in constant motion and that's the way the world is. That's the way reality is. It's we who make it limited, solid, factual. We impose on it its' limitations. But there's no reason -- to expand your capabilities as sentient beings and use other aspects that we haven't even conceived of, that it's possible to use or to see the world in different terms.

John:   Taisha, you're touching on these terms and concepts in your book, dreaming, stalking, assemblage point, recapitulating. Are there - or would it be too limited to try to attempt to do this? Are there any correlations in terms of analystic terms and concepts in science that are similar to these terms and concepts in your book?

Taisha:   Yes, there are correlates, and I talked extensively about one coming from philosophy, namely phenomenology. I don't need to go back into that, but phenomenologists, they know theoretically or they intuit that this is the way perception is, this is the way we ought to approach when we talk about reality and perception -- we should suspend judgment meaning not impose the facticity of our world onto what we are talking about. But when it's applied and in even phenomenology many, many people are familiar with that.

In fact, anthropologists, sociologists are very familiar with those concepts. But when they, let's say, go out and do field work or even live their daily lives, they never venture beyond the theoretical stage of using these things. They're scary because what sorcery does, for example, it disrupts the comforts or the certainty of everyday life that the world is such and such. It disrupts it and some of us don't want that disruption.

It creates great dissonance and very unsettling and it has to be done systematically. Otherwise can you absolutely freak out if all of a sudden just, you know, the wall disappears and you find yourself elsewhere without having actually walked over there. You wake up, you know, down the block, and say where am I. I mean it's very disrupting.

So the concepts are there. Phenomenology, anthropology use some of it in terms of actually going into other cultures, studying other realities. But they study it. The word study for them takes on sort of an academic sense of armchair theorizing. Although I'm sure anthropologists don't want to consider themselves armchair theorists anymore. That was in the 19th century. But in a way they're still doing it from hotel rooms or if they go into the field they may -- they still have a preset theory that they want to explore. They're not going in having suspended judgment as phenomenologists recommend one should do. And definitely they don't want to apply it to their daily lives and actually become something else, something other than they are.

And you can't study sorcery or understand what sorcerers do without giving up some of your holdings in the everyday world, without actually altering your ideas on the nature of what it is that you are, what it is that you do in your everyday life. If you're always using those assumptions to interpret what -- let's say Don Juan does -- and this is what happened with Carlos Castaneda's books, those assumptions were used to say oh, he is doing this and like he is doing, because whoever is saying these things hasn't validated for themselves what this other realm takes. But there is other areas of -- like eastern philosophy, they have some of the same concepts again of altering other realities, of being aware of the here and now. They have the term "the great crossing."

In fact, I was going to call my book "the great crossing" but that term is a very specific term used in Buddhist philosophy which is not what sorcery is. Although getting back to your question, on a theoretical level, it may appear the same. They're interested in exploring perception, expanding perception, of awakening the energetic body. Some of the techniques are very similar, quieting the internal dialog, using meditation. But the difference is that -- what a practitioner has to do is relinquish his mode of linear thinking and unless that is done and relinquished, the attachment to the self stays the fundamental obstacle -- and the eastern disciplines talk about that too. But all I can say is that we actually do that.

We spend a lifetime with it and we are still engaged in this procedure of actually doing that very thing, relinquishing the attachment to the world of everyday life, our humanness, that assemblage point into which we were born, and moving away and exploring these other dimensions. So we're doing -- so the difference then, I think that the concepts, yes, that they're there. They're not unique in that sense, but the practices -- you can't just have a concept without actually engaging in doing, because a concept by itself doesn't mean anything. It has to be a bodily experience.

And sorcery is really designed that you do these practices, you get the bodily experience, rather than just talking philosophically about something the way philosophers do or sometimes Oriental philosophers or even the physicists, the new age physics. I don't want to talk about it because I'm not really familiar with physics. I'm not a physicist. But they touch upon certain areas of indeterminacy, of limits of perception, of light, of what it means to see things. For example, an object to a physicist from their studies and experiments realizes it is not solid at all. That has to do with your perspective and size.

So solidity of something is only because we are human beings and we can see something. A bee or a bat would have a totally different perspective of, let's say, a tree or a log or a piece of wood. He would see it totally different. So physicists explore the limits of reality, of what constitutes it. And there's books that combine eastern wisdom with physics. And so there is that connection.

But I don't know of any physicists who actually would practice all the things that he knows intellectually in his daily life. When he comes home he still sits down on that old chair and he has his wife there and he has his same behaviors, sociologists, too. They understand certain concepts that are similar to sorcery but sorcery is not just a concept.

Sorcery is an abstract way of life so that the totality of your being becomes as abstract as those concepts. So when we say that the energetic body is luminous, is composed of fluid filaments, that is what a sorcerer is. He's not just saying it. He is it because he uses it and his reality is based on that, the utilization of those filaments of light.

For example, a good example is from one of the books of Carlos Castaneda, when Don Genaro jumped over the waterfall. From the point of view of somebody just watching, in this case Carlos Castaneda in his early days, he just saw -- well, he saw half and half, just he saw somebody sort of jumping, very agile, doing weird things, antics, gyrations, acrobatics. Now, of course, if he would see the same thing he would know exactly what's taking place because he himself could do it. His body can understand because he can cast out his lines, fibers of light, and tie them to places. The recapitulation enables you to do that, too, to cast your fibers, energetic beams, back into the past and tie them on things or untie them. Basically you would dislodge the energy that's tied there. So yes, there's parallels but not really from the point of view of actual practice.

John:   Going now to your book again, you've mentioned what sorcery is briefly and what sorcerers do. Could you give a perspective -- this depends again on the milieu of the actual sorcerers themselves. Is there a sexual dichotomy between the male and female sorcerers? Is there anything in terms of the feminist concept? Could you give an explanation, a description of what a sorcerer's -- their role is. Are they still part of a social cultural milieu? Is there sort of an ethos, a world view that sorcerers hold in terms of how they see reality? Can you give more in terms of an in-depth description of sorcery and sorcerers?

Taisha:   Uh-huh, yes. There's several questions there. Let's just start with a definition of sorcery because that's very basic. Sorcery, basically, is the ability to perceive more than is allotted from the world into which we were born. They try to expand perception and they do it in -- they have certain techniques, dreaming, stalking, gazing techniques. Many of these, in fact, all of them are described in the books, the techniques.

But they all lead to displacements of the assemblage point and giving up your holding on the world of everyday life so that you are able to perceive more. How can you perceive another reality if you are only given to perceiving this one. I mean it's a contradiction. It can't be done. You have to let go.

It's like the monkey who is putting his fist in a bottle and he's grabbing a fist full of nuts. He can't pull his hand out to go elsewhere. He is stuck there, but if he lets go of what he is grasping he can slip his hand out and be free. So sorcerers, all they're doing is they're letting go of their holdings, the handful of nuts that we all grasp on and which consists of the expectations we have of ourselves and what we were taught that the world is like. So you let go of that and by the very fact that you are letting go, something else comes in; something else slips in. And that's what sorcerers do.

Now the training is basically the same for everyone, except I did mention that Carlos Castaneda, being the nagual, was trained in the uses of the psychotropic plants at the very initial stages. After that he was also trained -- did many recapitulations as we all do. That's fundamental.

The first thing that anyone does -- forget the marijuana, forget taking anything. You sit down and do a thorough recapitulation. That in itself will set you up and give you the possibility of moving elsewhere. Recapitulating your life is letting go of that handful of nuts that you're grasping on or whatever. As you let it go it's very painful because all our lives we're taught to hold on. The stronger your hold, the better person you are, the more ego strength you have.

So sorcerers teach the opposite. That's why we call sorcery training not-doing, because they don't really do anything in particular. They just not-do the things that we were trained to do. So it's very simple, but in its simplicity it becomes almost impossible and there's very few takers, of course.

People think that everyone wants to join Carlos Castaneda and his, quote, group. And the few people whose -- let's say their paths cross and somehow -- not that they're invited to be a member of any group but some of this -- maybe they're told to recapitulate or something.

Do they do it? No, because to recapitulate you have to take energy away from your daily life. And what, you have to take it away from the nights our on dates or whatever, going to the disco or watching TV or worrying about work or someplace or worrying about yourself. The energy to recapitulate has to come from somewhere because you have to first of all just make time. Physically you have to have time to do it.

So the opportunity is there really for anyone but the willingness has to be also balanced, has to come with the opportunity to actually do it. So otherwise it becomes only a tale of energy that you think about.

And we all have this idea that oh, I wish I would be different; I wish I could do this, but you don't have the energy. With the recapitulation as a method of training you get the energy; you make the energy; you no longer are wishing, you're intending. But intent is very different from wishing.

Intent is hooking up your energy, your purpose, to something that's already set up by the sorcerers. And if you hook to that, via, let's say the recapitulation, it pulls you. But you do have to do it.

This thing about another technique is gazing. I used to watch television a great deal when I first entered Don Juan's realm. And they told me well, okay, you spend what -- and this is true for anyone. We spend maybe what, two hours. They have done studies -- maybe two hours a day watching television. He said okay, watch television, but don't turn it on.

So there I was sitting in front of the television set gazing at the television. So that's an act of not-doing. That's an example of not-doing. And you do your own not-doings, make up your not-doings, whether it's looking at a little match and inhaling the light -- that's a not-doing -- or gazing at something.

So I found that when I was gazing at the television set -- of course, in private, you don't right there. If you start doing this in public and with someone around, they will start wondering what is the matter with you. So you do these things but you don't spread them around because everyone is going to judge you from the point of view of their perspective.

And the reality of everyday life is like Alcatraz. I mean there is no escaping. There is wardens and guards making sure that you don't get off that rock. So anybody who wants to venture into that shark-infested-waters -- and there is no guarantees that you will ever make it anywhere.

You do have to practice stalking and be very unobtrusive. A stalker, to give a definition of a stalker, is someone -- well, one of the definitions is someone who really makes it an art of being invisible. So you can get off the rock as long as nobody sees you. It's as simple as that. Nothing's holding you there really. You just let go of that handful of nuts. But make sure nobody sees you. You do it gradually. Otherwise they're going to make sure -- they're going to put impediments in your path, guaranteed.

So as I was gazing at the television and there right there you see that the facticity of what a TV set is is taken for granted because the thing starts dissolving, starts becoming two dimensional. The idea of three dimensional space is an assumption, is something that we learn as children, as infants, really to see three dimensionality. So that children when they cross the street or speak is something that children learn. They know that those cars are moving fast.

For a little infants or toddlers they don't know that. That's why the mother always has to say don't cross the street, cars are coming. They don't know what a car is capable of doing because they don't have the gloss, car, yet. They'll get it soon, hopefully not the hard way. But if they burn their finger on a flame, they'll realize what is heat and what the properties of fire is.

Even that is not a given fact because there's people that can walk on coals and not get burned. We learn the parameters of our reality. So gazing disrupts the facticity of our reality of everyday life.

Let me talk a little bit about women. I was trained by yes, basically the female members of Don Juan's group. Emilito, who to me, I mean he was absolutely male but he was Zuleica's dream body. Your dreaming would be anything male, female and of course, I was also trained by Don Juan himself because there were certain things that we needed to know and be able to understand because our -- Florinda Donner, Carlos Castaneda, Carol Tiggs -- our situation was not the same as his situation where he had the four dreamers, the four stalkers, and really the rule kind of governed how they would proceed.

Our training didn't follow the rule except in a very minimal sense. Whenever he trained Carlos Castaneda, he would ask the omens and that's pointed out in the books. He would look at the omens to see well, should we proceed like this or this. And the omens would say no, don't follow the rule, just let the thing happen and the same way with us.

We were trained in specific things but never by any rule. I mean I don't -- we all had to recapitulate but we could do it any way that suited us. I happen to -- I like being in enclosed spaces. I did it in a cave but Florinda Donner, you couldn't put her in a cave. She recapitulated walking down the street or just when something triggers something, maybe a memory of the past, and we still have a little agitation of some sort, we recapitulate it. We're on the spot wherever we are.

Or the sorcery passes. They're techniques, bodily movements to activate the energy body. But there's hundreds of them. So you do the ones that suit you. There's really no rigid rule of training. And the reason being is because in order to move the assemblage point you have to be fluid. I personally was given very heavy training in stalkers' techniques and stalking because my assemblage point was very erratic and so I needed that training.

Other people don't need the training. They have a natural bent for something, Florinda Donner for her dreaming and she discusses her training in Being-in-Dreaming. She has a very natural bend. Her assemblage point moves when she is sitting in front of me. All of a sudden her assemblage point is moving and she is amalgamating other bits of reality that come in very, very easily.

Women get to the -- females have a very natural facility for moving the assemblage point by two things, one biologically. They do have the cycles; they menstruate. Chemically things in their bodies change so that it gives them a chance to let other stimuli in. It just trickles in. They have wombs and there is something about the womb that as an organ is able to -- it has like a secondary function. It can sense and understand directly.

And we all say, well, women are more intuitive than men. We have that coming into our daily jargon and we have slogans: Women are more intuitive, they are so sensitive when they menstruate, and this and that. It's true but women can use it instead of being put down or it's a negative thing. They can use it to do sorcery, to recapitulate, to heighten their concentration when they're recapitulating. They will have a hard time reading phenomenology when they menstruate, but they will have an easy time doing dreaming. So they can do their dreaming during that time of the month.

The second reason it's easier for women is because our society doesn't make that may demands on them as it does on men. Men, boys, you know, mothers raise their children to educate them. They pour a great deal of attention on them, the males, because they're the ones that have to perpetuate the social order. They are the ones that get the education so they can teach and perpetuate whatever aspect that they're trained in, whether it's science or medicine, law.

Although now that's changing, of course. Women also are anything into those fields but basically for the wrong reasons. Women are going into these fields so they can be like men, equal with men. It's functional from the point of view of the social order. They're stabilizing their position because now they're lawyers and doctors. But it's not functional from the point of true sorcery because now they're making new ties, stronger links to the social order. So it has, of course, advantages and disadvantages.

Not to say that a sorcerer or somebody training in sorcery can't become a lawyer or a doctor. Every one of us, Florinda Donner, Carol Tiggs, we received a university education in order to be able to think abstractly and communicate, but not to be the bastions of the social order, you know, anthropology professors, lawyers or doctors.

Carol Tiggs has a tremendous knowledge in acupuncture, medicine of the body, the physical body and the energetic body, comparable to any doctor. She got that from the point of view of her sorcery training, so she can use that to move away. So women have a better, really, a better chance of moving out of the social order, off that Alcatraz rock because nobody is going to miss them that much.

Their function really is to perpetuate the family, not the social order. They have to "stand by" their man as the song goes, to uphold him under all circumstances. We're trained really to teach our children to be upstanding citizens and this and that, or to mourn them if they go astray, but they would only go astray within the structure. There is room for deviance, of course.

So the position of women in the everyday life, the world of everyday life, is a two-sided position. One, you can look at it in a negative way because women are, as I said, are there to really support the men. Behind every great man, we say, there is a woman. A woman should stay in the house and raise the family. So there's limits imposed on her in terms of education. She has less opportunities than men do. The demands or expectations of her reality gravitate around home.

But as I said, now it is changing, that women are going into work and academic areas. But they go in there with a double burden that now they have the home and they have the academic and their careers. So there is even less of a chance for them to have any extra energy to practice sorcery techniques. But on the other hand, women have a natural facility to expand perception, to move into other realities.

And Don Juan and the female members under which I was trained, they played on this natural facility. So we did the recapitulation; we did gazing techniques and especially dreaming techniques; and we utilized the times of our monthly cycle. We used that instead of just feeling bad and staying in bed a day or having cramps or premenstrual blues that are things that women have learned that they ought to have -- no, we used the changes, the natural changes that take place in order to displace the assemblage point and to do dreaming and stalking.

So there's really not -- I can't say there is a real difference in training between men and women, but each person in Don Juan's world and the way they trained us, depends on our predilection, on our natural capabilities. Like some women are fantastic dreamers as I said. The men, the males would go out more -- they were botanists for example, like Don Vicente. They would interact more within the world as stalkers.

But that doesn't mean that women weren't trained as stalkers. Since we had to come back and be in the world of everyday life -- we couldn't just stay in a cave dreaming -- we had to perfect our stalking techniques, being with people, using people as petty tyrants or seeing the world as controlled folly through gazing. Gazing is what enables one to really see that the world is not facts but energy. And gazing combined with the recapitulation -- really it's like it pulls the rug out from reality itself.

As I said, work or go to the university, but we always did it from the standpoint of this other platform that we had constructed, that we could lean on, which was our energetic body. We acted in the world as controlled folly. Women have a really easy way of entering that, a natural way, because they don't have that real strong affiliation to abstraction, ideas. They are very pragmatic.

And if somebody says -- well, this is too absurd, this example. But what if the earthquake in Florida or something -- they would say well, at least it's not here and if it's not here, that's okay. They wouldn't say it but they're more immediate. In order to be concerned for humanity as an abstraction, it's mostly males. Males are the priests; males are the politicians; males are in the army dealing with global scales. Males are the astronauts and in physics and aerodynamics.

So women, the way -- what we have learned from the position of this assemblage point into which we are born is that women are pragmatic and deal with immediate situations that have to do with the family, children, education, concerns of the husband, this type of thing. So that's easy to relinquish, just -- I'm not saying leave your husband, but, if you're not married, don't get a husband. Then you don't have to worry about children, family.

Then you have all your energy left to do sorcery because nobody's going to care that much if you don't become an astrophysicist, or at least your mother isn't. But if your son doesn't become a doctor or something good, she is going to worry. So you have more freedom. Females have more freedom.

But the training is basically the same. But everyone as I said has their own predilection to what they emphasize, what they enter. But the point of all of training really is to disrupt the taken-for-granted continuity of everyday life so that you can move into a different reality.

And where is this other reality? There's a position of the assemblage point that is very close to that of everyday life, the twin position, and that amalgamates a twin reality, a different reality. And you enter it by energizing your double, the assemblage point that governs the energetic body.

And sorcerers maintain that the universe is really braids of perception. It's like a braid that folds in upon itself and each braid is complete; it's a bubble; it's a reality in itself.

We were born into one of those bubbles, but that braid continues and there's a certain area where it overlaps with another reality. Or at least if you break through that barrier, the wall of fog that they talk about, it overlaps and that can slip out. So that's the first place that sorcerers, dreamers enter. And there you find yourself very naturally, very harmoniously, in a separate reality, a different reality.

Women can enter that very easily. They have no problem at all. So there is the advantage of really being female. And Don Juan and the sorcerers say that the universe, the whole universe, is female. The female energy, it can match other areas of the universe easier than a male energy that is rigid and incapable of relinquishing control -- but because men are thought to be in control and command of any situation. So it's very difficult for them to let go, to give up, to accept, to be taken into some of these other realms, whereas it's much easier for females to do this.

John:   Am I limiting the perspective of the sorcerers by asking these things in terms of phrasing the questions in a feminist perspective, Taisha, within the context of sorcery and being a woman, the benefits that you acquire from sorcery?

Taisha:   It's a valid question. Sometimes we're asked that and then we say, well, if you -- it's like being in a store, an expensive store, where the salesperson comes up, and you ask how much is this suit and he says well, if you have to ask how much, you can't afford it. So sometimes we think that, well, if you have to ask why even do this or get involved in it, then it's really not for you.

But it's a valid question because we, from our position of the assemblage point, we do ask, well, what's in it for me, why do it. We're grown up to have merchant mentalities, merchant minds to see the value of something. So in that respect there is an immediate value in sorcery and you would experience it by doing it.

And you can really approach this question two ways. One is by looking at do I want to stay at this particular position of the assemblage point into which I was born, into this reality. And most people would answer that there is something not quite right with it. The modality of our day is, according to the sorcerers, is really deteriorating. It's on a downhill course, heading for destruction.

Generally speaking, and also individually in terms of our own well-being. There's a list of hundreds of diseases that could attack us any moment and guaranteed one of them is going to get us in the end because we are all destined to die unless we practice sorcery. And sorcerers say that by moving the assemblage point, entering some of these other realities, your awareness remains intact and you escape this inevitable physical death that is really inevitable only from a position of the assemblage point.

And they can say that because the physical body is something that is closely tied or limited to our perception of reality. You change that perception of reality and by the same token you're changing the perception of your physical body and you're activating other aspects of your total potentiality. The physical body that's going to be ravaged by disease and death is only really a consequence of the position of the assemblage point.

So we have a feeling, every one of us has a feeling, that there is something more out there, that they wish they could do this. They wish they could be different. They wish they could have more energy but immediately what we do is we interpret that desire, that longing, that intuitive knowledge. We translate that into human terms, like I wish I could get a better job; I wish I could have a better relationship or more intense relationship; I wish things would be different at work or at home. We translate that discontent or whatever or energetic low into control, not really a control but it's a say in what our destiny is. And as I was coming here, I saw a billboard and it said -- I'm going to read it to you. It says, most people's plans for the future always fall a little bit short. And that was the billboard for a mortuary. And I said that's right; that's exactly it. I mean, our plans, they always fall short, not just a little bit, I mean way off the mark.

So sorcerers say no, don't be content with having your plans fall short and grumble and end up in the grave. Sorcerers think big. They think so big that they're abstractions. They make a leap into the infinite. They leap beyond reality that always makes our expectations fall short, makes us die disappointed, disgruntled or happy, but still dead. It doesn't matter if you die happy, rich, whatever, you still end up in the same place.

The fate of our parents is waiting for us. And we know that; we see it. We can see them get old, ill, lose the clarity, awareness. So sorcerers offer, through their training, an alternative in that they say no, think, grasp for everything that you can possibly be. Don't limit yourself to what you have learned and what your language, your linear mode of thinking says that's all you can be. Because our linear mode, it says it goes from birth and it ends up in death. That's a linear way of thinking, based on our culture. The modality of your day, which is the super-rational, linear and heading for destruction.

Sorcerers say, no, don't accept that. Question, question everything. Even question the facticity that that wall is there. Gaze at it and find out what is that wall. And then you see the energy that makes up the wall and that it's fluid, that you are fluid as sentient beings; reality is fluid.

I can definitely say that to have energy, to be energetically alive, to be able to utilize your energetic body, to have an alternative, to be clear, sober, is definitely better, superior than to be always in a state of lethargy, confusion, disappointment, or ecstatic highs and then deep lows, of the feeling of being trapped, that many people have by our jobs. They can only escape river rafting down the Colorado.

Sorcerers say no, don't limit yourself to that kind of escape or drugs or whatever, smoke, cigarettes or sex or whatever. Those are forms of escaping, in a way, the limits of our everyday lives. Sorcerers say no, don't settle for just crumbs. Take everything. They're as greedy as can be. They take -- they want to be alive with the totality of themselves. And everyone has this potential, the opportunity.

But let's say a sorcerer has the courage to not just wish but to actually put into practice through recapitulating ones life, through letting go of the handful of crumbs that we cling to, letting go so you can pull your hand out so you can see the vastness that is in front of us, to be able to perceive other things that were inconceivable from the point of view of everyday life, absolutely inconceivable, but perfectly valid and agreeable -- you can reach an agreement -- from the point of view of sorcerers.

So they journey into the vastness, into -- what they're really saying is they're displacing their assemblage point by storing energy. And all the techniques that are listed, that are described in the books, are really ways of storing energy, because unless you have the energy, you can't even -- I mean you can't even have a good day at work, let alone see your boss as a petty tyrant.

In order to do that you have to stand on a platform of the energetic self and laugh, be able to laugh at what you see around you and see it as controlled folly. Otherwise, you're forever condemned to see it, to take the world that was given to us as real. And sorcerers say no, it's not real. They say that there is this possibility and they turn the possibility into pragmatic action.

So they don't talk about it or theorize it like physicists, philosophers, eastern Oriental philosophers, but they turn it into pragmatic action. And so they say, the impetus they get, they take the techniques that are in the book. We offer them as an opening for anyone that wants to take them. And it's like we're casting a ladder and each one of those rungs are something, a technique of not-doing, as I said before, quieting the internal dialog or recapitulating.

And as you claim it -- anyone can do these things, and you don't have to worry about doing them correctly -- or I don't know if the breathing is exactly like this. This there is no rule. Look at the books; get what you can; and then trust that your energetic body will guide you, will tell you what to do, and do it.

Don't get discouraged but you just do it. And the more you do, the more you see the validity of what sorcery is and what we're talking about. You'll see it for yourself and you'll also, of course, see the utility because you're not going to feel those pangs of disappointment that ravage you whenever something goes wrong. All of a sudden you feel light like the burden has been lifted off your shoulders.

You'll see the advantage daily as you practice some of these techniques. The sorcerers have a saying. There is a song, a Mexican tune called "Valentina". And in it there is a line that says if you're going to die tomorrow, you may as well die today. And so that's what motivates sorcerers. They know we're going to die. I mean from the point of view of everyday life, that's all that awaits us. So you may as well take that leap and die now and then you'll find yourself in another realm and you'll see that alternatives are waiting for you, for your bewilderment and for your delight.

John:   Taisha, in terms of being in the Judeo-Christian context there is a myth how the world originated, how the universe and life originated and how it will end in terms of a son of God coming back and a new heaven. Is there any concern with the origins of life within sorcery, where life is going in terms of humanity? How would a sorcerer address that?

Taisha:   That's a very powerful question from the point of view of everyday life because, of course, we are concerned as to what our future will be. Every culture has its own myths as to how the world was created. And some cultures have like six, seven periods of destruction and the world was recreated and now we're in the fifth sun, different cycles. These are myths that are valid within each cultural framework to try to explain the course of humanity, where humanity is going.

But from the point of view of sorcerers, sorcery is really concerned with where the individual is going rather than the abstraction called culture or humanity, society, because as we all know, these things are made up of individual people and society isn't going to go anywhere that people aren't going to go. So sorcerers are concerned with the fate of individual beings, as people specifically.

And all these books were written, really, as a guideline so that any individual person who wishes to alter his fate, let's say, or have a chance to escape the natural course of evolution, whatever it may be. Sorcerers really don't speculate that much as to where it's going in the future. They don't spend their time prognosticating what the future will hold because they are concerned with activating their energy body so that they can maintain their awareness no matter where they find themselves.

Future, past, this linear way of thinking, doesn't really apply to the sorcerer's world. But you can think of it in the terms that wherever a sorcerer is, he is going to be there with the totality of himself, energetically intact, which means there's no concern as to what happened in some past because there is no past. He has recapitulated his life and he regrouped that energy to move in the immediate present.

And the ancient sorcerers used to have a different conception more in tune with the myths of different cultures, that there is a future time or a past time, a dreaming time. And we, our anthropologists at least, talk about a dreaming time. And they think of it as a maybe vague time in a chronological past prior to written documents. Or in China we have the yellow emperor and his mythical kingdom, or prior to him there were four mythical emperors and we think of it in terms of a linear progression or, I mean, a linear movement backwards to some unknown point. But that's again thinking in linear terms.

This is very easy to think that way and then, if you do, you come up with worries as to what will the future hold. But a sorcerer and everything I've said so far really, using the phenomenological perspective of expanding perception and of realizing that space and time are really a question of intentionality that we have encoded in our bodies so that we're incapable of perceiving just generally, but we have to perceive an object. And that object already has its future and its past by the mere fact that we're perceiving this reality.

Sorcerers, when they disrupt these taken-for-granted concepts, they also disrupt the idea that there is some future out there waiting for us. No, nothing is waiting. If there is anything waiting for us, it's that shark-infested water after we jump off Alcatraz. And what's in that water are, first of all, inorganic beings. There is other entities besides sentient human beings in the universe at large.

Dreamers go into realms or layers, not temporal or spatial layers, but just layers, energetic layers. The more energy you have, the more you move and transform yourself. But you're not moving in space and time the way the ancient sorcerers believed. They had an old different model of what takes place. They thought you were actually physically descending into the earth into different layers or you were ascending into seven layers in the sky. And this is also a model, sort of an eastern model of Buddhism where you have different layers of saints and holy personages, and then you come down to man and have the demons. Everything is layered. That is a linear model.

The ancient sorcerers used to think, yes, you descend into these other murky depths. But sorcerers have realized that this is not the way the reality is. It's a question of energy, energetically transforming whatever is in front of you. So you don't move at all. You just -- everything moves at the same time. So it's not you're here and something else is there. There's no here and there. They dissolved that right off. I learned to dissolve that in the trees.

We are always here now, in other words, but the here and the now is not always the same. I mean that's were stalking comes in. Stalkers find out what is this here, what does this now consist of, of this new dream position. And it's always changing, but we're always here now.

Sorcery has many contradictions, seeming contradictions, because our rational minds can't conceive this. The concern then is not the fate of the world or humanity, because they see -- as I said, reality of everyday life is in just one, let's say, a hair of a braid. And sorcerers want to move elsewhere. But whatever happens after they moved is no longer their concern energetically.

In terms of the fate of earth -- we can look at it in terms of astronomy. They tell us we find galaxies, total constellations of vast, vast, an unending universe, let's say, and each one is a world in its own. So the fate of one speck of dust isn't going to make any difference from the perspective of the whole.

And what sorcerers do is they take the grand perspective. It's going to mean a lot if we're here and an earthquake hits us or the nuclear bomb drops on top of us. It will mean a great deal to us but we won't be around to mourn, but from a broad perspective, if a sorcerer has moved away, those contingencies no longer enter into his stalkers world. But the concern there is that every individual can move away and explore his potential.

So this isn't an unhumanistic statement, because on the other hand, they contradict themselves and are very concerned and they say we've written these books so in case there's someone else who might be interested so they could grab hold of this ladder and experience some of these things.

Once the sorcerer moves away from the reality of everyday life, his interaction with his fellow man changes. And so we can address for a moment how he sees society -- not society at large, although sorcerers do make statement as to the modality of our day and they see that there are certain tendencies. They call it the "poor baby" syndrome that characterizes the modality of our times, but that is again related to the individual. The individual and everything we do or say or expect, we always turn it back so self reflection as to "poor baby, me" - what is going to help me. That is the modality of time. But it's an expression of an individual practice of what people actually do.

When a sorcerer moves away, he moves away from the concern of the self. He actually moves to a position the stalkers call of ruthlessness or detachment. And as he detaches himself, what he's really doing, he's no longer able to have this intersubjectivity with his fellow man. And that's why it's difficult for him to interact with people because people cannot read upon a sorcerer their expectations.

They think he's weird, there is something wrong. He is coming from somewhere they don't know where, and that is true. He is coming from somewhere other than from where they are. So the intersubjectivity, the possibility for communication, breaks down.

So if a sorcerer has to remain in the world with people, the only way he can do this is through what they call controlled folly, through stalking himself and others, through seeing everything as energy, as having no deep ultimate significance of human meaning, of concern, because all that comes from really a concern with the self.

A sorcerer no longer has a self to worry about and he can no longer be intersubjective in the sense of matching that self-concern. And other people can't read the self-concern in him as they do in themselves, so they see there is something strange. They don't have that looking glass, that mirror, they can see themselves in.

So a sorcerer can only interact in terms of controlled folly. And Don Juan, that's how he interacted with people, all of the members of the sorcery group. Now that's how we interact. Carlos Castaneda rarely sees people at all, because there comes a point where you move so far away from the assemblage point of everyday life that you no longer have any interest in anything of the daily world in interacting with people. And neither do you have the interest but you're almost physically incapable of or you would frighten the person if you suddenly would appear in the room because what happens when you move your assemblage point, you're activating, as I said, your energy body and it can disappear from the everyday realm. So as a sorcerer moves away, he moves away from, quote, the reality of everyday life. He essentially becomes invisible.

And that's the stalkers training. We become more and more invisible until there comes a time when we can walk down the street, if that's still there, and nobody will see us, because we have quieted the internal dialog that keeps reaffirming that I am in the world; I am so and so; I am such and such a person; I am me, you know. That concern has been placed off and you've used the energy to actually enter a different reality. And you find yourself, one day, very harmoniously in another realm where there's people but these people are not the people of the everyday life.

You have moved into another braid of that universe of awareness and there's other things there. It's not void. It's not that okay, this reality of everyday life into which we were born and there's nothing. That's what we would sort of like to think, or there's heaven or hell out there elsewhere. But that's really part of our own linear thinking. But then for the eastern people say that okay, there is void, there is nothing.

No there's an infinite number of fibers, of energetic fibers of awareness that you can experience empirically. And you see other things. Dreamers go into realms and realms of other universes where there's different planetary configurations, other dogs, animals with three legs, all kinds of organic forms that aren't found in this reality. They have a table of elements, the periodic table of elements, different elements than in this realm that aren't known to our physicists and chemists. And those things make up different combinations of things. So a stalker, when his position of the assemblage point has shifted, he starts to stalk and describe this other reality.

Carlos Castaneda has spent a great deal of his time, lately, dreaming and exploring some of these other areas. That's why he is not in the realm of everyday life. He will have a book coming out on the gates of dreaming, and describing the actual procedures, how to get out of the reality of everyday life and into some of these other realms (The Art of Dreaming). So that's what sorcerers do. But the reality of everyday life loses its importance.

John:   If you could briefly state your position or stage right now in the process of sorcery, how you intertwine the writer with -- I am assuming primarily, predominantly an oral tradition of sorcery in terms of obtaining knowledge. So anything you would like to, Taisha, in terms of summarizing where you are as a writer, where it's going, your path of knowledge, where you are now and any other notes that you have.

Taisha:   I can talk a little bit about writing, how these books are written or how I wrote my books. As you can tell, it deals with the very beginning stages of my training and so it took me years and years to write this. And why is it coming out now after so much time has elapsed. And the reason there is that because we don't -- and I'm speaking for myself, Florinda Donner, Carol Tiggs who have books printed.

We don't really write them the way people would write books in a linear fashion doing research and writing down the information or fictitiously imagining characters, outlining plot line and then coming up with their story. So we don't write in either of those fashions because our works aren't really written from the rational mind in the linear mode from the point of view of everyday life. They come from another position of the assemblage point. And everything that we've learned, all the training, at least most of the training that we have undergone, took place at a different position of the assemblage point.

Emilito who taught me, who was my second teacher and who really trained me in stalking, well he did not exist in the world of everyday life. So the bulk of my training came from a dream position. And that's why I started, when I started this talk, talked to you, I said that Taisha Abelar is really a dream position, that she wasn't born into the world of everyday life.

Whatever Taisha Abelar is and whatever I can say to you now is coming from elsewhere, from another position. And the energy that it took to not only experience whatever happened or whatever took place -- and then you needed a second layer of energy to be able to remember them, because there is much, much that happened in areas that I have no recollection. So my task now is to go back to them.

And the more energy I store, the more I can recollect and bring those things to the surface so that I can write them. And in a way, what we're doing is translation of something that's always here and now, circular, a different layer, energetic layer. We're translating it in a linear mode to the best of our ability through speaking, which is linear, and through writing.

So our books then are a translation of what our experiences were so that we can present them coherently. And there again was the importance of an academic education so that there was a root, a foundation, that I could now use and rely and not just say oh, this is fantastic. I mean, I saw fantastic things, I can't even talk about, because, when you are seeing those things, you cannot talk, believe me.

And when I think about them now, ever so often I get tongue tied if I really start to move my assemblage point back. I'm holding it now throughout this whole conversation at a certain position because of my stalkers training and only because of my stalkers training.

The minute I leave here, my assemblage point is moving elsewhere. Believe me, I'm going to go back where I came from, the here and now of another reality. And there I won't be able to speak in this fashion. So while this short time that I'm here, what I wanted to do is really to be able to convey and express to whoever is interested in understanding some of these concepts, the very difficult and yet very simple concept of what sorcery is.

And our books have the same purpose of trying to open this knowledge to the public because we really don't have apprentices. The rule that governed Don Juan's circle, his group, no longer holds.

The few people that were trained by him were trained in total fluidity and total sobriety so that we would be able to move our assemblage points from multiple, multiple positions with fluidity and with total consciousness and awareness and sobriety. And eventually we will move into total freedom where we won't be held in any one particular place. It will be so fluid that wherever the powers take us, the power of intent, that there that is where we are anything to end up.

John:   Speaking with Taisha Abelar, her book The Sorcerers' Crossing, A Woman's Journey. Taisha, thank you for taking time to speak with KPFK.

Taisha:   Okay. It was my pleasure to be here.

John:   This interview with Taisha Abelar took place February of this year at the office of Toltec Artists Incorporated in Los Angeles.

Copyright 1993 KPFK RADIO



1993 - KVMR - Florinda Donner Radio Interview by Hanes Ealy


Version 2011.07.09

KVMR Radio - Florinda Donner

Hanes Ealy:  Well I'm Hanes Ealy and my intent today is to talk to Florinda Donner and try to bring as much of the sorcerers' world to the listener as possible in one hour. I'm going to let Florinda introduce herself.

Florinda Donner:  So, I'm going to do this myself?

HE:  I'm going to ask you to tell who you are and what you're going to do today.

FD:  Oh. Actually I really don't know what I'm going to do today. I think that, well... I am Florinda Donner, I am an anthropologist. I have been working with Carlos Castaneda over twenty years and as a student of anthropology, I was drawn into the world of sorcerers and I have stayed there ever since.

HE:  Well the question that comes to mind right off the bat Florinda, is the world of the sorcerer doesn't allow any volunteers...

FD:  Well, not volunteers in the sense that "Yes, I want to be in the world of the sorcerers." Of course in a weird way we have to be totally volunteers because nobody is drawn into this world against their will. However... I don't know if you know about it? We have been giving a series of lectures lately in bookstores, Taisha Abelar and myself and Carol Tiggs and that is the recurrent question, you see? "What makes you so special?" or... I mean nothing makes us so special (laughter). We are truly and I'm not saying this out of false humility, we are very ordinary people and something very extraordinary has happened to us. The idea of there are not volunteers in the sense that this world is an extremely arduous and solitary world.

What we have noticed as we have been talking to different groups of people is most, I'm not saying all, but most of the people have... are used to having weekend workshops and seminars and they want answers, they want crystal clear answers in the sense of "What do I have to do to change my life?" Well, to change your life, you have to die practically in the sense what the sorcerers know as leaving the ego, which is a death in of itself. In order to accomplish that, its not that you really die, its a life time endeavor. You see, we have no clear answers, people want a program, they would like "Ok, Step one, two and three and four, five follows." Well it doesn't work that way at all. It is an extremely difficult proposition to get across, that its a way of life, its not just something you do in your free time. Your total life is involved in this, body, mind and spirit or whatever we want to define it.

HE:  So many people want to join the sorcerers' world. So many people, when they heard you were going to be on the show, starting coming to the local bookstore and saying "Is Florinda or Taisha going to come to our town?" They just have a tremendous, tremendous interest in what you do and yet there's no way the average person could even come close to doing what you do.

FD:  I just returned from Mexico, in fact I just came back. An hour ago I returned from Mexico. I was there with Carlos Castaneda and we talked to several people and its always the same thing, you know? "What can we do to join this world?" Well... "Why are you different from the different sorcerers, the different lines, lineage's of Naguals?" Well Carlos is different in the sense that he has written these books. These books are obviously available to the public, and in the books, and I'm not saying that you know, the book does not follow any kind of line, but in the books, it's very clearly stated in terms of what it involves to be in that world. People, I think, fail to see that the procedures, not the procedures but there is... It's a clearly delineated path in the sense that we have to totally cut off ourselves from the world with out retreating from the world.

Another point is that people when they say "I want to join the sorcerers' world, I need a teacher, I need a Guru. You had that too." Yes of course we did have it, but it was a very solitary, well it is a very solitary battle. People always talk in terms of "Well there is the group, there is the Castaneda group." Well, there is no group. We had the hardest time for 3 days in Mexico that there is no group. There is a place which Carlos calls the place of the second attention, the place of no self pity, of no compassion in the sense that we can not allow ourselves to be compassionate, to have compassion or pity for our fellow man when we haven't changed ourselves. And there is that place, no matter if we're in Mexico, Los Angeles, San Francisco that we do meet, you see? There is this place that we all get together and people from lets say, "the outside world", if there is such a thing that can be called, made a dichotomy. They do join us, even if it's only for a moment.

The things that are involved in this... like the first things I tell people is they have to recapitulate their lives. Its one of the main, lets say "procedures" to truly examine our life. Examine our life in such a minute detail, its not a psychological, lets say, analysis or investigation about ourselves. It's far from it. It's a total examination of what we are in the sense of how we have learned by the time we were three or four years old, how to manipulate the world and our fellow human beings and it becomes very clear how we have learned those patterns and what we want to do, we want to divest ourselves of those patterns. If we can not divest ourselves of those patterns, at least have a momentary second, or I guess, a momentary chance to not react the same way we react. According to don Juan, they say our energy, let's say, 90% of our energy is involved in the presentation of the self. Because of that nothing of what is out there really can come to us.

We are so filled with how we look to others, how we come across, either just physically or emotionally. The idea of the presentation of the self takes all our energy, all our endeavor. Its like we are already booked, we are closed to anything that can come in. Of course we have glimpses which we immediately discard "Oh well, something happened. That was whatever." Either its in dreams or in the everyday life of being awake.

HE:  In this recapitulation, I think it was in Taisha's book, or maybe Taisha said it, that you have to recapitulate every person that you've ever encountered in your life.

FD:  The way you want... Taisha's book...basically, it is... It deals with the recapitulation.

HE:  My problem is as a job, what I do for a living, as a physician, I've encountered over 500,000 people in my last 20 years.

FD:   (laughter)

HE:  I can't recapitulate the people I saw yesterday, let alone the 100,000th person I saw in 1975.

FD:  Oh no, but you see? Instead of saying that, you could say, well, you could certainly make an attempt because as you say, in the kind of job that you have, Let's say, I'm sure you have already a very standard and a very well worked out routine of what works in your line of work.

HE:  Indeed.

FD:  I mean it has to be, otherwise you wouldn't be able to survive.

So that is your public persona. In lets say, your private life, how you deal with your fellow human beings, with your wife, with your parents, with your children, I don't know what what... In terms of how you are engaged in terms of the world, but you see the certain patterns that are recurrent, the way we interact with our fellow man, which is always to protect the ego. We're always trying to protect the ego. If it gets attacked or if it's in anyway threatened, we immediately have this lets say, this background of ways of immediately repairing the damage which is emotionally, it's alright for us, but its not alright for the body. You see? The body acknowledges those blows.

According to don Juan, he said, illness and disease didn't really exist in his world because it is basically... I don't want to say it's self inflicted because that's going too far, but we do make ourselves sick with stress. And the stress basically comes because the ego can not deal with the world outside.

HE:  All these things that the ego does to maintain itself, its self importance, are energy drains, am I not correct?

FD:  What are the energy drains? For don Juan, sorcery was a world of energy. Basically, a sorcerer is interested in visualizing, of seeing... not visualizing, of apprehending, of perceiving energy directly.

HE:  And we're born with that power, we have enough energy when we're born to...

FD:  All of us, no matter what we are, all of us have that inheritance, we are perceptors. We are fields of energy.

HE:  And we squander that energy...

FD:  Exactly.

HE:  ...by maintaining the self importance, the self image.

FD:  The idea of the self. The idea of our self-image, whatever that entails.

HE:  And we can recapture that energy by recapitulating our lives as best as possible?

FD:  There is no guarantee. No. Its just one procedure to at least make us stop for a moment before we want to repeat our habitual behavior in terms of our presentation of the self.

Let's say if we are in the world, in a job, somebody insults us and says "look you didn't really do a good job" you see? Emotions, its like you can say like... "The asshole, he doesn't know what he was talking about", you know? "I really know what I'm doing. It doesn't really matter, I don't get insulted." But the body acknowledges that blow, you see? Especially our energetic body and that's exactly what don Juan was interested... But it doesn't happen, no matter how the world values you, it doesn't really matter, because they're only valuing an ideal of yourself anyway.

HE:  Is there any particular portion of the body where we store these energy blows?

FD:  Well it depends. Usually we store those energy blows in our weakest part, whether it's our organs, I mean, it depends... For instance, if you under stress, lets say you feel certain pains, or you feel drained, you get a cold, I mean you know your body better than anyone else. Well, that is exactly where the blow is going.

HE:  But its not universal, it isn't in the nervous system or in the tendons, or in the vascular system, it varies from person to person?

FD:  Varies person to person. For instance, I have very weak bronchitis, whenever I get drained, I start coughing very, very badly so whether is just something physically or I really got stressed out, you know, I start coughing. Of course in Los Angeles, very easy because with the smog.

HE:  Sure. Well, in the sorcerers' world, from each thing I've read whether its Carlos' book or your book or Taisha's book or from hearing you talk, it seems that you were lent energy by the Nagual...

FD:  Yes.

HE:  ...or by the other witches.

FD:  When we were in their company, we were running... It's not that they were lending - we were running on their energy. For us to meet them, for to be in their world, which is the world of the second attention, they were lending us their energy, yes, for them to actually do it, there has to be this total and... One of the interesting things, this idea, that when we give talks, people are extremely cautious, and of course, rightfully so. When I encountered the world of don Juan, there was no chance to be cautious. I either jumped or there was no game.

I'm not saying that's the thing to do, but for us, for me, in my case, there was no other way. Yes of course I resented it, its not that I resented it, but there were, you know... There were no really doubts but I was extremely, lets say, aberated in my patterns of behavior. Because from my perspective, I was the greatest thing that ever lived, I mean, the world validated my idea of the self. I grew up in South America, I had advantages just by the mere fact the way I looked. Children know how to manipulate that extremely well, I was President in my elementary school from kindergarten until sixth grade, I was in Venezuelan schools, I was... There were very few blond children. I mean, I was treated like a little goddess and I believed that that was my inherent right. You see, and then of course as an adult we do change, we alter these patterns, but there inherently is this self importance you know, "I'm the greatest thing that ever lived."

HE:  There are people in society, taking the opposite view point, who...

FD:  Yeah but you see what I'm saying... Taking the opposite view... I'm telling you in a very exaggerated manner, it doesn't really matter whether our idea of the self is positive or negative.

HE:  Ok.

FD:  The drain of energy is exactly the same, whether we maintain, we have a total loss of image or a bombastic idea of the self, it doesn't really matter, the drain of energy is the same, because we still have this idea... We have to defend this idea of what we truly are which is the sight of our fellow man. Inherently there is nothing to back it up. We know certain things, yes, we know to a degree that we are intelligent, we know how to do certain... Yes, but I'm not talking about this, I'm talking about our involvement with the self. The idea that we are all special in one way. We're always special, you see? What don Juan did with us, he bombarded this idea of being special. He said "If you're all special in the world, the world can't function." Which is absolutely true. That why we have, let's say, from a basic human point of view, we don't really know how to interact with each other because each one of us is always defending something.

HE:  How can we stop this? I mean, we can recapitulate, but I, in my own life, let me just give an example, because I'm sure this would be for everyone else, recapitulation takes time. It seems like the sorcerers world is a world of people who have lots of free time, they have nothing better to do, nothing is calling on them to do something else. They can go off and dream for nine days, or disappear from the world for ten years, or whatever they want, but the average person with a job, a family...

FD:  I totally agree with you.

HE:  ...tries to recapitulate and they might get a half hour's worth in if they're lucky and they might take two lifetimes at that rate to recapitulate anything.

FD:  Precisely, but like for instance, look, I've been in the sorcerers world I mean, I don't even want to mention... its way over twenty years, ok? That is a lifetime. The thing is, my lifetime has been spent in following the path. I have made that decision. That's all I do. There are people in our group that work jobs from what? 9 to 5 or whatever 6, whatever the hours are. Have totally ordinary jobs. Well one of them - I translate. I love to do translations, I translate from Spanish into English or vice versa or into German. So that's my income. I need to live. I'm certainly in the world in the sense that I do.. We have not retreated from the world but we are not in the world in the sense that whatever makes us react like our fellow man, we have curtailed this to the minimum. It doesn't really matter what they do to us anymore. How they bang us. Its not because we have succeeded at something, no, we are fighting this on a daily basis.

The people that have a family... I was just talking... In Mexico there was this man, he has 5 children, he has a wife, lovely woman, and she is of course is totally threatened by his interest in the world of sorcerers, in the world of don Juan and I said "No, but that is totally absurd because whatever he can get out of it, even by just recapitulating, if he really does it properly and is truly and sincerely interested, his life as a father and a husband has to get better. By the mere fact that he is changing will force you to change." Because especially in a relationship of husband and wife the only thing is well, "he has do, if I'm going to put this and this and this in, I'm going to change, he has to do it." In the world of sorcery it doesn't work that way. You change for the hell of it. What the other person does is none of your concern.

Your change of behavior will force the other person whether they want to or not, to change. I can tell you this with utter sincerity because that's exactly what happens in our world. I used to complain endlessly "Well SHE is not doing her job, HE's not doing his job. I'M trying to change, I'M doing this." You see? The "I","I", "I" never stops.

HE:  Indeed.

FD:  And then when don Juan said "you know, you're full of prunes. You give everyone you deal with a blank check. Whatever they do to you, short of killing you and injuring you, has nothing to do with you. You change for the hell of it." And sure enough, he's right. If we change, the "I" changes, you force the world around you to change. And that's my contention, the idea, whether we are interested from an ecological point of view, from a psychological point of view, whatever we are trying to do in the world. We are not willing to change ourselves. We try to implement change in others without changing ourselves or changing ourselves only - we say that we have changed. In the body, the energetic body knows when someone hasn't changed, when its not quite sincere or quite right. Yes, that they're struggling, I agree, but the change has... We have to change ourselves as a person in order to effect the world around us - without expecting them to change.

HE:  Our guest today on The Earth Mystery Show here on KVMR 89.5 FM is Florinda Donner. Florinda has been in the world of sorcery for the last twenty years. If you've just tuned in she's written several books. He latest, Being In Dreaming is available in bookstores and she has also written The Witches Dream and Shabono.

Speaking of change, you mentioned in Arizona at the Rim Institute when I first heard you, that men have more or less screwed up the world and its up to women to dream us a new world and change. Could you talk a little bit about the role of women?

FD:  No, no, no, I did not say that it's up to women. No, no, no. Women can not do it by themselves, you see, I think either I'm not coming across right or... I don't want to say I'm being misinterpreted because that's sort of absurd, no. What I'm saying is, yes, let's take the masculine principle, let's say, has taken us to where we are now. What I'm saying is that women have a great deal to contribute. What we contribute in, let's say, the world of everyday life is not that different from what men have been doing. Yes, women have advanced enormously by the pressure they have put on the masculine frame. But we copy your paradigm, the paradigm that rules us in that no matter in what aspect of life, its a masculine paradigm.

We are basically a male Universe. When the Universe, according to sorcerers... The Universe is basically a sentient Universe and its almost like it has been reversed in the sense that whatever rules us is only the male principle. What I am saying is that it has to be balanced and it can not be balanced by asking, let's say the male... I'm not talking any male in particular. It has to change, because if you just look around you, we have truly screwed up the planet, I mean there is no doubt about it. Our whole institutions are just pretty much... sick!

HE:  I agree but maybe I also misinterpreted what you said in Arizona, but also I felt you were calling on the women to stop being slaves, to stop accepting the paradigm of a male Universe when it's really basically a female Universe and start dreaming what the Universe should be for us.

FD:  Well what it should be, there's no way, like for instance say "What should it be?" For us to survive as a species we have to evolve. You see we have to evolve and I don't mean evolve in ideologies. The ideologies that rule us have been exhausted. We only come up with a different version of what has been going on for the last 5000 years. We haven't really done anything new. I don't know if I mentioned this, we have to INTEND something new. We can't intend what it is, what its going to be, the new thing, except that it has to be some change. For instance the dinosaurs, they intended flight. They didn't intend wings, the wings were the by-product of that intent. The same with us... and the women have, lets say, the biological constitution to evolve. That's the only thing I said. But for women to do that, they have to be given the time and protection from the males. They need that time to rule not just... look no matter what, lets say how sensitive, how.... you as a human being, let's say in your relationship with your family... that is not enough to make a difference. There are pockets, groups yes, the male is totally in agreement that something has to change. They are willing to give the female or the women, whatever, the time or lets say "Yes, you are in charge", but I'm not saying in terms of "You are in charge" again that is a masculine terminology. No one is in charge. It has to be a joint process of trying to change and that change can only come by changing ourself. The emphasis on the "I", on the ego, has to go. I think one of the reasons we are so enthralled with the idea of the self is because we have really nothing else to protect. Its like let's say in primitive man, prehistoric man, the idea of the cave. It's almost like a territoriality. We are treating the ego as a territory because we don't defend the cave anymore. Thetas already been taken care of. So we defend in the most exorbitant manner and a most exorbitant price, the idea of the self and if that goes, something will happen. I know because it happened to the sorcerers.

HE:  See, you mentioned "intending" and the word "intent" is used all through Carlos Castaneda's books and its mentioned in your book and that's something that is difficult I think for the average person to understand...

FD:  Very difficult for us to understand too. It is because it is extremely subtle, extremely powerful and yet it is not ... Intent speaks, lets say directly to the energy body. We all have an energy body. We voice our intent and yet it is not voiced as a psychological process and yet it sounds... You see it is very difficult and I'm not trying to say you know it's so esoteric or abstract, its not, its so simple. I think its it's own simplicity that makes it so hard to grasp and that again... I'm talking... it sounds like I am...

HE:   Let me see if I can say it the way I understand it and that is that "intent" is a spirit, is an energy that pervades the Universe and that spirit or that energy is benevolent, it wishes us well and it throws things in our face, every day, every night, all the time which are for our own good and we as energy beings, as egos, ignore it, look by it, pay attention to our own ego, our own life and ignore what the intent of the Universe is.

FD:  Ok, I want to correct only one thing, this idea that it is benevolent. No, it is only energy. It is neither good or bad, it is only energy. We make that interpretation. Energy is energy, its like something that is out there in the Universe, creating the Universe. Let's say almost from an astronomy point of view.

HE:   I used the word benevolent just because so many people are afraid of the word sorcery, they assume sorcery has something to do with evil.

FD:  Sorcery of course carries a whole range of.... When the New World was discovered by the Spaniards you had totally... was a Catholic view which the idea of good and evil is so prevalent that it was impossible for them to understand anything else, so whatever was destroyed in terms of a system of knowledge was so gigantic you know? Like for instance, like in Yucatan you have of course... you know about the old Spanish... the clergy Diego de Landa and whatever they have done in the new world was so gigantically negative in the sense that they burned... let's say the Mayas in the Yucatan, the libraries that Diego De Landa burned. It took four months of daily burning to burn all the manuscripts. I mean, that's inconceivable in terms of the kind of knowledge that was lost that has nothing to do with our Western point of view.

HE:   Well, there are, there are still people like you and your party who try and preserve small bits of this knowledge and who write books and bring some of this knowledge back to us, but there are obviously as you said four months worth of books that nobody is ever going to see again...

FD:   Yes..

HE:  Is it your intention and your party's intention to put all this stuff into print so that average person can read it and learn it and do it?

FD:  Our intent... the reading is basically, I mean whatever we have written is extremely personal in the sense that is exactly what has happened to us. In terms of what we know from the sorcerers of the lineage of don Juan, its only one line what we know, you see? I am sure there are many other systems of knowledge that express, let's say the terminology, the vocabulary is different, but ultimately the intent is the same. It is not that the different systems of knowledge... this system of knowledge is extremely pragmatic. It truly gives us the way, if you are interested, to follow certain... I don't want to say rules and regulations, because there are none, but does give us a very pragmatic way of trying to implement something that in other traditions we can only read about.

Rituals, exercises, yes they are fine only to hook our attention, but ultimately the only thing that counts from our experience is that inherent change, we truly want to do it, with no recompense in sight. There is nothing that guarantees us that we are going to make it, there is nothing in that scenario... I emphasize this again and again that people who are interested, I can not guarantee you that whatever the work you put into it - you're going to be successful. I don't know it myself! If I am going to succeed the way don Juan succeeded, if that was success, anyway, but at least the path, whatever we are trying to do or whatever we are doing is infinitely more exciting to us than if I would to follow my parents path and I'm not criticizing my parents, I love my parents dearly, I'm not criticizing, I just...I would like my life to end differently than I know the way their lives is going to end.

HE:   Let me take a minute to tell the listeners that you are listening to KVMR 89.5 FM and our guest today is Florinda Donner. She's written her latest book, "Being in Dreaming -- an Initiation into the Sorcerer's World", and she's also written the Witches Dream and Shabono.

Speaking of your parents, all of you have had to die to the world in once sense or another to become sorcerers... Carol Tiggs said that she was in a different place, a different world for ten years. What relation do you have with your past family?

FD:   With my past family? Actually I think I am the only one that has any kind of relationship with the family because of my circumstances. When I first entered, if there is such a thing, entered into the sorcerers world, I cut myself off, purposefully, from most people that I knew including my parents of course. My parents did not know for about ten, twelve years whether I was dead or alive. It was a very calculated move, because of the sorcerers point of view is that for us to change, for us to be able to change, we need to cut off from the people who know us so well because, not that they do it maliciously, but they prevent us from changing because they already know what we are and nothing that we do will make them change their mind. And I'm not talking about in terms of "OK you're not capable of doing certain things", no I'm talking about a fundamental change in our energy.

HE:  They're going to reinforce your self image that they knew before you changed.

FD:  And then I remember Florinda at one time said "Look, it doesn't matter, why not just go and see your parents?" and at that time... you know.. I had been working, you know I was doing... I was an anthropologist, actually I was in contact with one brother and from time to time I would let him know, I just wanted to at least re-assure them that I was not dead. I said I was involved in something that I had to cut myself off. Personally, I had parents who were extremely understanding and lets say, at least from my perspective, it went very well. When I lets say re-established contact with my parents, it was extremely interesting to see that my relationship with my parents was much more loving and understanding than it had ever been before.

HE:   You mentioned seeing, and to a sorcerer, a sorcerer being a person who can change his perceptions at will... Sorcerers see, I gather, the human as a luminous egg of energy fibers and within that luminous egg there is a place that you call the assembly point where we perceive and if you should shift that assembly point you perceive things totally differently, you are in a different world. And I assume that when we dream the assemblage point is shifting a little bit and that's why we perceive dreams, but you're able to dream "awake", you're able to dream consciously, and the dream world scenes from your books and what I've heard seem to be very, very real, realer than it is to most of us.

FD:  Ok, lets say that the .. one of the... lets say not the ultimate, but one of the greatest accomplishments of a bona fide sorcerer is that the world of the second attention, the world of dreaming awake, "dreaming" as in Castaneda's latest book, has to do that you want the same control as you have in world of everyday life, that you have in dreams. And I'm talking dreams in the sense that it is like some sort of psychological... lets say our ordinary dreams are basically.... you see, don Juan was never interested in the content of our dreams, he was interested in the control of the assemblage point. As you said, the assemblage point moves... shifts naturally, it vibrates in dreams. It crosses into new energy bands, new worlds are being... lets say, they are not being constructed, we enter into different layers of the onion.

A sorcerer wants to maintain that assemblage point long enough and that's what basically is referred to, what stalking is.. that you can fix the assemblage point in a new position for as long as you wish. And that's where the control of the assemblage point comes in, because you do assemble new worlds and you live in that world as you live in this world. For instance, the world of don Juan, the world of the sorcerers of don Juan's group was the world of the second attention. They were perennially in the world of the second attention.

HE:  The question arises, I'm sure you've been asked this many times... What is the difference between the world of the second attention or dreaming awake and lucid dreaming which many people experience routinely?

FD:  Well, the world of the second attention is a bona fide world. I think lucid dreamers do enter that world of the second attention, but not long enough. They can not sustain it because, as you already said before, we all have the inherent capacity to this way. The sorcerer extends that capacity and totally dominates it in the sense that he manipulates that world in the way that he manipulates the world of everyday life. He is master, in the sense of how he enters or exits from that world, where as a lucid dreamer does it... it's chance.

You see and then, whether we are in some sort of psychological turmoil will bring us into that world, hunger, drugs, alcohol, I think the emphasis of our society, let's say the fixation on drugs is basically that they know there is something out there that they want. You see, energetically they know that whatever this world is, is not enough. So they try to do it artificially, and of course by that, they have cut everything off, because they can erase the world of everyday life or their concerns with the world of every day life by either taking a drug or smoking marijuana or hashish, I mean it's incredible what we consume. Now we make it of course totally illegal and people are into pharmaceuticals, legal drugs. Which is as deleterious as anything else.

HE:  To enter the second attention one has to acquire enough energy but I mentioned this earlier, you borrowed the energy or it was given to you by the witches, the sorcerers. The average person doesn't have that benefit, nobody is going to give them an energy boost to the point where they can shift their assemblage point.

FD:   But the energy boost was also... let's say when I encountered the world of don Juan, it was... of course I entered their world, but I had to do my part. Because if I did not... and that had to do with in terms of, because I had their example in front of us. Ok, lets say when we go out in the world and we give lectures, basically, the audience is extremely, well, I wouldn't, no I mean its not because I've never had that encounter... The audience is extremely let's say...

HE:  Interested.

FD:  Interested and at the same time very disbelieving. And quite... very often discontented because of exactly that dimension... "Well you had don Juan, you had the old Florinda, you had this and this and this". Well, so what? At the moment all you've got is me in front of you or Carlos, or Taisha. Or Carol Tiggs. I'm not saying that by any stretch of the imagination that we are... in fact I reiterate that over and over again... we do not have the ability or the power that don Juan and his group had to truly force you into that world but we certainly are presenting the procedures of doing it. Because in terms of... yes, we were there with don Juan, but then we had to do the work, and look it took us 30 years to do what we are trying to do. At least (make) ourselves coherent enough and present something to the world.

And I think that is again the difference between males and females, the male talks about the struggle, look at... Carlos Castaneda's books are a witness to that. He talks about the process from the very beginning. Well, the three of us, the women, after living in this world for over 20 years, we finally can talk about the process because we have totally embodied it; and that is one of the basic differences, I think between being male and female and that is what don Juan said. Again, I repeat this over and again, I've had a lot of males extremely angry at us because suddenly the thought was "Well, this is just a world of females". It is not a world of females, neither is it a world of males. It is a totally... I don't want to say "integrated' because it has such a psychological load to it.. but it is a harmonious world in the sense that they are... no one is more than someone else.

The only thing that counts in our world is Energy. That the nagual is a male is because of his energy configuration and also because as females, don Juan always said that whether you are in the world of sorcerers or in the world of everyday life, "You are whackos. You need the energy of the male in order to function properly". And, from the feminist point of view this was one of the most difficult things for me to totally accept. Now I'm not accepting this in terms of defeat, but as a statement of fact. We do need the world of the male to make this world sober. I can see over and over again, I talk a lot to a lot of women, to friends, to small groups of women and believe me that when we all get together, it is so easy to get out of control. Everybody is just thinking "we're having a great time." No, it's a lack of control! Not of control, it is a lack of sobriety that the male principle, whatever it is, brings to the world, whether it's the world of everyday life or the world of the sorcery, it brings that sobriety which is necessary, no matter where we are acting.

HE:  The word sobriety... um... could we use the word "responsibility" or "sense of responsibility" in place of "sobriety?"

FD:  No, lets say, no, no, no. I'm specifically using "sobriety", its a sobriety.

HE:  I know you are using the word, but to most people that implies not being drunk.

FD:   Pardon me? Oh, the drunk... oh so yes, so yeah, it has that connotation. No, no, no, no, no... I don't think.... males drink more than females I think. No, no, no, it has nothing to do... no its.... yah, sober means, yeah not being drunk....yeah...

HE:  It just means, to me it means a responsibility, or some inner drive to be responsible and together.

FD:  No, not... No, I don't want to use "responsible" at all. No, no, no. It is some sort of coherence. Sobriety in the abstract, it's the sobriety... there is no... No, no... I think we have bastardized the word with alcoholism. But yeah, I want to go to the original meaning of sobriety.

HE:  Ok. Well this whole world is so fascinating, so interesting, I certainly wouldn't argue with you that it exists or not, I'm a fully... full believer in it. I, like many of the listeners would like to have some way of entering it, but obviously in my world, I have no energy to dream the way you dream and am not likely to acquire it.

FD:  No, no, no. The thing is... you see, you don't want to retreat from the world to follow, lets say the exercises or to follow something that... whatever you think we are doing. No, in your daily world you can become... what is your job description?

HE:  I'm a physician.

FD:  A physician; and what you do in the radio? What is it called when you do a radio, when you work for the radio?

HE:  This is called self amusement.

FD:  Self amusement, ok. As a self amuser, you can become a sorcerer in self amusement. You see, whatever you do, you do your job or whatever you are doing... You make an art out of it. And that is basically what we are interested in. That is what sorcery is. You make it into an art. Whether you do through recapitulating your life, by trying to stop the involvement with the self. Believe me that is all it takes for the world to open.

HE:  I love the concept of controlled folly. Ever since I've read that, I've thought of so many times where life really is controlled folly.

FD:  Exactly.

HE:  But the wild, imaginative world of Being In Dreaming is what I think many of us would like to enter. Even for a time, like going to the movies and I know you like movies, but to be able to let's say, go to another world, the world of the inorganic beings, something like that, and return and just even remember it for one time other than going to sleep at night and dreaming and forgetting it all.

FD:  But you see... that sounds... because let's say the work is presented in such a light, because that is my predilection and my delight. But the idea of entering into the world of dreaming, you see, that's exactly what I have talked in my lecture. You see, it would be interesting to do this for awhile and then return to the world of the everyday life - Well, it's not possible. You see, I can talk about the world of inorganic beings, I can talk about the world of the sorcerers in Mexico... you see, for me this world doesn't stop, It's real. I am in that world, even as I talk to you now. For other people, it could be just like a holiday and then life continues. Well, for us, it doesn't continue. The horror exists. Because in a weird way this is a horrifying world.

HE:  When you say continue... I was very curious, that your group is the last of a long line of Toltec sorcerers. Is there going to be any continuation or are you the last of it? Is this the end?

FD:  Don Juan told Carols that he was the last of his line. That's the last we knew from don Juan.

HE:  Then your intent, when you talk to me on the radio or talk to groups of people is.... what?

FD:  My intent? That we are going... let's say, we are going... Like somebody said in Mexico "Well, what's the matter with you now? Why are you going public now" quote. I said we are going public because we want to, lets say, gather... that's the wrong word because it means like we are looking for disciples; we are not. We want to at least, let's say, create a critical mass. If a critical mass exists in any kind of endeavor, some kind of change will ensue. We need a critical mass of interested parties that at least take us seriously. And I don't mean seriously as a hobby, I mean seriously as a profound change.

HE:  Let's say you have a critical mass of people who are recapitulating their lives, they're trying to decrease their self importance, their ego. They're doing sorcerer's passes which we haven't discussed, moves to increase personal energy. Let's say you get a group of those people, will you be able to tap the energy from those people for your own purposes?

FD:  Its not.... Look, are you married?

HE:   Yes indeed.

FD:  Children?

HE:  Four.

FD:  Pardon me?

HE:  Four children.

FD:  Four children. Look, if you take me seriously, I can guarantee you that your life and the life of your family changes.

HE:  I've noticed just from doing the sorcerer's passes and thinking about intent, phenomenal things happen.

FD:  In what degree that change, only you can decide. You see? That's why I am saying this idea of a guru, of someone taking you by the hand is...

HE:  No, but I'm asking specifically, when you get a group of people, a critical mass, will you use their energy? You being the sorcerer's group, not you personally.

FD:  Of course. I mean energy not in the sense of... we can not use your energy. I could only use your energy if you're... let's say, if you have divested yourself of the ego. That's the energy we want, because that's the energy that's going to open up your parameters of perception, that's going to blast you out of your idea of the self.

It's only energy. Not what I say or what I do. You have to... you see, you have to join me.

HE:  Indeed

FD:  And that's what we want. That's why we are going public.

HE:  Where are don Juan and don Genaro right now?

FD:   Well... I don't think.... hmmmm. I have already, you know? I have already, let's say, I have talked about it already and it doesn't get across quite properly.

They have made the jump into the inconceivable. They have jumped in terms of... if we want to put it in any kind of physical sense... lets say they have made the leap into the unknown. What is ultimately the unknown? Are they stuck in the world of the inorganic beings? We think, yes. So did don Juan finally make it and his group? In a weird way that's... let's say... it's a world of prisoners as our everyday life is. Its another system.

HE:  Well the reason I asked you about the energy of us, people listening to you, people who might be trying to increase their energy level, is could you use our energy to rescue don Juan from the world of inorganic beings, as you rescued Carlos from that world.

FD:  No, I don't... we don't really know. I think at one time, I think that misunderstanding comes because I thought, let's say, "Yes, if we have enough energy as we leap to pull him out of it", but that's almost like a metaphor, you see? There is... I don't really know what I... in terms of how can... you see, we don't have the lexicon to truly describe even the world of inorganic beings. We describe that world as metaphors, although they're not metaphorical or as something that is already known to us because we don't have the language to describe something that is unknown to us. It can only be described in something that is known. So, yes, on one level, yes. If we have enough energy we could, as we leap, whatever that means, that leap... just lets say formulate... as a physicist you probably know.

HE:  What I'm thinking is that um... as I mentioned earlier in this talk, or the interview, intent throws at us all the time in unknown ways. This is a camouflage universe, it is a universe of energy, but its camouflaged as what ever we perceive it as. Every once in awhile there are cracks in the screen, there's a tear in the screen that lets us know that this camouflage isn't really real.

FD:  Yes, precisely.

HE:  And those bits of intent, or bits of energy, or whatever you want to call it, in the dream world you would call them scouts.

FD:  Yes.

HE:  But if you could hook onto that scout, it will take you to another world, to the world where that scout is coming from.

FD:  Precisely.

HE:  How can the average person, just listening to this talk on the radio right now, how can that person see, feel, perceive when an event is something that intent is throwing in their face to hook onto and not let it slip by?

FD:  You need energy for that. You see, that is what I am saying. If you are divested of the idea of the self that's you know like... Just yesterday I was talking to those people in Mexico... exactly, I mean, almost word by word exactly the same question and I said "well that is premature". You know, they're all interested in the world, you know? Jumping into the second attention, meeting the inorganic beings, but its absurd to talk about that stage if they have not divested themself of the idea of the self.

You see? That's what I'm talking. The most important step for us is this idea of losing self importance, of reducing that ego to nothing. We're never going to lose it all, although it is possible. From my perspective Castaneda is totally egoless. He's so empty its scary to be with him - it's frightening.

HE:  I can understand.

FD:  At the same time, its the most addictive, lets say, substance that there is - a person who has no ego. It's a total addiction.

HE:  Isn't human life, the ego in human life, the addiction that we're all addicted to?

FD:  Yes, ultimately, yes. I think so.

HE:  The listeners that are listening to this stuff are um... are very sophisticated. They've heard lots of stuff and you said the same question comes up to you all the time and hopefully this talk, this interview, has been trying to give you the questions that you hear every time, because that's what interests all of us and that's what everybody wants to know. And it boils down to you have to get rid of this self importance, this ego, which is a lesson from religions all around the world, they all say the same thing. But in practical steps, if I'm understanding the world of sorcery, is to recapitulate our lives...

FD:  Exactly.

HE:  Go through everything, every event we can remember and try and see the patterns that we've been addicted to and try to recapture the energy from those patterns, then if we have done that successfully we will have enough energy to see intent when it throws itself in our face, or to grab hold of one of these scouts in a dream.

FD:  Precisely... in a dream or in our waking life. It happens to us all the time. Don Juan.... Carlos described in his book, I think, its the cubic centimeter of chance that pops out at the most incredible moments and if you have the energy to grab it, you go for it.

For me, even like for instance, entering lets say the world of sorcerers, it was a decision of a millisecond. "Yes, I'm going to go with that woman. I'm going to take her with me, I'm going to give her a ride." You see, if I can... if I take the time to re-examine certain moments, crucial moments in my life... lets say the chance of having done the wrong decision or of taking the wrong path were so innumerable that it scares me to death. Just to think about it gives me headaches. Because it's such a minute decision. You think at the moment that it is nothing, but it is monumental. And that's what this idea of, you know intent.... something talks to us directly, and usually we are so concerned with whatever the concerns of the world - to notice.

HE:  I still as a human, don't understand how we get rid of the concerns of the world. I mean, if you didn't go with that woman, or let's say, in my life someone came in and said "Would you go with me to Mexico, I would like you to start on this new life." I would have every thought in the world of "what about my children, what about my wife, what about my employees?" It would go on and on, it would never stop talking like that in my head, and yet that chance might be that one chance that you are talking about, that never comes again.

FD:  Its not going to be like this, "Why don't you come with me to Mexico." I don't think... it has nothing to do with that. For instance, in my particular case, it had nothing to with... it was a matter of "Can you give me a ride to Hermasillo?" or something like that.

Or you know, "I can put you in contact with someone" - its not that delineated. Those moments don't come like this. "Ok, come with me to Mexico, I'm going to introduce you to the world of sorcery." No! It not going to... it's never going to come like that. No.

Look, even the idea of the.... you, only you have let's say, the power, the facility, to truly make something different of yourself and of your life and no one ultimately is going to help you with that. Don Juan ultimately didn't help us in the sense that we had to do it ourselves. Now I'm not trying to belittle the importance of those people, I'm just trying to stress the amount of work and dedication that is involved in something like that. Will power, sheer will power and total abandon that ultimately you don't give a damn what happens to you. You see and of course as a person that is totally alone, with no responsibilities, its a much easier step to take but you already have your responsibility in front of you. You can make your childrens' life and your wife's life a work of art. The mere fact that... now I'm not talking from a moralistic point of view or a religious point of view, I'm talking from an energetic point of view. For you to wish and do everything in your power to make the best for them, I don't even mean in terms of giving them the life they are accustomed to, no. I mean from an energetic point of view. That in itself is so liberating, it will flip you into another universe! You see, the idea of that there is another universe - its right next to us. It's a matter of perception. Its has nothing that suddenly you will be taken into the world of inorganic beings, you will be taken into the second attention. I live in the second attention, as I talk to you... its the prism, the way that I'm looking through the world has been changed through energy.

HE:  Well, I'm hoping that you'll accept an invitation to come to our area. There was so much excitement about you being on the radio today that I know that if we could get you to come to Nevada City that there would be even more excitement in person for people to be able to talk to you as we've talked today.

FD:  Are you in Nevada City?

HE:  Yes.

FD:  Where is Nevada City?

HE:  It's northeast of Sacramento toward Lake Tahoe, off Route 80.

FD:  Thought for a moment I was in... talking to the state of Nevada.

HE:  No, Nevada City is in California and your friend Randy lives up here or is up here.

FD:  Oh, you know Randy Fuller?

HE:  He called me this morning.

FD:  Oh he called you. Yeah he called and left a message on my machine.

HE:  So, I know he has invited you, so I'm going to invite you for the sake of our radio audience and for myself to come here.

FD:  Yeah I definitely know... I think we will come as we came to the Rim Institute.

HE:  We would be very happy to set it up for you.

FD:  And have a weekend session and we go definitely into the... I want to bring the chacmools. There are two big chacmools and two little chacmools and we definitely want to blast the hell out of you.

HE:   Well...

FD:  No, no, I mean it because...

HE:  I'm going to take that as a promise then.

FD:  It is a promise.

HE:  Thank you.

FD:  Thank you!

HE:  Florinda, it's been so nice having you on the air and we feel honored. Thank you again.

FD:  And I hope we see ourselves very soon.

HE:  I hope so.

FD:  Ok, bye bye. Thank you.

HE:  Thanks again.

(end of tape)

Copyright KVMR Radio



1993 - KVMR - Taisha Abelar Radio Interview


Version 2011.07.09

KVMR Radio - Taisha Abelar 1993

Hanes Ealy:  Taisha, we're on the air, welcome to the Earth Mystery Show.

Taisha Abelar:  Well, its a pleasure to be here and may I before we begin, I know you announced my name and I don't know what kind of thing.... you gave an introduction, but I would like to state my name again because we always begin our lectures and interviews by stating our names. My name is Taisha Abelar and we state it because it is a dream.

Sorcerers say that when a person reaches the final stages of dreaming, they are what they dream, and so Taisha Abelar is the dream that I am dreaming so therefore for magical purposes we always begin by stating our names, our magical names.

HE:  I was going to ask you to do that 'cause I knew you would want to anyway.

TA:  Ok, Thank you.

HE:  Let me ask you just since we are on the name, a little bit more about the name. You met don Juan, the Yaqui Indian sorcerer Carlos Castaneda wrote ten books about, you met him under the name of John Michael Abelar.

TA:  Yes.

HE:  The name Abelar means what?

TA:  Well Abelar is really a line, a name that is given to the stalkers of don Juan's lineage, so if you've noticed, you also come across the name Grau.

HE:  Right. Florinda Donner Grau and your teacher, or your introduction to the sorcerers' world, Clara Grau.

TA:  Yes, so the stalkers were given the name Abelar and the dreamers were given the name Grau and they alternate generation to generation so even the Naguals are given Grau, the Nagual Julian was Julian Grau, and so that ever other generation, the name alternates, but those are just designators as to the predilection of the person, whether he should be a dreamer or a stalker.

HE:  But don Juan has also used the name Dilas Grau, hasn't he?

TA:  Yes.

HE:  So he would be...

TA:  Grau, that is, Carlos uses that name. Carlos used the name Dilas in some of his uh... The names really don't... We use many many different names depending on what our purpose is. So that right now I am Taisha Abelar because this is the dream that we are dreaming now but those things change and the names just signify the intent that has been set up and its is like an amalgamation of a particular intent and that name triggers that dream.

HE:  I think I understand from my readings what stalking is but for the listeners who don't know what stalking is could you give us a brief description of what stalking is?

TA:  Yes. Stalking is really the the um, the... When the assemblage point moves... Now I think your listeners should be familiar with the term "assemblage point"? Its that position on the luminous... When you see the luminous body as an energy conglomeration, there's one place on it that is very well lit up and that is the center of consciousness and sorcerers call it the assemblage point. When you move that in dreaming, which it moves naturally in sleep, you have to be able to keep it in a position long enough in order to amalgamate or recognize that new reality, because if it just shifts randomly, you have random ah... Like in dreams, your dreams, your perception is very random. But stalking is the ability to maintain the assemblage point fixed in any particular position after it has been displaced through dreaming, so they really go hand in hand.

People say "well she's a stalker, Florinda Donner Grau is a dreamer." No, we're both and thats why the names really aren't rigid or fixed. Every dreamer has to be a stalker because if you don't have that discipline or the ability to keep the assemblage point fixed at any particular position, then the energy is dispersed, you are unable to perceive any reality, including our own, because what we are doing now in this reality, is we're stalking. We're stalking our world, the world of everyday life, by keeping our energy center or assemblage point fixed at a certain position enabling us to perceive the world of everyday life, and stalking on another level is the ability to lets say, flesh out the reality that we perceive by labeling, categorizing, creating order and thats what a stalker does. He takes the perceptions that come to him or her directly via his energy body and he creates order, he creates a structure that is recognizable and real, just as real as the reality of everyday life because we are also doing stalking, just we learned it very, very early when we learned to amalgamate perception and we also learned to do stalking so we could create the agreement that this whatever, world, that we live in is real. And sorcerers do stalking with other dream positions.

HE:  You've done some very interesting positions from what I've gathered in your life and if I might tell the listeners about one of them, it was Sheila Waters, the wonderful business woman...

TA:  Ah yes. You saw a demonstration of that.

HE:  I saw a demonstration of it and if I might tell them a small anecdote, after you were Sheila Waters and when you returned to Taisha Abelar, I came up just to play with you and I asked you "Would Sheila Waters get coffee for the men?"

TA:  Ah yes, I remember.

HE:  And you instantly became Sheila Waters, there wasn't even a microsecond of delay before you answered me as Sheila Waters so your stalking was perfect.

TA:  Of course we were very well trained, I mean all of our adult life, really, was in the sorcerers' world and that is what we have become. We have been dreaming different positions, therefore I say the name Sheila Waters is the name of a position of the assemblage point, a dream position.

In order to shift from one position to the next, the assemblage point has to be absolutely fluid. Stalking maintains it, so it seems to have a rigidity associated with it but it is not rigid the way we are in our everyday life where we maintain this world as the only world, our reality as the only reality and we are incapable of letting go. Especially lets say... Females tend to be more fluid in that they're not the bastions of the social order, where the males, just because our reality of our everyday life demands it, males need to be the upholders of the great institutions which are really institutions created in the domain of intent and consciousness. Even our political systems, our religious systems, the legal, the medical professions, all those are areas where we have put energy and we have built up - sociologists call it "glosses" or interpretive structures, structures of interpretation and those structures have to be held in place via energy, an intersubjective energy, in order that we can all agree what politicians do, or what is done in any other aspect of life.

Stalkers then would go into any of these areas and find out what is the structure, what is the interpretive system and energetically, not just intellectually, because of course, we're not doing any of this just intellectually in our every day world either. We ARE the politicians, we ARE these things. So a stalker would find out energetically the ramifications of any of these structures and then reproduce them energetically, but going back to what I was saying, the males need to uphold those structures, so their assemblage points are very fixed, rigid, so it is difficult for them to move. They are the masterful stalkers.

Its more difficult for them to do dreaming, although of course they do it at night, but if they are going to be doing dreaming like sorcerers do it, they would have to go through the seven gates of dreaming which Carlos Castaneda in his book The Art of Dreaming, he outlines each of these gates that the male sorcerer needs to pass through in order to move his assemblage point. Now females don't have to go through these seven gates, they just can do dreaming very, very naturally because their assemblage point is more fluid and even during their menstrual cycles the assemblage point already begins to shift slightly off of its moorings so that women can perceive things, other things, more readily that are not permissible within our social framework.

HE:  In order to get the energy for dreaming or get the energy for perfect stalking, in your book, you mentioned, at least Clara told you in your book Sorcerers' Crossing that the woman should be celibate. Is that true for a man to?

TA:  Well this question is always charged of course with all kinds of attachments and emotional commitments. It depends, it goes back to the sorcerers' idea, well its not an idea, they have come upon it through seeing, how energetic that person is. If a person was conceived with a great jolt of energy, of course coming from his parents, then he or she may have excess energy so that they don't have to be celibate. We're not saying that people can not get married or have families or anything. There are other avenues that they can express their impeccability in or their Sorcerers' training. But if a person does not have the energy, the initial energy that was given to him at conception, then it is better for them to conserve that energy and to use it for dreaming.

To do dreaming, sorcerers use the original sexual energy and it gets transformed in the energy body. Thats what everyone starts out with, the basic energy. Thats why when we talk about recapitulation, the process of regaining the energy that was spent and still caught in the past, we were told everyone has to make a list of their sexual encounters because that is the basic energy that they can then use to perform other sorcery feats, like dreaming or acquiring internal silence, because if you don't have the energy you can't be silent, now that sounds like a contradiction, but our internal dialog its like something was turned on and it just goes, runs on and on and on and it takes energy to shut it off because its a self propelling mechanism that keeps the social structure, the social order moving.

Our internal dialog, if we pay attention to it really is a constant re-affirmation of the world as we see it and particularly our place in the world, of how we see ourselves, what we want. Don Juan always said, that there's a dysfunction, a deterioration that has happened that gives too much emphasis on the self, that shouldn't really be there for our efficient functioning in our lives. Its an imbalance, too much energy is being given to the defense of the self. Its like a big mouth out there that says ME ME ME ME, it just goes on and on. And the me or the I has to constantly be fed and that takes a tremendous amount of energy.

All our waking hours are either deployed in defending the self, propping up the self, in the presentation of the self in the eyes of others, our daily lives, or in our mating and reproduction areas, in that we need to find love, relationships, marriage, reproduction. There is a mandate to reproduce, a biological mandate, but theres also that mandate to evolve, and to reproduce at this point with the conditions of the world the way they are, it is almost logical or more beneficial to move that energy into the mandate of evolving and reaching some of these other positions of the assemblage point that would in a sense recharge the human being, give him a jolt, an energetic jolt that he so desperately needs in our day and age where everything, even the world is at an energetic low in the sense that our resources are being depleted and physically our bodies aren't in such great shape. So there is that mandate to evolve and use other areas of our totality, our potential as sentient beings and by moving energy away from these areas of the reinforcing the self, the self image, that looking glass self, always making sure we don't lose face, fighting with the petty tyrants in our daily lives, all that takes energy. So the first stage if we want to do... We could call it sorcery, but you don't need to use that term, if we want to expand our perception, we need to redeploy energy from these areas that really take the brunt of our life force and move it elsewhere.

HE:  I have a couple of questions that are just technical questions. The first one is on recapitulating your life. You start by making a list of everybody you've ever met or delt with, especially your sexual partners....

TA:  Yes.

HE:  Then as far as the actual process goes, you take a deep breath starting with your face facing your right shoulder then you sweep across to your left shoulder taking a deep breath in. Then you breath it out as you go to your right shoulder. Then what?

TA:  Then you move your head back to the center.

HE:  Ok, in some places, I think it was in your book or maybe Carol Tiggs mentioned it, a sweeping breath, where you go back and forth with your head a couple of times without breathing after you come to the center. Is that...

TA:  Yes, now the technical aspect of the breathing isn't that crutial, neither is the place where the recapitulation is done and I should point this out because it always comes up "Well I don't have a cave where I can retreat to for a certain amount of time and do the recapitulation." The recapitulation is a wonderful sorcery technique that was handed down from the ancient sorcerers in order to free the energy trapped in the past, our remembered selves, our personal history. Now, that is the intent that is set up.

The most important thing of the recapitulation is to have internal integrity, an unbending purpose and to link yourself to that intent, the intent that is already there, that is in our books, that is set up. How this is done and where this is done and when this is done of course has to depend on individual circumstance.

HE:  Right.

TA:  Because not everyone is out in the desert and not everyone...

HE:  So you can just recapitulate in your car as your driving along without doing the breathing and just so long as your intent is correct?

TA:  Florinda Donner Grau did an enormous recapitulation riding on a bus in Mexico, riding down to Oaxaca under horrendous circumstances if your familiar with the busses.

HE:  Yes, I've been on them.

TA:  And you do many, many different recapitulations. We're recapitulating to this day. Walking down the street now I recapitulate - if something triggers something. Or lets say you're at work and you have a break, you recapitulate there. The reason they say that you should start with a list, and ideally you really should begin with some sort of structure because our concentration is not that well honed at the initial stages and the list does two things. One, first of all we start with the sexual experiences because again as I said that is the main energy that is going to help you do, help give you the energy to do the other areas.

The list serves as a matrix for hooking your concentration and to create a list of everyone you've ever known in your life in itself takes a great deal of concentration and in a way also determines, "Well, do you really want to do the recapitulation?" People start their list and then they stop because its too much effort or they're not really committed.

The list sets it up and then you go from your list and you find a place where if possible, a place that is quiet and puts some pressure on the energy body, the luminous egg is from the point of view of seers, about an arms distance from both... If you extend your arms to both sides and to the front, and draw a circle, that is the size of the luminous egg from the point of view of seerers. The assemblage point for human beings is to the back, between the shoulder blades and arms distance to the back. So if you sit in a car or a cave, a small cave, or in a small closet or in a shower stall, a big box, then you notice there is some pressure exerted on your energy body and that is why sorcerers say that ideally it would be advisable to sit in something like that. It keeps you alert, it stimulates the energy body, but you don't need to do it that way. People with claustrophobia wouldn't feel at all comfortable in small confined spaces so they can do it anywhere, anywhere at all where they can concentrate.

The breathing that accompanies it, in my context I call it the sweeping breath because you sweep and you are actually like a giant broom, you feel like fibers (using your energy body of course) you feel like fibers being swept free of debris and thats the sensation, after you've been recapitulating for awhile, that you will get because you will become aware of your energy body. Recapitulating - this technique works directly on the energy body.

And yes, you can start on your right shoulder, inhaling and you sweep to the left shoulder. As you inhale, you pull back everything that... The energy that was trapped as your visualizing, of course. First you have to set up the scene. That means that you see, you visualize all the detail, in as much detail as possible, the scene, if you're in your living room or whatever, where ever you're sweeping something, you see the couch, the curtains, the TV, the rug, the walls, all the detail and then you put yourself in the scene. Also the people of course, that are there and then you watch for awhile, see what goes on. You see yourself in "action" sorcerers say. This is the only way that you really see yourself.

(tape gap)

From left to right just giving all that back then you bring your head to the center. Or some people begin on their left shoulder and sweep to right inhaling and sweep to the left exhaling.

HE:  Let me tell the listeners that just might have turned on the radio that this is the Earth Mystery Show, I'm Hanes Ealy, our guest today is Taisha Abelar. Taisha Abelar has written a book called The Sorcerers' Crossing. We're talking about some of the techniques described in that book and this is KVMR 89.5 FM.

I have another small technical question that has puzzled me ever since I read your book and that is the dog Manfred, in the book don Juan said that he was part of his sorcerers party...

TA:  Yes.

HE:  And um, and he seemed like one of the most wonderful characters in the book. Tell me about Manfred a little bit.

TA:  Yes. Manfred was, and is because his awareness is still...

HE:  A dog?

TA:  ...in existence. No, he succeeded in going with don Juan's party. He was an old sorcerer that tried to make the crossing. The ancient sorcerers, through dreaming of course, they would take different forms in order to practice their dreaming and those forms, and those forms would be different positions of the assemblage point, but they, depending on their energy and their impeccability, some of them would be trapped in different dream positions and did not make it to the ultimate goal which is total freedom.

Manfred was a sorcerer that was trapped at a dream position which was the energy formation of a dog. He had enough energy at the moment of death or dissolution to get into this form of a dog so that he would not be... So his awareness would not totally be lost. So it was like an escape route that he used and of course he was profoundly one of the tragic cases because his awareness was so keen but his physical form was so limited and he would rage and rage. But on an energetic... This is a good question because when you perceive things, we perceive them in the shape of physical forms, and we are interacting with dogs and trees and people and things, objects. But our energy bodies perceive, can perceive, energy - and sorcerers, don Juan and especially Emilito who really - Manfred was his protege, his ward in that sense, they interacted with him on an energetic level, so he was not a dog. He was an energy being, an entity.

So when I was in Clara's house something in my body, out of I can only explain it - out of affection or compassion, enabled me to transcend seeing Manfred as a dog. I don't like dogs actually. I've always had a fear of dogs since childhood when I was not attacked by a dog, but a dog just sort of tumbled and jumped on top of me and I became terrified, but there was about Manfred that I could see was not a dog. There was an energetic link of pure affection because we were both tragic cases and in that sense we made a pact and we said who ever reaches the freedom, the energy level first will help pull the other one and that was a pact that stays.

Pacts and agreements between sorcerers or potential sorcerers, they last forever, for eternity. They transcend the realm of everyday life because this is not the realm that we really are interested in, we want to move out of this realm so that affection and vows and agreements like that, purpose, have to transcend the ordinary, the level of everyday life, we're not interested in giving in terms of love - human love that is replaceable as soon as you find something better. Sorcerers affection, it just stays forever, it can not be replaced, you can not change the head on the person and now you're loving someone else. Those vows stay forever and we have this agreement and I'm in touch with Manfred because he is pulling me.

He went with don Juan's group when they left. When they reached a certain stage they felt it was to... Ready to go, it was time to leave and they were able, because they had the mass to pull out of the realm of everyday life which is really saying that they had perfected all these other dream positions and their dream bodies to such a state that they could go with their awareness intact and of course Manfred now is the sorcerer that he always was, but he now has the mass of other people, uh not people, but other sorcerers, around him. But he... We definitely have this link and he's helping me to be impeccable. Just as I...

HE:  I love dogs and I love doggyness and everything that Manfred did in that book I still remember as the best part.

TA:  He would actually protect me and take me, show me things. In the beginning, of course, I didn't believe it, I thought he was a dog because my rational, our rational mind is so strong, the glosses, back to this term of glosses, that we have set up that make the world of everyday life perceivable and agreeable are of course so strong, we give all of our energy to the....

HE:  Gloss?

TA:  ...constructs. At this point in our daily life, human beings give all their energy to...

HE:  The mass of the self.

TA:  ...to keep the world in order. So therefore we see dogs and again trees and things like that. To break that perceptual bias takes recapitulating, takes energy.

HE:  Let me take a different tack here for our remaining 20 minutes or so.

TA:  Yes.

HE:  I'm not sure if you're familiar with the works of Bob Monroe, he was one of the first guests on my show. He has written books, Journeys Out of the Body, Our Journeys, basically talking about what he would call astral travel, and his technique that he teaches people involves lying down, relaxing yourself totally to a condition he calls "body asleep, mind awake" and during that process you take all of your past garbage that you can think of and you make up a dumpster, some kind of garbage can and you visualize all that stuff and you throw it in a garbage can and you close the lid to try and break free of all that attachment.

Then you visualize your energy body, the luminous fibers that the sorcerers talk about, and you try and put as much energy into that as you can and from that point forward you do various techniques to get out of your body, but basically you're becoming a focus of conscious awareness outside the body that can travel anywhere in the Universe and do anything it wants. How does that differ from conscious dreaming or the sorcerers idea of dreaming?

TA:  If we look at the book The Art of Dreaming, thats really where the whole structure of what the dreaming process is according to our sorcery tradition. Its outlined there in great detail. So I'm going to just say here that there are many different stages or gates of dreaming that you go through. Now what you've been describing has similarities to some of those stages of dreaming, yes, that first you need to recapitulate, except that this sounds like a very fast process, recapitulating takes, you can't just visualize and throw everything into a dumpster, you have to take every situation, because energy is trapped, every memory, every experience that we've had in our lives is trapped in really a tissue, a cellular level. The more we go back to the details, the more we release everything in our lets say "physical" bodies, we're not just interested in the astral, or energy body, we want to first cleanse the memories that trigger our behavior as we go through everyday life in the world.

Then the relaxation, yes, the first stage of dreaming you would relax and there's that twilight zone between being asleep and awake, and you let go of your memory of the physical body, but if the physical body is so full of emotionally charged memories, if the mind, if you can't quiet your internal dialog, then you wont be able to relax and let go, to even get into that dream state. So everything works hand in hand, the recapitulation enables you to do dreaming by focusing your concentration, by allowing your physical body to release all those charged emotions and allowing it to be empty and fluid. Then you do let go and you can either do dreaming while you're asleep and if you're asleep, then you have to have that control of what your perception is via finding your hands or any other object in the room but that in itself is tremendously difficult unless you've already honed your concentration and your energy body, the awareness of your energy body.

(radio frequency interference noises)

TA:  Oh, are you here?

HE:  Yes, I'm here, theres something weird...

TA:  Is that from you or from me?

HE:  Its not from me.

(interference ends)

TA:  Oh, I've changed channels.

HE:  On the topic of dreaming, I'm sure you get asked this everyday, and that is the difference of sorcerers dreaming and lucid dreaming.

TA:  Yes.

HE:  Could you say that in a short...

TA:  Yes, if you're really lucid, you're doing sorcerers' dreaming. If you have the awareness and control in your dream, then you're doing dreaming. You're assemblage point moved and you can act in that dream as if you were awake.

HE:  Don Juan said that the universe is a predatory universe that there's somebody out there that wants your energy whenever you get a little bit more and the second gate of dreaming, the world of inorganic beings, it sounds very much like that is a world that is very predatory. Is there any danger in attempting this type of dreaming without the supervision of somebody who knows what they are doing?

TA:  No, you don't need the supervision of somebody who knows what they're doing, what you need is sobriety and control. You yourself have to know what you are doing because you go into these dream stages alone.

Females of course don't have to worry because they are so fluid they just flow in and out, they move their assemblage points and the Universe according to sorcerers or seers is basically female energy and these predators, the inorganic beings are more after male energy.

But... This is where the dangers are that you can get trapped, but the traps are really if you indulge. If you haven't recapitulated and you're not fluid enough to not indulge in emotions like fear or affection, because the inorganic beings, they cater to our emotions, they want to give us what we want. Inorganic beings are really just energy formations, we don't want to think of them as beings from outer space. They are energy that seeks energy, and unless... If you're totally indulging and haven't recapitulated and don't have the control, then you become more or less a victim. For example, lets say if in your everyday life - we call it the "Poor Baby syndrome" - If you're always the victim and people are doing everything to you and you complain because the world isn't giving you this and that, you have this sort of defeatist attitude, and then you go into dreaming, well you're taking that with you.

HE:  Isn't that Poor Baby Me, isn't that the modality of our times? Isn't that what we all carry in some sense?

TA:  What we all carry inside. And all our waking days, our television, our radio, everything reinforces that. That is the modality of our day. We are victims. In a sense it is almost true, because we feel we don't have the energy to jolt ourselves out of that and we really don't because of our depletion, our depleted state. Its a self fulfilling cycle, only by redeploying that energy of everyday life, the sorcery passes, the movement, jolting the energy body, recapitulating, only through those sorcery techniques or not doing techniques that actually break that reflexivity, that intersubjective agreement that yes, I am a poor baby, everyone's a poor baby.

Of course everyone reinforces everyone else by giving solace and "let me tell you my problems" and "you don't understand me", "lets share our...". You know we feel great if everyone has problems and we really love people who are worse off than we are but its very difficult to love someone who's strong and happy and here we're the poor babies and they should be loving us. Its hard to give affection, but everyone wants affection.

So these things have to be straightened out, have to be cleared out through the recapitulation, through not doing, through stalking yourself, in the everyday life before you really tackle heavy duty dreaming. Then if you straighten those areas out and if you have a strong energy body, then you go into dreaming like a warrior, like an impeccable being, and what can touch you? Because what can touch you in this world?

If anything can deplete you or weaken you and call forth these poor baby things or self importance - "I'm the greatest thing that ever lived" - in the world of everyday life, then you know for a fact that its going to come up in your dream realities and that was the death-trap, the pitfall of the ancient sorcerers who were masterful dreamers, they could dream, take tremendous journeys into different folds of the braid, like different levels of reality, peels of the onion, astral plane, however you want to call it, the terminology doesn't matter. They would move their assemblage point to all these different levels but because of egomania, they were so rigid in their assertion of the self, and you take your self into dreaming, they got stuck there, they got lets say "bought" by the inorganic beings and they became their slaves in that sense, because of the power that they received from areas of dreaming.

HE:  Given this knowledge that the sorcerers' are now distributing to the world in the form of books and talks, wouldn't the answer be for us as a society or as a race to begin the recapitulation project in childhood, for parents to teach their children recapitulation, to sit around and do it together, to try and break this tyranny of the self before it ever begins?

TA:  Yes they could break that self importance before it begins, but not the recapitulation in terms of... Well, first the parent needs to recapitulate in order to serve as a model lets say for the child. The child emulates the position of the assemblage point of the parent. Whatever the parent is, that is what the child is going to copy and emulate, so if the parents, especially mothers who are so close in contact with their children, recapitulate, clear out some of these areas of self importance then the child won't even focus on these things, they'll be doing their work, they'll be learning, they'll be expanding the perception, they won't get twisted energetically, the way we have become because of a lack of awareness. You can recapitulate together with your children but it is more advisable just to clean up your life first and then serve as an example to the child because they don't have all that much to recapitulate.

HE:  Right, I was thinking that if they held onto their original energy so they wouldn't lose it and started recapitulating at an early age they would never come to the point where they'd have to spend years recapitulating, it would be a natural thing that would just....

TA:  They go out into the world or they'll be able to see what goes on, but that really comes from the parents awareness. If they don't have that impeccability of lets say giving affection without expecting things to return. Not this merchant mentality that we all have that is again a modality of our day, that we always want something, you know, "what's in it for me?". If the parents cling to that, then the child doesn't have a chance but if they recapitulate and be impeccable parents, then those children will be impeccable children and they will have what don Juan calls perfect tonals, that is, their being that is in the world of everyday life will be energetically strong and will have a positive outlook and will be able to function in the world on a high energetic level rather than being defeated by the world and the challenges that we all have to face on a day by day basis.

HE:  What do you see the future of the world in general as, considering that the modality of the time is the poor baby me and the merchant mentality as you mentioned, what hope is there for the spirit of the world in general?

TA:  Its very bleak in the sense that everywhere you look, the egomania is rampant and you can see it, just look for yourself, just open your eyes for a moment and if we look around us, at what's on television, the media, and what we encounter at work, what messages are being given us via the media and our world policies, then we see that the world, the resources are being depleted and yet we don't want to really change our lives and so its a downward spiral.

HE:  Could the energy, assemblage point of the world itself be shifted so that all this changes in the blink of an eye?

TA:  In the blink of an eye? You would need a cataclysm. Sorcerers say, they see that yes, there were times when the assemblage point of the world shifted maybe the ice age or great cataclysms that actually shifted... The earth was actually shifted on its axis at one point. Some people say it actually reversed it's rotation. Those of course are not within our conceptual range, but to shift now, you would need a total upheaval to shift suddenly but you can shift gradually. But in order to do this you can't say "lets save the rainforest" and then you drive your Mercedes or build your house of wood or something like that.

You have to start with yourself, you have to move your assemblage point as an individual and then set up a new arc of intentionality, the sorcerers intent. As it is, we are, our assemblage points are fixed and that spot is getting weaker and weaker because the position of the assemblage point was not always there on our energetic being, just as it wasn't always there on the totality of the earth itself. It has shifted over the ages and it can shift now and that is what sorcerers... that is really our hope, and why we are addressing people at this point, because we know, that it is possible to move the assemblage point and when you do that on an individual basis, you can attract what the sorcerers call "a critical mass." Others will also will be able to move their assemblage points because now we are building a new intersubjective agreement that people who have recapitulated or who are starting are able to say "yes, I see a difference" or people who do the sorcery passes or begin dreaming with integrity not indulging can say "yes, I see the difference in how I perceive the world" and that builds up a new intersubjectivity that revitalizes.

It will revitalize the world, but only if you revitalize you're own energetic self. And then of course, our children, what we talked about a moment ago, if the parents are vital strong human beings, our children will also reflect that and going back to the original, how children are conceived, whether we are energetically conceived or not, parents who have recapitulated and moved their assemblage point and then have a child, have sex and have a child, that offspring will be energetically strong. So all that reinforces itself and you can change.

HE:  I have one question before we go, the hour is winding down and that is, in all of Carlos Castaneda's books and your book and Florinda Donner's book, the idea of telepathy comes up. One of the sorcerers will anticipate your question or will comment about the contents of your thought.

TA:  Yes.

HE:  At what point in the sorcerers training does one become telepathic?

TA:  At the point where you quiet the internal dialog. When you no longer have your self being reaffirmed constantly in consciousness, when you no longer have any worries about "Whats going to happen to me?" or worries about your job or worries about everyday life, when you're silent, then you develop... And through the recapitulation, when you start jolting your energy body, you develop what the sorcerers call the "seer" in you or you could call it an emissary or the voice of seeing and that is just something that tells you. It doesn't have to be verbal, its a feeling that "oh they're thinking this" and sometimes you can even hear the thoughts of the other person.

HE:  You were a Buddhist monk for a number of years. You stalked the position of a male Buddhist monk.

TA:  Yes.

HE:  Does that position of quieting the internal thinking result in that discipline as well.

TA:  Of course there's many, many meditation techniques and the monks are... of any, it doesn't have to be Buddhist, in any sect... Zen... that is their goal to quiet inside. Originally, no, I had already done the recapitulation prior to any of this and some of the not doing techniques so I was able to stalk these positions, but that is not to say that if you practice Zen meditation you can't quiet your internal dialog.

There's many, many meditation techniques that shut off the internal dialog, but that is not enough, that's one thing I would like to say that just to have it quiet inside is fine, but what happens when you go back to work and you're surrounded by people and an angry boss or at home and your children and people are yelling at you? You want to be able to have silence and equanimity and resolve in any situation, so we were always sent back into work situations, into school, academic situations, where we would practice quieting the internal dialog. Not really sitting in zazen or a cave where you can practice meditation because I know and I have talked to Buddhist monks now, the Tibetan monks that have come to Los Angeles and they say its very difficult to maintain their equanimity and the same thing happened in China when the Chinese went up to the mountains where the Taoist temples were and more or less turned them into tourist spots, the monks say that now that the world has entered their domain they have destroyed some of the silence that they have built up, which is true, but sorcerers' say "Build up your silence not on a mountain top but within yourself" and that is what quieting the internal dialog means to us.

HE:  I think we're going to have to end at that point. Our guest today on the Earth Mystery Show is Taisha Abelar, she's written a wonderful book entitled The sorcerers' crossing, I'd highly recommend reading that and I'd recommend reading it in conjunction with Florinda Donner's book Being in Dreaming and Carlos Castaneda's book, The Art of Dreaming, the three of them really paint a picture thats hard to describe on the air.

Taisha, after I invited Florinda Donner to come up and do a seminar or lecture in our area she said she would, or she would like to and we had a tide of phone calls and letters saying "let me know, let me know, I want to hear those people." I'm extending the same invitation to you and to Carol Tiggs. Please put it into your dreams to come to the Grass Valley, Nevada City area and let us see you in person.

TA:  We would love to come up there. We'll put out the intent...
(end of tape)

Copyright 1993 KVMR Radio



1993 - Magical Blend - No. 40 - Taisha Abelar Interview by Keith Nichols


Version 2011.07.09

Magical Blend #40 - 1993

An Exclusive Interview With Taisha Abelar
of Carlos Castaneda's Elusive Sorcerer's Clan.

Magical Blend Magazine, issue 40, October 1993.

"Reflections on don Juan by Carlos Castaneda"

by Keith Nichols

Real root expansion of thought is one that causes us to reevaluate the way that we interpret our reality. Although at first it may only affect our intellectual perspectives, its repercussions over time carry through our culture and civilization, changing the forms of who we are and what we will be. Root expansions are rare because they entail a breaking of any ethos or system of thought. Since the late sixties, an interesting root expansion occurred with the entry of the sorcerer apprentice Carlos Castaneda and his books about the training he received under the Mexican Indian sorcerer named don Juan. His books are a hallmark of the present-day urge to return to a cultural ethos where wonder, magic, and spiritual abilities break the chains that strict reason and cynicism have placed upon our realities. Taisha Abelar, sorcerer and author of The Sorcerer's Crossing, is one of the members of Carlos Castaneda's sorcerers' party. In this interview she discusses her lineage, how they see the mechanics of the energy body, and some of her sorcerer's techniques for attaining spiritual and perceptual freedom by breaking the intellectual and energetic chains that bind.

"If you try to hold back your present knowledge about the consequences of Columbus' trip and project yourself into his situation, then you can begin to see that our present moon exploration must be like a tea party compared to what he went through. Moon exploration doesn't involve any real root exploration of thought....It's really just an expansion of what he did." Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Could you tell us how you got involved with sorcery?

Taisha Abelar:   I met don Juan and his people when I was in my twenties. Most of my adult life was actually spent under their guidance and training. Don Juan belonged to a generation of sorcerers that have 27 Naguals, or spiritual leaders, behind him. Each Nagual had his certain apprentices that learned dreaming, stalking, and a number of other things. The techniques that we learned have a historical background that dates far back in this long line of sorcerers.

Are there any differences between the ancient and modern sorcerers?

Taisha:   Yes, when we talk about the ancient sorcerers we think in terms of manipulating people, amassing power, and controlling the entities from other realms or realities. As this tradition was handed down, subsequent seers realized that the practices of the ancient sorcerers didn't lead to freedom. Instead, it lead to a dependence upon rituals and compulsive behavior, such as the amassing of power and the enhancement of the self. Yet these practices were very effective in making the sorcerers very powerful beings who could control other people, command the elements in nature (such as rain), transform themselves into different animals, or perform other feats of sorcery. Despite these powers, modern sorcerers realized that power alone didn't lead to true freedom. Instead, most of the ancient sorcerers became entrapped behind what we call the Second Gate of Dreaming.

Can you explain what you mean by the Second Gate of Dreaming?

Taisha:   When the body changes energetically into the energy body, that energy can perceive "other realities," or other aspects of the universe. What is presented before us, or what we see now this room, that wall, the street outside is not the only reality that exists. Yet the modern seers saw that the ancient rituals and training didn't lead to the ultimate goal: freedom from entrapment within any reality; whatever that reality may be.

How have the techniques changed with the modern seers?

Taisha:   The techniques that were handed down to us were the only ones that they saw were the most likely to enable the practitioner to attain total liberation. This total liberation for us is freedom from "humanness" or anything human, and the ability to utilize the total potential of oneself. These techniques are the recapitulation and certain dreaming practices.

When did the division between the ancient sorcerers and the modern sorcerers occur during history?

Taisha:   The division came at the time of the Spanish Conquests of Mexico. When the Spaniards came, most of the ancient sorcerers were destroyed. In spite of their ability to turn into animals or harness the elements or manipulate allies, their power was unable to withstand the onslaught of the Spaniards. The ancient sorcerers were unable to affect the Spaniards because their culture was so strong and fixed that sorcery had almost no effect on them. The Spaniards were operating within a different cognitive field, or reality. Another turning point occurred within Don Juan's lineage in 1725 when an entity came into contact with the Nagual, Sebastian.

Who was that entity?

Taisha:   We call him the Death-defier. He is really one of the ancient sorcerers who had survived many hundreds of years by being entrapped behind one of the Gates of Dreaming. His consciousness was still intact, but there was no way that he could escape because of his training. We learned that inorganic beings who inhabit certain realms of dreaming entrapped the male sorcerers who entered because they preyed on their energy. The only way the Death-defier could escape was by making a pact with different Naguals in Don Juan's lineage. From that point on, he merged with our lineage and gave gifts of power in exchange for their energy.

What kind of gifts did the Death-defier give?

Taisha:   He gave different positions of what we call the Assemblage Point. We see that there is a place on the luminous cocoon or energetic body that is very bright. That place we call the Assemblage Point because it lights up filaments on lines of energy upon the energetic body. We have seen that when certain fibers light up, an alignment takes place with similar fibers outside the energetic body within the universe at large, that in turn, causes perception to occur. Sorcerers see that in order to perceive reality, this matching of the energetic filaments within and without the luminous cocoon always takes place. The Death-defier gave to this lineage the different positions of this Assemblage Point or the ability to perceive different realities, for each position lights up inconceivable possibilities. He gave each Nagual a different number of possible points, and these were handed down. The new sorcerers coming from this transition stage realized that sorcery really is a question of perception. A definition of sorcery is the ability to perceive more than the average human being, whose perception of the universe is limited because s/he has only one place of the Assemblage Point: the one into which s/he is born. As the seers became more experienced, they realized that any of these other positions were just as limiting as the reality to which man was born into. This had led us to realize that our goal is not to fix ourselves at any permanent position. This is what happened to the Death-defier; he was trapped at a certain position of the Assemblage Point.

How do you keep from being trapped?

Taisha:   Our practices are geared toward not becoming fixated at any one particular position. The recapitulation is one such method. All of the ancients' practices enhanced the elf to such an extent that they were no longer able to move or be fluid. This was one of the principle reasons why they were trapped in the different realms. So now we seek fluidity.

What is recapitulation?

Taisha:   The recapitulation is a method of bringing back all of the energy trapped in the world in order to have it available to use for other things. It enables one to see that the reality to which you're born isn't the only reality, but merely a fixation of energy. When an infant is born, his Assemblage Point is very erratic; he isn't able to perceive as a functional human being. As he matches the adults around him, his energetic body emulates their position. Energetically, he patterns himself on those who are around him. We all have the position of our Assemblage Points on more or less the same place, enabling us to perceive the same reality. The recapitulation enables you to move that point by using a psychic process of extending your breath to call back any energy you've left throughout your lifetime. Every epoch is characterized by what don Juan calls the "modality of the times": a specific pattern of ideas or cultural ethos. The modality of our times is what's on our televisions, in our books and newspapers. We're constantly bombarded with certain themes and ideas that we have to adhere to. Sorcerers call this ethos of our day the "poor baby, me" syndrome because everyone out there is dominated by that sentiment. It's not only a poor baby world, it's a poor baby universe with black holes consuming constellations and planets. Sorcerers see that our energy is constantly being consumed by something else. In order to go where we want to go, we have to have energy. In our waking state, all of our energy is used up in our waking concerns: our jobs, our families, or wherever we are. To move away from that position, we have to have extra energy. The recapitulation is the fundamental means of storing that energy.

How does one recapitulate?

Taisha:   First, you make a list of everyone you've known in your lifetime, every person you've ever come across. That, in itself, is an endeavor of intense concentration. Just making the list loosens up things and enables you to focus your attention on something specific. When you have your list, find a place that puts pressure on the energetic body, like a closet. Sit comfortably and begin with the first person on your list. Work backward, recapitulating or visualizing all the situations in which you encountered this person, those interactions in which energy was exchanged. See yourself interacting and going through all sorts of energetic maneuvers in order to maintain the situation. We all construct our reality energetically. Even when we are just driving down the street, we're constructing. We take that act for granted and say that the street is always there. But really, we're all sorcerers who are constituting the world around us, and we're agreeing upon it's tacticity. [Sic.] Through recapitulating, you take back energy of the past that is lost in your personal history and hangs around you like a comet's tail of debris. To disentangle yourself from your remembered pasts, start at your right shoulder and, moving your head from right to left, breathe in. Then, turn your head back again and exhale, sending everything back that you no longer want to be connected with. Then bring the head back to the center again. You don't have the sensation with every image, but you breathe everything out deeply, sending out lines with each breath. When you have pulled your energy back, breathe that in as a clump and proceed on until there is no more energy left there. The scene will be vacuous, empty because there's no energetic component in it.

What effect does recapitulating have on your life?

Taisha:   You'll find that your attachment with your family and friends will be lessened. You can still interact with them, but you're no longer attached to them because you won't have that energetic dependence upon them.

What is stalking?

Taisha:   Stalking is the ability to fixate the Assemblage Point on any given position in order to give structure and coherence to chaotic perception. We're stalking our realities every day, every minute, finding out what it means to drive down this street or be in the mall. Stalking means to make our categorization schemes of objects and things that we know by names.

How do sorcerers see dreaming?

Taisha:   Dreaming is a movement of the Assemblage Point that we do naturally when we sleep. That's our energetic body randomly moving. Dreaming for sorcerers is the control of one's dreams. You have to stalk your dreams, which is really just moving your point to a new location on purpose and holding it there for as long as your dreaming energy can allow you to do so. When you find yourself in a dream world, before it shifts away and turns into something else, you want to hold that reality and stalk it. If you're a very practiced stalker and dreamer then that reality can become your only reality. That's what happened to the ancient sorcerers when they became entrapped in another realm and could no longer return to our normal reality. In fact, time wiped out the reality into which they were born. Because they were able to sustain their energy within that reality for a longer period of time, hundreds of years they found themselves unable to return to our own because the modality was gone. When we stalk our realities, we never keep any of them as the primary reality. The minute we think that this or any other reality is the primary one, then we become imprisoned at that level, no matter where it may be.

What do you think is the significance of publishing The Sorcerers' Crossing and all of the other information about your lineage?

Taisha:   The reason that you and I can even talk is because of the tremendous necessity of altering the modality of our culture. Sorcerers say that inside the modality of our day, the prognosis is totally negative. If change is to come, it has to come from outside to show that movement is possible. We have put out this information, not as information, but as a possibility. First of all, it's an idea that people can grab hold of in order to realize there is something out there besides our popular culture, dominated by the "poor baby" syndrome. We are imprisoned in this reality as much as the Death-defier is imprisoned behind the second Gate of Dreaming. The Death-defier has said that the position of mankind has been pretty much the same for thousands of years with only minute changes. There were shifts in the Renaissance when man's perception of God shifted, causing a perceptual shift of himself. Another shift must have occurred in the Grecian times when we went from being able to see and have contact with fairies and gods to believing it was a myth or a product of man's imagination. So, there are shifts from things that we no longer perceive. Our lineage's contact with the larger cultural ethos of man is causing another shift: away from reason and a confined sense of reality toward a system where everything is alive and has awareness that we can perceive.

Where do you see your group going after death?

Taisha:   I see ourselves going into a never-ending revolution. We are merging with that inconceivable, unnamable force of which we are just a tiny speck. The less human we are energetically, the more we merge with the vastness. That might sound cold and heartless, but it's not. Sorcerers have feelings and tremendous affection, but they're almost impersonal. They're part of the energy that comes from a state of well-being. When your energetic body is in a healthy state, you have strong, positive feelings that come from the universe itself. Everything out there is aware and intelligent and is part of Intent itself. Affection is there; you need only link yourself to it to feel it. It doesn't stem from the personal self. These things are out there. It's not cold empty space. With the dreaming body you can move beyond the limitations of the body, take on different forms, and perceive reality from those configurations, which means you can go through walls and move into sheer energy that is our quest. When this merging takes place through evolution, we move into a different realm. We move away from anything human. Our apelike existence just falls away like prison bars and what remains is really inconceivable. The structure of language can't contain the vastness of silence that whispers to you directly without words. We won't stop knowing or becoming aware, because it'll trickle down from Intent. The awareness that fills you with wonder is our link to the vastness.

(The Sorcerers' Crossing, by Taisha Abelar, is available from Viking Penguin Press. Keith Nichols is a freelance writer, clairvoyant, and editor located in Berkeley, California.)

Copyright October 1993 Magical Blend Magazine



1993 - Phoenix Bookstore notes from a Carlos Castaneda Lecture - 1


Version 2011.07.09


November 28, 1993

The Phoenix Book Store - Los Angeles, CA - Lecture by Carlos Castaneda.


DREAMING:

Don Juan said there is no evil... and that we can't feel compassion. Is that feeling sorry for someone else? Does that mean I believe I'm better off than they are? It's the ego that feels sorry, and the whole idea of feeling sorry is fraudulent. Use your energy for something else, to free yourself. You save energy by the exercise of recapitulation. Through recapitulation you will come to the place where energy becomes visible. Not by sight but by something incomprehensible. Something that's incomprehensible because we have no lexicon for it. When you see it, you realize you were doing it.

Not Doing is the cognitive dissonance that unentangles your awareness. The disarrangement of the world by doing something absurd. We must realize the world is an arrangement. It could be tying your shoes in a different way.

The dreamer through the teaching of sorcery is a warrior who sees himself as something indescribable, undefinable and open-ended. He has no limitation. No frame. He takes anything that comes as a challenge, and is never a loser even if he is biting the dust.

One of the of the most important things for a warrior to do is to keep an Album of Sublime Moments. Get out of the brain of the beast. We are repetitious. Where is our sense of pride? We must examine everything, curtail our routines, throw cognitive dissonance into them in order to become a sorcerer. We can see energy as it flows, why permit the brain of the beast to stop us.

The dreamer is capable of using his dreams as a trap door or a spring board into infinity. But we've used our dreams only in analytical, psychological, or scientific ways. To dream as a warrior, is to dream as one who has taken the responsibility of dying.

Dreams are precise. Something is drawn to fields of luminosity. The assemblage point becomes displaced. Fibers of energy are shooting off in thousands of directions. If the point becomes displaced we move into an entirely different world. Dreaming is the art of maintaining the assemblage point in a new position. If we had the opportunity, we could all become first class Dreamers.

The further we displace the assemblage point the more terrifying the dream. Our mind supplies order on these experiences. When these dreams become overlaid with demonic images. It's the way we anthropomorpize experience. Take Dreaming as a formal enterprise and the demonic disappears. The difficulty is to discipline ourselves so that nothing that happens in the dream will be upsetting.


The steps in dreaming:

Become aware that you are falling asleep.

Before going to sleep say 'I am a Dreamer'. It's a matter of stating your intent. Don't be concerned if you are a Dreamer or not, the mind won't know the difference. It's not lying to yourself. In linear affairs we think of it as lying. That should be nothing new, we lie to ourselves all the time.

So intend Dreaming from the point of view that we are going to die. As if it's a matter of life and death. What are you saving yourself for, senility? Are we waiting to shout "Nurse" in a restaurant?

What have they done to you? Don Juan would ask that question of me over and over. It needed to be repeated because I was stupid.

This is not the best of all possible worlds. Something is holding us back from seeing. From the point of view of one who is going to die the warrior becomes aware and the world is never the same. This is incredible. He sees the intruder in his dreams. They are scouts from inconceivable worlds. They use awareness as a sea. We can go anywhere if we have the energy. If we get rid of our self-importance.

A warrior takes leaps of incalculable lengths because he wants to know. My fate is to roam the infinite. We are travelers, traveling is our fate. In accepting the responsibility of his death the warrior gets an incredible boost. He can put an end to his self - importance and move to another level. You don't have to lower your head to anyone.

After finding the intruder in your dreams you can stop the dream and ask it to take you where it comes from. The intruder is compelled to take your awareness to other worlds. Stupendous worlds, a twin universe. The Dreamer then becomes a reconnoiter, a scout himself. The twin universe is alive, it's a world of awareness. The inorganic beings are teachers from a female universe that is in search of males. Women are replicas of inorganic beings on earth.

The battle is in this other world, and we will enter this universe whether we like it or not. It's unavoidable. The sorcerers are pragmatists. (What is exactly is this battle that happens in the other world?) Why wait until you die? Do it now while you are young and vigorous. Stop being so involved with your self importance. Always thinking me, and what I want until were too old to do anything else. Until the only thing we can say is "nurse." Be aware now. This is the moment and dreaming is the way. The Dreamer, having saved enough energy will get the jolt of his life when he enters the other world. It's inconceivable. What are we really? Not what my father told me. We are something else.

There are seven stages to Dreaming. The first is to be aware the you are falling asleep. This is so you will remain conscious during the dream state. Then once in the dream state and you can hold it as long as you don't stare. Once you begin to awaken in your dreams you will begin to get more energy. You will be stronger the next day.

Become aware in your dreams, this is the first stage. If you don't insist and set up intent your energy will then pull you. Let it happen. The pull of intent will break the parameters of historical perception.

If you recapitulate your life seriously, you will get enough energy. Only as warriors can we realize what we are.

In the first stage we examine everything, every element in our dreams. We begin by becoming aware that you are falling asleep. But that's not the goal of the technique. This is only to fool the mind. The real technique is to become aware of the elements of our ordinary dreams.

In dreaming, we can easily shift the assemblage point. Even a slight shift of the assemblage point will create a new person. We are putting an end to the old and becoming a new person.

Don Juan said the "here" and "there" are exchangeable, we do it all the time with our energy bodies. The energy body is the sum total projected out.

What have they done to us to make us so resistant? The terrible damage that society has done to us can be corrected by dreaming.

The next step or Gate of Dreaming is to wake up from the dream into another dream.

Once you have acquired the energy from recapitulation and dreaming you can lie down in the dream in the same position that you originally fell asleep in and move into another dream. When you enter a dream inside a dream you enter a state that is inconceivable and will blow your mind. This is the secret of the twin positions.

The secret of secrets is to claim it. We only need energy. This is real, not theory, and as a practitioner, I say we all can do it.

Eventually in Dreaming everything will shift. One day your attention becomes arrested or fixed by something in the dream and you don't know why. You won't be able to move until it releases you.

You're attention is caught by an inorganic being. They have more awareness than us but we have more energy. We are like powerful bullets of energy that burn brightly. They last forever and their awareness can hold us.

Now we will begin to here the voice of the Emissary. It will answer any questions. When we hear its voice as a woman we are hearing its true voice. It is by nature female.

Don't indulge yourself with the dream Emissary. Tell it to stay out of your affairs. Don't let it feed off you for free.

There is a wave that hits us and we turn it into sadness-- But it's from out there? "I never thought I was going to live forever, let's do it. Turn me loose,"

Practice the Not Doing of the album of the sublime. It will create the cognitive dissonance.

Create an album to remind you of your sublime moments. Of things and thoughts that have astounded you. The real revolution is in the next world. It easy to get involved in political protest, but what's the point. Do something from the point of view of a man who is going to die.

What have they done to you? What are you doing to yourself to your body? Look how you live. Stop smoking.

What have they done to you? Our natural heritage is to live and die like morons. This is the time for revolution.



Copyright assigned without charge to Carlos Castaneda.



1993 - Phoenix Bookstore notes from a Carlos Castaneda Lecture - 2



Version 2011.07.09

Phoenix Bookstore - Dec 1993

An anonymous submission of notes taken at the Phoenix Book Store with Carlos Castaneda in Los Angeles, CA, December 1993


Setting up of the Path of the Warrior:

A Nagual is a person with a double energy configuration. There were 27 Naguals in don Juan's line. Don Juan called it sorcery. I think I could call it something else. Maybe Nagualism?

Don Juan was teaching a way to break the psychological conditioning of the cognitive division that keeps us cut off from our sources. The world, as we perceive it, was formed a priori. It was given to us.

The most important thing don Juan said was that all our energy is engaged in defending our self. All of our effort goes into that. We have been involved defending our self-concept for so long that we don't even notice.

It's time we begin to find out for ourselves. Begin to "recapitulate" our life. Every action, every event, to find the "hinge" that represents our life. Our hinge is the way we relate to people.

When I began to recapitulate I found I related to the world as a baby. I felt sorry for myself. My whole life was nothing but the endless repetition of this fact.

When don Juan had me recapitulate my life I saw how I spent my life defending this position. This was a horrendous realization. All I wanted was for someone to listen to my sad story and feel sorry for me.

These ideas of self importance blind us so much that we can't see anything else, but it's possible to dislodge one's self from ideas of self importance. Another way we do remain blind is by thinking fulfilment will come when we find a companion. We can even be married and still keep searching for someone to fulfil our needs. "She's just my wife."

We don't want to give, we are incredibly selfish, we only want to receive.

Warriors, seers, Naguals, love without asking, in this world or beyond, for anything in return.

We don't notice this self-importance that rules our existence. If we did we wouldn't do what we do to our bodies.

The idea of the self is not ours, it's time we untangle it. Don Juan gave a series of premises so we could begin to see what has happened to us, what they have done to us. Not as a comparison but as an enquiry.

Once I worked for a psychiatrist, as a research assistant, transcribing case histories from tapes. He had 3000 tapes with their stories. When I listened to the tapes I discovered they were all me. Their stories were my stories. Don Juan used to ask me what was my uniqueness. There was nothing unique about me.

There were 3000 different people on those tapes and they all were me. There's nothing unique, but there is something magical about us, we're all going to die. Don Juan pulled me out of the social order so I could see that they don't care if I lived or died. It is destroying us. Why do we adhere to this absurd social order that only leads to our destruction.


Affection, love - is only need.

If you examine the social order through yourself you will see it's not leading anywhere. Look at the social order not as a comparison but as an examination. A full realization of the social order and we see it has no meaning or purpose. Is it money or the other things we think has value? Or is it the biological imperative?

Recapitulation is a way to attack self-importance. We need the energy that is supplied by an unbiased examination of reliving our horse-shit, our self-importance.

Recreational drugs, ecstasy San Pedro? Saint Peter! We can't find meaning from that. Dope makes us incapable of sustaining pressure. Don Juan used plants to heal and train my attention because I didn't have an ounce of it.

Instead of using drugs to find the magic in life there's something much better.

Self-discipline. It's the only way out of the trap of the social order. With self discipline we can do wonders. The warrior that is aware of death, he is aware of the trap of social order, he is aware of the trap of self-importance, he is aware of the trap of reason, wants only freedom. Freedom is a leap into the inconceivable.

Self-discipline is not catholic, it is fluid and free-flowing enjoyment that comes from 25 hours of awareness.

These are the basic patterns of responsibility for a warrior: Don't ask stupid questions. Don't say I don't understand, or could you tell me why. There is no rational explanation. If you want to know you have to try it-- experiment.

1. Accepting that you are going to die. Death is non-negotiable, everyone that lived dies. Grab the idea and assume the responsibility that you are going to die.

Naming it aloud is the primal force that obeys our call and we never use it. Say out loud, "I want the responsibility that I'm going to die". It has to be said out loud, you just can't think it. Power is not a mind reader. As you progress there will be an adjustment. Make your word final. A warrior has the consistency to stand by his word. Be committed to something for once in your life even if it's your death. A warrior dies for his word. Saying something aloud is mysterious and magical but it's subtle. The loud and clear voicing of your intent is the secret of secrets. Do it. Look in unknown places. Assume the responsibility to stand in front of the boundless. It isn't weak-- it doesn't respond to supplication-- it will piss on you. It doesn't care. With the first premise alone you can have a stupendous experience. We have never been able to explain, with words alone.

We should sue the term index. We carry the world in us. The answer has to be constructed and we accept it. A warrior must stop right here.

2. The most important thing for a warrior is to voice the responsibility of perceiving.

We have no purpose, nothing to look forward to but senility.

Everything is possible. We are already magicians. Go to the bottom, the lowest level and formulate the world on what's there. At the bottom is death. I'm a human being therefore I am sublime. Voice your intent to be someone else to heal yourself. When I was ill I just jumped. I did what don Juan said. Disease is merely an indulgence. I loved my pain. You change your channel by voicing your intent. Then comes the Cloak of Confidence. Timidity and stiffness is our enemy. It's not reasonable to believe that wings are the only way to fly. There are other options. Look for them. Ask a being who is going to die. Ask the mirror. Something will happen.

3. The third item for a warrior is indebtedness. Who am I indebted to now for this? Become responsible for what is given to you. Acquire a new kit. In receiving a teaching you are responsible for it. You are indebted for the rest of your life. Only something out there can cancel it out. You are responsible for seeing what sustains us. In paying you become free, if you refuse you become entangled by it. A being that is going to die assumes responsibility. Without responsibility we're only egomanics.

The pee is for the Baba. Suffice it to say everything that comes out of the Baba is sacred.

In the next talks I'll talk about Dreaming, then Stalking and finally I'll talk about the ethereal man. I won't hold anything back. I tell you as a witness-- I've been there. I've seen incredible things. It's like tears in the rain.



Copyright assigned without charge to Carlos Castaneda.



1994 - Details Magazine - You Only Live Twice by Bruce Wagner


Notes from interviews of Taisna Abelar, Carlos Castaneda, Florinda Donner-Grau, and Carol Tiggs


Version 2011.07.09

DETAILS MAGAZINE. March 1994.

"You Only Live Twice" - by Bruce Wagner

With his vision of a separate reality, Carlos Castaneda transfixed a generation. In a rare interview, the legendary sorcerer talks to Bruce Wagner about don Juan, freedom, dreaming, and death - and the funny things that happen on the way to infinity.


YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE

Carlos Castaneda doesn't live here anymore.

After years of rigorous discipline-years of warriorism- he has escaped the ratty theater of everyday life. He is an empty man, a funnel, a teller of tales and stories; not really a man at all, but a being who no longer has attachments to the world as we know it. He is the last nagual, the cork in a centuries-old lineage of sorcerers whose triumph was to break the "agreement" of normal reality. With the release of his ninth book, The Art of Dreaming, he has surfaced-for a moment, and in his way.


COMMON SENSE KILLS

Castaneda: "My name is Carlos Castaneda.

"I would like you to do something today. I would like you to suspend judgment.

"Please: don't come here armed with 'common sense'. People find out I'm going to be talking- however they hear- and they come to 'dis' Castaneda. To hurt me. 'I have read your books and they are infantile,' or, 'All of your later books are boring.'

"Don't come that way. It's useless. Today I want to ask you, just for an hour, to open yourself to the option I'm going to present. Don't listen like honor students. I've spoken to honor students before; they're dead and arrogant. Common sense and idealities are what kill us. We hold onto them with our teeth- that's the 'ape'.

"That's what don Juan Matus called us: insane apes.

"I have not been available for thirty years. I don't go and talk to people. For a moment, I'm here. A month, maybe two... then I'll disappear. We're not insular, not just now. We cannot be that way. We have an indebtedness to pay to those who took the trouble to show us certain things. We inherited this knowledge; don Juan told us not to be apologetic. We want you to see there are weird, pragmatic options that are not beyond your reach. I get exotic enjoyment at observing such flight-pure esotericism. It is for my eyes only. I'm not needy; I don't need anything. I need you like I need a hole in the head. But I am a voyager, a traveler. I navigate- out there. I would like others to have the possibility."


THIS WAY OUT

The navigator has spoken before groups in San Francisco and Los Angeles, and his cohorts- Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar, and Carol Tiggs- have given lectures, 'Toltec Dreaming-The Legacy of Don Juan', in Arizona, Maui, and at Esalen. In the last two years, Donner-Grau's and Abelar's books, in which they discuss Castaneda and their tutelage under don Juan Matus, have entered the marketplace: 'Being-in-dreaming' and 'The Sorcerer's Crossing', respectively.

The accounts of these two women are a phenomenological mother lode, bona fide chronicles of their initiation and training. They are also a great windfall, for never have readers of Castaneda had access to such direct illuminating reinforcement of his experience. Castaneda says, "The women are in charge. It is their game. I am merely the Filipino chauffeur".

Donner-Grau describes the collective consensus of these works as 'inter-subjectivity among sorcerers'; each one is like a highly individualistic road map of the same city.

They are 'energetic' enticements, a perceptual call to freedom rooted in a single, breathtaking premise. We must take responsibility for the non-negotiable fact that we are beings who are going to die. One is struck by the cogency of their case, and for good reason. The players, all Ph.D.'s from UCLA's department of anthropology, are stupendous methodologists whose academic disciplines are in fact oddly suited for describing the magical world they present- a configuration of energy called 'the second attention'. Not a place for the timid New Ager.


THE OFFENDING PARTY

Castaneda: "I do not lead a double life. I live this life: There is no gap between what I say and what I do. I am not here to pull your chain, or to be entertaining.

"What I am going to talk about today are not my opinions- they are those of don Juan Matus, the Mexican Indian who showed me this other world. So don't be offended! Juan Matus presented me with a working system backed by twenty seven generations of sorcerers. Without him I would be an old man, a book under my arm, walking with students on the quad. See, we always leave a safety valve; that's why we don't jump. 'If all else fails, I can teach anthropology.' We are already losers with losers' scenarios. 'I'm Dr. Castaneda... and this is my book, The Teachings of Don Juan. Did you know it's in paperback?'

"I would be the 'one book' man- the burnt-out genius. 'Did you know it's in a twelfth edition? It's just been translated into Russian.'

"Or maybe I'd be parking your car and mouthing platitudes: 'It's too hot... it's fine, but it's too hot. It's too cold... it's fine, but it's too cold. I gotta go to the tropics'..."


SORCERY ACTION THEATER

In 1960, Castaneda was a graduate student in anthropology at UCLA. While in Arizona researching the medicinal properties of plants, he met a Yaqui Indian, don Juan Matus, who agreed to help. The young field-worker offered five dollars an hour for the services of his picturesque guide.

The usher refused.

Unbeknownst to Castaneda, the old peasant in huaraches was a peerless sorcerer; a nagual who artfully drafted him as a player in the 'Myth of Energy'. Abelar calls it 'Sorcery Action Theater'.

In payment for his services, don Juan asked for something different: Castaneda's 'total attention'.

The astonishing book born of this encounter- 'The Teachings of Don Juan: a Yaqui Way of Knowledge'- became an instant classic, neatly blowing the hinges off the doors of perception and electrifying a generation. Since then, he has continued 'to peel away at the onion', adding journals of his experience, magisterial elucidations of nonordinary realities that erode the self. A sweeping title for the work might be the 'Disappearance of Carlos Castaneda'.

"We need," he says, "to find a different word for sorcery. It's too dark. We associate it with medieval absurdities: ritual, evil.

"I like 'warriorism' or 'navigation.' That's what sorcerers do - they navigate."

He has written that a working definition of sorcery is 'to perceive energy directly'. Sorcerers said that the essence of the universe resembled a matrix of energy shot through by incandescent strands of consciousness- actual awareness. Those strands formed 'braids' containing all-inclusive worlds, each as real as this ours is merely one among an infinity. The sorcerers call the world we know the 'human band', or 'the first attention'.

They also 'saw' the essence of the human form. It was not merely an ape-like amalgamation of skin and bones, but an eggshaped ball of luminosity capable of traveling along those incandescent strands to other worlds.

Then what holds us back?

The sorcerers' idea is that we are entombed by social upbringing; tricked into perceiving the world as a place of hard objects and finalities. We go to our graves denying we are magical beings; our agenda is to service the ego instead of the spirit. Before we know it, the battle is over- we die squalidly shackled to the Self.

Don Juan Matus made an intriguing proposition: What would happen if Castaneda redeployed his troops?- if he freed the energy routinely engaged by the aggressions of courtship and mating?- if he curtailed self-importance and withdrew from the 'defense, maintenance, and presentation' of the ego- if he ceased to worry whether he was liked, acknowledged, or admired? Would he gain enough energy to see a crack in the world?

And if he did, might he go through? The old Indian had hooked him on the 'intent' of the sorcerers' world.

But now what does Castaneda do during the day?

Talks to the crazy apes- for now, anyway- in private homes, ballet studios, bookstores. They make pilgrimages from the world over- icons of 'New Awareness': past, present, and future; energy groupies, shrinks and shamans, lawyers, Deadheads, drummers, debunkers and lucid dreamers, scholars, socialites and seducers, channelers, meditators and moguls, even lovers and cronies 'from 10,000 years ago'. Furious note takers come, junior naguals in the making.

Some will write books about him; the lazier ones, chapters. Others will give seminars- that is, for a fee.

"They come," he says, "to listen for a few hours, and the next weekend they are giving lectures on Castaneda. That's the ape."

He stands before them hours at a time enticing and exhorting their energy bodies, and the effect is hot and cold all at once, like dry ice.

With numinous finesse, he wrests savage tales of freedom and power like scarves from the empty funnel- moving, elegant, obscene, hilarious, bloodcurdling, and surgically precise. "Ask me anything!" comes the entreaty. "What would you like to know?"

Why were Castaneda and Co. making themselves accessible? Why now? What was in it for them?


THE ENORMOUS DOOR

Castaneda: "There is someone who goes into the unknown and waits for us to join her.

"She's called Carol Tiggs- my counterpart. She was with us, then vanished. Her disappearance lasted ten years. Where she went is inconceivable. It does not yield to rationality. So please suspend judgment! We were going to have a bumper sticker: COMMON SENSE KILLS.

"Carol Tiggs went away. She was not living in the mountains of New Mexico, I assure you. One day I was giving a lecture at the Phoenix Bookstore and she materialized. My heart jumped out of my shirt fomp fomp fomp. I kept talking. I talked for two hours without knowing what I was saying. I took her outside and asked her where she had been-ten years! She became cagey and started to sweat. She had only vague recollections. She made jokes. The reappearance of Carol Tiggs opened an enormous door - energetically - through which we come and go. There's a huge entry where I can hook you to the intent of sorcery. Her return gave us a new ring of power; she brought with her a tremendous mass of energy that allows us to come out.

"That's why we are available at this moment. Someone was introduced to Carol Tiggs at a lecture. He said, 'But you look so normal.'

"Carol Tiggs said, 'What did you expect? Lightning coming out of my tits?'"


THE WHORES OF PERCEPTION

Who is Carlos Castaneda, and does he have a life?

It's 1994 already: Why doesn't he just get it over with? Tell us his age and have Avedon take the picture. Hasn't anyone told him that privacy is dead? That the revelation of details no longer diminishes?

In exchange for our total attention, he's got to orient us. There are things one would like to know- mundane, personal things.

Like where does he live? What did he think of Sinatra's Duets? What has he done with the egregious profits from his books?

Does he drive a turbo Bentley like all the big old Babas? Was that really him with Michael Jordan and Edmund White at uptown Barneys?

They've been trying to pin him down for years.

They even reconstructed his face from memories of old colleagues and dubious acquaintances; the absurd result looks like a police artist's rendering of benevolent Olmec man for Reader's Digest. In the '70s, a photo appeared in a Time cover story (only the eyes were visible)- when the magazine learned the model was a counterfeit, they never forgave him.

Around when Paul McCartney was declared dead, the rumor solidified. Carlos Castaneda was Margaret Mead.

His agent and lawyers are full-time hedges against the onslaught of correspondents and crazies, spiritual hang gliders, New Age movers and seekers, artists wishing to adapt his work- famous and unknown, with or without permission- and bogus seminars replete with Carlos impersonators.

After thirty years, there is still no price on his head. He has no interest in gurus or guruism; there will be no turbo Bentleys, no ranches of turbaned devotees, no guest-edit of Paris Vogue. There will be no Castaneda Institute, no Center for Advanced Sorcery Studies, no Academy of Dreaming-no infomercials, mushrooms, or Tantric sex. There will be no biographies and there will be no scandals. When he's invited to lecture, Castaneda receives no fee and offers to pay his travel fare. The gate is usually a few dollars, to cover rental of the hall. All that is asked of attendees is their total attention.

"Freedom is free," he says. "It cannot be bought or understood. With my books, I've tried to present an option-that awareness can be a medium for transportation or movement. I haven't been so convincing; they think I'm writing novels. If I were tall and handsome, things might be different- they would listen to the Big Daddy. People say, 'You're Iying.' How could I be Iying? You only lie to get something, to manipulate. I don't want anything from anyone- only consensus. We'd like there to be consensus that there are worlds besides our own. If there's consensus to grow wings then there'll be flight. With consensus comes mass; with mass there will be movement."

Castaneda and his confederates are the energetic radicals of what may be the only significant revolution of our time- nothing short of transforming the biological imperative into an evolutionary one. If the sovereign social order commands procreation, the fearless order of sorcerers (energetic pirates all) is after something less, well, terrestrial.

Their startling epical intent is to leave the earth the way don Juan did twenty years before: as sheer energy, awareness intact.

Sorcerers call this somersault 'the abstract flight'.


CRITICAL MASS

I met with Castaneda and 'the witches' over a period of a week at restaurants, hotel rooms, and malls. They're attractive and vibrantly youthful. The women dress unobtrusively, with a touch of casual chic. You wouldn't notice them in a crowd, and that's the point.

I skimmed a New Yorker outside the cafe of the Regent Beverly Wilshire. The ad for Drambuie seemed particularly hideous: Inevitably, no matter how much we struggle, in one way or another, one day we become our parents. Instead of resisting this notion, we invite you to celebrate this rite of passage with an exquisite liquor...

Don Juan was laughing in his grave- or out of it- which brought to mind a welter of questions: Where was he anyway? The same place Carol Tiggs came back from? If that were so, did that mean the old nagual was capable of such reentry?

In 'The Fire From Within' Castaneda wrote that don Juan and his party evanesced sometime in 1973- fourteen navigators gone, to the 'second attention'.

What exactly was the 'second attention'? It all seemed clear when I was reading the books.

I searched my notes. I'd scrawled 'second attention = heightened awareness' on the margin of a page, but that didn't help. Impatiently, I riffled through 'The Power of Silence', 'The Eagle's Gift', 'Journey to Ixtlan'. Though there was much throughout I didn't understand, the basics had been thoroughly, coherently described.

Why couldn't I hold any of it in my head? I was failing Sorcery 101.

I ordered a cappuccino and waited. I let my mind drift. I thought about Donner-Grau and the Japanese monkeys. When I'd spoken to her on the phone to arrange an interview, she'd mentioned Imo. Every anthropology student knows about Imo, the famous macaque. One day Imo spontaneously washed off a sweet potato before eating it; in a short while, the macaques of the entire island followed suit. Anthropologists might call this 'cultural' behavior, but Donner-Grau said it was a perfect example of critical mass monkey inter-subjectivity.

Castaneda appeared. He smiled broadly, shook my hand, and sat down. I was about to bring up the monkeys when he began to weep. His forehead crinkled; his entire body convulsed in lamentation. Soon he was gasping like a grouper thrown from the tank. His lower lip twitched, wet and electrified. His arm unfurled toward me, the hand palsied and trembling- then it opened like a night-blooming bud from 'Little Shop of Horrors', as if to receive alms.

"Please!" He declared a shaky truce with his facial muscles just to spit out the words. He bore down on me in needy supplication. "Please love me!"

Castaneda was sobbing again, a great broken, choking hydrant, his pathos effortless as he became an obscene weeping contraption. "That's what we are: apes with tin cups. So routinary, so weak. Masturbatory. We are sublime, but the insane ape lacks the energy to see-so the brain of the beast prevails. We cannot grab our window of opportunity, our 'cubic centimeter of chance.' How could we? We're too busy holding onto Mommy's hand. Thinking how wonderful we are, how sensitive, how unique.

"We are not unique! The scenarios of our lives have already been written," he said, grinning ominously, "by others. We know... but we don't care.

"'Fuck it', we say. We are the ultimate cynics. Cono! Carajo! That's how we live! In a gutter of warm shit.

"'What have they done to us?' That's what don Juan used to say.

"He used to ask me, 'How's the carrot?'

"I asked, 'What do you mean?'

"He would say, 'The carrot they shoved up your ass.'

"I was terribly offended; he could really do it to me! That's when he said, 'Be grateful they haven't put a handle on it yet.'"

"But if we have a choice, why do we stay in the gutter?"

"It's too warm. We don't want to leave- we hate to say goodbye. And we worry-ooo-fa, how we worry twenty-six hours a day! And what do you think we worry about?"

He smiled again, a rubbery Cheshire cat. "About me! What about me? What's in it for me? What's gonna happen to me? Such egomania! So horrendous. But fascinating!"

I told Carlos his views seemed a little harsh, and he laughed.

"Yes," he said, in the ludicrously constipated, judgey tones of an academic.

"Castaneda is a bitter and insane old man." His caricatures were drolly, brutally on target.

"The greedy ape reaches through a grate for a seed and cannot relinquish control. There are studies; nothing will make him drop that seed. The hand will cling even after you hack off the arm- we die holding onto 'mierda'. But why? Is that all there is- like Miss Peggy Lee said? That cannot be; That's too horrendous.

"We have to learn how to let go.

"We collect memories and paste them in books, ticket stubs to a Broadway show ten years ago. We die holding onto souvenirs.

"To be a sorcerer is to have the energy, curiosity, and guts to let go, to somersault into the unknown- all one needs is some retooling, redefinition.

"We must see ourselves as beings who are going to die. Once you accept that, worlds open up for you. But to embrace this definition, you must have 'balls of steel.'


THE NATURAL HERITAGE OF SENTIENT BEINGS: we don't perceive, we interpret.

Castaneda: "When you say 'mountain' or 'tree' or 'White House', you invoke a universe of detail with a single utterance; that's magic.

"See, we're visual creatures.

"You could lick the White House- smell it, touch it- and it wouldn't tell you anything. But one look, and you know everything there is to know: the 'cradle of democracy,' whatever. You don't even need to look, you already see Clinton sitting inside, Nixon on his knees praying- whatever. Our world is an agglutination of detail, an avalanche of glosses- we don't perceive, we merely interpret. And our interpretation system has made us lazy and cynical. We prefer to say 'Castaneda's a liar' or 'This business of perceptual options just isn't for me.'

"What is for you? What's 'real? This hard, shitty, meaningless daily world? Are despair and senility what's real?

"That the world is 'given' and 'final' is a fallacious concept. From an early age we get 'membership'. One day, when we've learned the shorthand of interpretation, the world says 'welcome'. Welcome to what? To prison. Welcome to hell.

"What if it turns out that Castaneda is inventing nothing? If that's true, then you're in a very bad spot.

"The interpretation system can be interrupted; it is not final. There are worlds within worlds, each as real as this. In that wall over there is a world, this room is a universe of detail. Autistics get caught, frozen in detail- they trace a finger on the crack until it bleeds. We get caught in the room of everyday life. There are options other than this world, as real as this room, places where you can live or die. Sorcerers do that-how exciting!

"To think that this is the only all-inclusive world . . .that's the epitome of arrogance. Why not open the door to another room? That's the natural heritage of sentient beings. It's time to interpret and construct new glosses. Go to a place where there's no a priori knowledge. Don't throw away your old system of interpretation- use it, from nine to five. After five? Magic hour."


NO SE HABLA ESPANOL AQUI: no me speak spanish here

But what does he mean by "magic hour"?

Their books are meticulously detailed evocations of the unknown, yet the irony remains; there's no real Lexicon for their experience. Magic hour isn't word-friendly- its surplus energies are experienced bodily. Whenever Castaneda left don Juan to return to Los Angeles, the old nagual liked to say he knew what his student would be up to. He could make a list, he said- maybe a long list, but still, a list- upon which Castaneda's thoughts and actions could inevitably be found. But it was impossible for Castaneda to do the same for his teacher. There was no inter-subjectivity between the two men. Whatever it was the Indian did in the second attention could only be experienced, not conveyed. Back then, Castaneda had neither the energy nor the preparation it took for such consensus.

But the ape is possessed by words and syntax. He must understand, at all costs. And there must be regimen to his understanding.

Castaneda: "We are linear beings: dangerous creatures of habit and repetition. We need to know: There's the chicken place! There's the shoelace place! There's the car wash! If one day one of them isn't there- we go bananas."

He insisted on paying for lunch. When the waiter returned with the slip, I had a sudden urge to grab the credit card and see if it was in his name. He caught my glance.

"A business manager tried to get me to do the old American Express ad: CARLOS CASTANEDA, MEMBER SINCE 1968." He laughed gleefully, circling back to his theme. "We are heavy, heavy apes, very ritualistic. My friend Ralph used to see his grandmother on Monday nights. She died. And he said, 'Hey Joe'- I was Joe then- 'hey Joe, now we can get together on Monday nights. Are you free Mondays, Joe?' 'You mean every Monday, Ralph?' 'Yes, yes! Every Monday. Won't it be great?' 'But every Monday? forever?' 'Yes, Joe! You and me on Mondays- forever!'"


SORCERY 101

Castaneda: "I met a scientist at a party- a well-known man. Eminent. A luminary. Dr. X. He wanted to 'dis' me, heavily. He said, 'I read your first book; the rest were boring. Look, I'm not interested in anecdotes. I'm interested in proof.'

"Dr. X confronted me. He must have thought I was as important as he was.

"I said, 'If I was to prove the law of gravity, wouldn't you need a degree of training to follow me? You'd need 'membership'- maybe even equipment. You'd need to have taken Physics 1, 2, 16, maybe even Physics 23. You'd have already made tremendous sacrifices to learn: to go to school, to study long hours. You may even have stopped dating.' I told him if he wanted proof he'd have to take Sorcery 101.

"But he wouldn't do that; that takes preparation. He got angry and left the room.

"Sorcery is a flow, a process. Just as in physics, you need a certain knowledge to follow the flow of the equations.

"Dr. X would have had to do some very basic things to be in a position to have enough energy to understand the flow of sorcery. He would have had to 'recapitulate' his life. So: the scientist wanted proof but didn't want to prepare. That's the way we are. We don't want to do the work- we want to be helicoptered to awareness, without getting mud in our shoesies. And if we don't like what we see, we want to be helicoptered back."


THE TRACKS OF TIME

It is tiring being with this man Castaneda. He's overly, ruthlessly present- the fullness of his attention exhausts. He seems to respond to my queries with all he has; there's a liquid, eloquent urgency to his speech, dogged and final, elegant, elegiac. Castaneda said he feels time 'advancing' upon him.

You sense his weight, something foreign you can't identify, ethereal yet indolent, densely inert- like a plug or buoy, a cork lying heavily on the waves.

We're walking in Boyle Heights. He stops to demonstrate a martial arts position called the horse- legs slightly bent, as if in the saddle.

He said, "They stood like this in Buenos Aires-in my day. Everything was very stylized. They were adopting the poses of men long dead. My grandfather stood this way. The muscle under here"- he points to the backside of his thigh- "that's where we store nostalgia. Self-pity is a most horrendous thing."

I asked, "What did you mean about 'time advancing' on you?"

"Don Juan had a metaphor. We stand in a caboose, watching the tracks of time recede. 'there I am a five years old! There I go-' We have merely to turn around and let the time advance on us. That way, there are no a prioris.

"Nothing is presumed; nothing presupposed; nothing neatly packaged."

We sat on a bus bench. Across the street a beggar held a piece of cardboard for the motorists. Castaneda stared past him toward the horizon.

He said, "I don't have a tinge of tomorrow- and nothing from the past. The department of anthropology doesn't exist for me anymore.

"Don Juan used to say, the first part of his life was a waste- he was in limbo. The second part of his life was absorbed in the future; the third, in the past, nostalgia. Only the last part of his life was now. That's where I am."

I decided to ask something personal and prepared to be rebuffed. For them, biographical evidence will mesmerize as surely as a crack in the wall- leaving everyone with bloody fingers.

"When you were a boy, who was the most important man in your life?"

"My grandfather- he raised me." His hard eyes were glinting. "He had a stud pig called Rudy. Made a lot of money. Rudy had a little blond face-gorgeous. They used to put a hat on him, a vest. My grandfather made a tunnel from the sty to the showroom. There would come Rudy with his midget face, trailing this huge body behind! Rudy, with his screwdriver 'pincho'; we watched that pig commit barbarities."

I asked, "What was he like- your grandfather."

"I adored him. He was the one who made the agenda; I was going to carry his banner. That was my fate, but not my destiny. My grandfather was an amorous man. He schooled me in seduction at an early age. When I was twelve, I walked like him, talked like him-with a constricted larynx. He's the one who taught me to 'go in through the window.' He said women would run if I approached them head-on-I was too plain. He made me go up to little girls and say: 'You're so beautiful!' Then I'd turn and walk away. 'You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen!'-quickly walk away. After three or four times they'd say, 'Hey! Tell me your name.' That's how I got 'in through the window.'"

He got up and walked. The beggar was heading for the bushy dead zone that surrounded the freeway. When we got to his car, Castaneda opened the door and stood a moment.

"A sorcerer asked me a question, a long time ago: What kind of face does the bogeyman have, for you? I was intrigued. This thing I thought would be shadowy, murky, had a human face- the bogeyman often has the face of something you think you love. For me, it was my grandfather. My grandfather, who I adored. I got in and he started the car. The last part of the beggar disappeared into the grubby hedgerow.

"I *was* my grandfather. Dangerous, mercenary, conniving, petty, vindictive, filled with doubt- and immovable. Don Juan knew this."


FALLING IN LOVE AGAIN

Castaneda: "At seventy-five, we're still looking for 'love' and 'companionship'. My grandfather used to wake up in the middle of the night crying, "Do you think she loves me?" His last words were, "Here I go baby, here I go!" He had a big orgasm and died. For years I thought that was the greatest thing- magnificent.

"Then don Juan said, 'Your grandfather died like a pig. His life and death had no meaning.'

"Don Juan said death can't be soothing- only triumph can. I asked him what he meant by triumph and he said 'freedom': when you break through the veil and take your life force with you.

"'But there's still so much that I want to do!'

"He said, 'You mean there are still so many women you want to fuck.'

"He was right. That's how primitive we are.

"The ape will consider the unknown, but before he jumps he demands to know: 'What's in it for me?' We're businessmen, investors, used to cutting our losses- it's a merchant's world. If we make an 'investment', we want guarantees. We fall in love but only if we're loved back. When we don't love anymore, we cut the head off and replace it with another. Our 'love' is merely hysteria. We are not affectionate beings, we are heartless.

"I thought I knew how to love. Don Juan said, 'How could you? They never taught you about love. They taught you how to seduce, to envy, to hate. You don't even love yourself- otherwise you wouldn't have put your body through such barbarities. You don't have the guts to love like a sorcerer. Could you love forever, beyond death? Without the slightest reinforcement-nothing in return? Could you love without investment, for the piss of it? You'll never know what it's like to love like that, relentlessly. Do you really want to die without knowing?'"

"No- I didn't. Before I die, I have to know what it's like to love like that. He hooked me that way. When I opened my eyes, I was already rolling down the hill. I'm still rolling."


RECAPITULATE YOUR LIFE!

I had too many Cokes and was paranoid.

Castaneda said sugar is as effective a killer as common sense. "We are not 'psychological' creatures. Our neuroses are by-products of what we put in our mouths.'- I was certain he saw my "energy body" irradiating cola. I felt absurd, defeated-I decided I would binge that night on profiteroles. Such is the piquant, dark-chocolated shame of the picayune ape.

"I had a great love affair with Coke. My grandfather possessed a pseudosensuality.

"'I gotta have that pussy! I need it! I need it now!' My grandfather thought he was the hottest dick in town. Most extravagant. I had the same thing- everything went right to my balls, but it wasn't real. Don Juan told me, 'You're being triggered by sugar. You're too flimsy to have that kind of sexual energy.' Too fat to have this 'hot dick'."

Everyone's smoking in Universal CityWalk. Strange, sitting with Carlos Castaneda in this architectural approximation of middle-class Los Angeles- this 'agglutination of detail', this 'avalanche of glosses' that is a virtual city. There are no black people and nothing resembling heightened awareness; we've shifted from the human bond to the band of MCA . We are inhabiting a perversely bland version of a familiar scene from his books, the one where he abruptly finds himself in a simulacrum of the everyday world.

"You said that if Dr. X had 'recapitulated his life,' he might have retrieved some energy. What did you mean?"

"The recapitulation is the most important thing we do. To begin, you make a list of everyone you ever knew. Everyone you ever spoke to or had dealings with."

"Everyone?"

"Yes," he said. "You go down the list, chronologically re-creating the scenes of exchange."

"But that could take years."

"Sure," he agreed. "A thorough recapitulation takes a long time. And then you start over. We are never through recapitulating- that way there's no residue. See, there's no 'rest.' Rest is a middle-class concept- the idea that if you work hard enough, you've earned a vacation. Time to go four-wheeling in the Range Rover or fishing in Montana. That's horseshit."

"You re-create the scene--"

"Start with sexual encounters. You see the sheets, the furniture, the dialogue. Then get to the person, the feeling. What were you feeling? Watch! Breathe in the energy you expended in the exchange; give back what isn't yours."

"It almost sounds like psychoanalysis."

"You don't analyze, you observe," he said. "The filigrees, the detail- you're hooking yourself to the sorcerers' intent. It's a maneuver, a magical act hundreds of years old, the key to restoring energy that will free you for other things."

"You move your head and breathe--"

"Go down the list until you get to mommy and daddy. By then you'll be shocked; you'll see patterns of repetition that will nauseate you. Who is sponsoring your insanities? Who is making the agenda? The recapitulation will give you a moment of silence- it will allow you to vacate the premises and make room for something else. From the recapitulation you come up with endless tales of the Self, but you are no longer bleeding."


EVERYTHING YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT ENERGY.. BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK

Castaneda: "When I came to don Juan, I was already fucked to death; I'd exhausted myself that way. I'm not in the world anymore, not like that; sorcerers use that kind of energy to fly off, or to change. Fucking is our most important act, energetically. See, we've dispersed our best generals but don't try to call them back; we lose by default. That's why it's so important to recapitulate your life.

"The recapitulation separates our commitment to the social order from our life force. The two are not inextricable. Once I was able to subtract the social being from my native energy, I could clearly see: I wasn't that 'sexy'.

"Sometimes I talk to groups of psychiatrists. They want to know about the orgasm. When you're out there flying in the immensities, you don't give a shit about the 'Big O'. Most of us are frigid; all this sensuality is mental masturbation. We are 'bored fucks'- no energy at the moment of conception.

"Either we're first born and the parents didn't know how to do it, or last born and they're not interested anymore. We're fucked either way. We're just biological meat with bad habits and no energy. We are boring creatures, but instead we say, 'I'm so bored.'

"Fucking is much more injurious for women- men are drones. The universe is female. Women have total access, they're already there. It's just they're so stupidly socialized. Women are portentous fliers; they have a second brain, an organ they can use for unimaginable flight. They use their wombs for dreaming.

"'Do we have to stop fucking?'- The men ask Florinda that. She says, 'Go ahead! Stick your little pee-pee wherever you want!'

"Oh, she's a horrible witch! She's worse with the women- the weekend goddesses who paint their nipples and go on retreats. She says, 'Yes, you're here being goddesses. But what do you do when you get home? You get fucked, like slaves! The men leave luminous worms in your pussy!' A truly terrible witch!"


THE COYOTE TRAIL

Florinda Donner-Grau takes no prisoners. She is small-boned, charming, and aggressive- like a jockey with a shiv.

When Donner-Grau first encountered don Juan and his circle, she thought they were unemployed circus workers who trafficked in stolen goods. How else to explain the Baccarat crystal, the exquisite clothes, the antiquarian jewelry?

She felt adventurous around them- by nature she was cocky, daring, vivacious. For a South American girl, her life had been freewheeling.

Donner-Grau: "I thought I was the most wonderful being who ever was- so bold, so special. I raced cars and dressed like a man. Then this old Indian said the only thing 'special' about me was my blonde hair and blue eyes in a country where those things were revered. I wanted to strike him- in fact, I think I did. But he was right, you know. This celebration of Self is totally insane. What the sorcerers do is kill the Self. You must die, in that sense, in order to live- not live in order to die."

Don Juan encouraged his students to have a 'romance with knowledge.' He wanted their minds sufficiently trained to view sorcery as an authentic philosophical system; in a delicious reversal distinctive to the sorcerer's world, fieldwork led to academia. The road to magic hour was funny that way.

She recalled the first time Castaneda took her to Mexico to see Don Juan.

"We went via this long, snaky route- you know, the 'coyote trail.' I thought he was taking a weird route so we wouldn't be followed, but it was something else. You had to have enough energy to find that old Indian. After I don't know how long, there was someone on the road waving us in. I said to Carlos, 'Hey, aren't you going to stop?' He said, 'It isn't necessary.' See, we had crossed over the fog."

We rocketed past Pepperdine. Someone was selling crystals by the road. I wondered if Shirley MacLaine's house had burned; I wondered if Dick Van Dyke had rebuilt. Maybe Van Dyke had moved into MacLaine's with the Sean Penn.

I asked her, "What happens with people who are interested in your work- the ones who read your books and write letters? Do you help them?"

"People are intellectually curious, they're 'teased' or whatever. They stay until it gets too difficult. The recapitulation is very unpleasant; they want immediate results, instant gratification. For a lot of the New Agers, it's The Dating Game. They case the room- furtive, prolonged eye contact with potential partners. Or it's just shopping on Montana Avenue. When the thing becomes too expensive in terms of what they have to give of themselves, they don't want to pursue it. You see, we want minimal investment with maximal return. No one is really interested in doing the work."

I interjected, "But they would be interested, if there was some kind of proof what you're saying--"

She said, "Carlos has a great story. There was a woman he'd known for years. She called from Europe, in terrible shape. He said come to Mexico- you know, 'jump into my world.' She hesitated. Then she said, 'I'll come- as long as I know my huaraches are waiting on the other side of the river.' She wanted guarantees she'd land on her feet. Of course, there are no guarantees. We're all like that: We will jump, as long as we know our huaraches are waiting for us on the other side."

I asked, "What if you jump- as best you can- and it turns out it was only a fever dream?"

She replied, "Then have a good fever."


CARLOS CASTANEDA'S PRIVATE PARTS

"This is not a book for people."

That's what someone who has known Castaneda for years said about 'The Art of Dreaming'. In fact, it is the crown of Castaneda's work, an instruction manual to an undiscovered country- the delineation of ancient techniques used by sorcerers to enter the second attention. Like his other books, it's lucid and unnerving, yet there's something haunting about this one. It smells like it was made somewhere else. I was curious how it all began.

"I used to take notes, with don Juan- thousands of notes. Finally, he said, 'Why don't you write a book?'

"I told him that was impossible. 'I'm not a writer.'

"He said, 'But you could write a shitty book, couldn't you?'

"I thought to myself, Yes! I could write a shitty book.

"Don Juan laid down a challenge: 'Can you write this book, knowing it may bring notoriety? Can you remain impeccable? If they love you or hate you is meaningless. Can you write this book and not give in to what may come your way?'

"I agreed. Yes. I'll do it.

"And terrifying things came my way. But the panties didn't fit."

I told Carlos I wasn't sure about the last remark, and he laughed.

He said, "That's an old joke. A woman's car breaks down and a man repairs it. She has no money and offers him earrings. He tells her his wife wouldn't believe him. She offers her watch but he tells her bandits will steal it. Finally, she takes off her panties to give him. 'No, please,' he says. 'They're not my size.'"


THE CRITERIA FOR BEING DEAD

Castaneda: "I had never been alone until I met don Juan. He said, "Get rid of your friends. They will never allow you to act with independence- they know you too well. You will never be able to come from left field with something shattering".

"Don Juan told me to rent a room, the more sordid the better.

"Something with green floors and green curtains that reeked of piss and cigarettes.

"'Stay there', he said. 'Be alone until you are dead.'

"I told him I couldn't do it. I didn't want to leave my friends.

"He said, 'Well, I can't talk to you ever again.' He waved goodbye- big smile.

"Boy, was I relieved! This weird old man-this Indian-had thrown me out. The whole thing had tied itself up so neatly.

"The closer I got to L.A., the more desperate I became. I realized what I was going home to-my "friends." And for what? To have meaningless dialogue with those who knew me so well. To sit on the couch by the phone waiting to be invited to a party.

"Endless repetition. I went to the green room and called don Juan. 'Hey, not that I'm going to do it- but tell me, what is the criteria for being dead?'

"'When you no longer care whether you have company or whether you are alone. That is the criteria for being dead.'

"It took three months to be dead. I climbed the walls desperate for a friend to drop by. But I stayed. By the end, I'd gotten rid of assumptions; you don't go crazy being alone. You go crazy the way you're going, that's for sure. You can count on it."


ASSEMBLING AWARENESS

We headed in his station wagon toward the cheap apartment house where Castaneda went to die.

"We could go to your old room," I said, "and knock on the door. For the hell of it." He said that might be taking things too far.

Castaneda: "'What do you want out of life?' That's what Don Juan used to ask me. My classic response: 'Frankly, Don Juan, I don't know.' That was my pose as the 'thoughtful' man- the intellectual. Don Juan said, 'That answer would satisfy your mother, not me.'

"See, I couldn't think-I was bankrupt. And he was an Indian. Carajo, cono! God, you don't know what that means. I was polite, but I looked down on him. One day he asked if we were equals. Tears sprang to my eyes as I threw my arms around him.

"'Of course we're equals, don Juan! How could you say such a thing!' Big hug; I was practically weeping.

"'You really mean it?' he said.

"'Yes, by God!'

"When I stopped hugging him he said, 'No, we are not equals. I am an impeccable warrior- and you are an asshole. I could sum up my whole life in a moment. You cannot even think.'"

We pulled over and parked underneath some trees. Castaneda stared at the seedy building with an odd ebullience, shocked it was still there. He said it should have been torn down long ago- that its perseverance in the world was some kind of weird magic. Children were playing with a giant plastic fire engine. A homeless woman drifted past like a somnambulist.

He made no move to get out. He began talking about what 'dying in that green room' meant. By the time he had left that place, Castaneda was finally able to listen unjaundiced to the old Indian's far-out premises.

Don Juan told him that when sorcerers see energy, the human form presents itself as a luminous egg. Behind the egg- roughly an arm's length from the shoulders- is the 'assemblage point', where incandescent strands of awareness are gathered. The way we perceive the world is determined by the point's position. The assemblage point of mankind is fixed at the same point on each egg; such uniformity accounts for our shared view of everyday life.

Sorcerers call this arena of awareness 'the first attention.' Our way of perceiving changes with the point's displacement by injury, shock, drugs- or in sleep, when we dream. 'The art of dreaming' is to displace and fix the assemblage point in a new position, engendering the perception of alternate, all-inclusive worlds- "the second attention".

Smaller shifts of the point within the egg are still inside the human band and account for the hallucinations of delirium- or the world encountered during dreams.

Larger movements of the assemblage point, more dramatic, pull the 'energy body' outside the human band to nonhuman realms. That is where don Juan and his party journeyed in 1973 when they 'burned from within', fulfilling the unthinkable assertion of his lineage: evolutionary flight.

Castaneda learned that whole civilizations- a conglomerate of dreamers- had vanished in the same way.

He told me about a sorcerer of his lineage who had tuberculosis- and was able to shift his assemblage point away from death. That sorcerer had to remain impeccable; his illness hung over him like a sword. He could not afford an ego- he knew precisely where his death lay, waiting for him.

Castaneda turned to me, smiling. "Hey..." He had a strangely effusive look, and I was ready. For three weeks I'd been awash in his books and their contagious presentation of possibilities. Perhaps this was the moment in which I'd make my pact with Mescalito. Or had we already 'crossed over the fog' without my knowing?

"Hey," he said again, his eyes fairly twinkling. "Do you want to get a hamburger?"


BOYCOTTING THE PAGEANT

Abelar: "That the assemblage point of man is fixed in one position is a crime."

I sat with Taisha Abelar on a bench in front of the art museum on Wilshire.

She didn't sync up with my image of her. Castaneda said that as part of Abelar's training, she'd assumed different personas- one being the 'Madwoman of Oaxaca', a lecherous, mud-smeared beggar woman- back in her days as a struggling actress in 'Sorcery Action Theater'.

"I was going to call my book 'The Great Crossing' but I thought that was too Eastern."

I said, "The Buddhist concept is pretty similar."

"There are lots of parallels. Our group has been crossing over for years but only recently have we compared notes- because our leaving is imminent.

"Seventy-five percent of our energy is there, 25 percent here. That's why we have to go."

I asked, "Is that where Carol Tiggs was? That 75 percent place?"

"You mean the Twilight Zone?"

She waited a deadpan beat, then laughed.

"We felt Carol Tiggs on our bodies when she was gone. She had tremendous mass. She was like a lighthouse; a beacon. She gave us hope-an incentive to go on. Because we knew she was there. Whenever I would become self-indulgent, I felt her tap me on the shoulder. She was our magnificent obsession."

I asked, "Why is it so difficult for the 'ape' to make his journey?"

"We perceive minimally; the more entanglements we have in this world, the harder it is to say goodbye. And we all have them- we all want fame, we want to be loved, to be liked. My gosh, some of us have children. Why would anyone want to leave? We wear a hood, cloaked... we have our happy moments that last us the rest of our lives. I know someone who was Miss Alabama. Is that enough to keep her from freedom? Yes. 'Miss Alabama' is enough to pin her down."

It was time to pose one of the Large Questions (there were a number of them): When they spoke of 'crossing over', did that mean with their physical bodies?

She replied that changing the Self didn't mean the Freudian ego but the actual, concrete Self- yes, the physical body.

"When don Juan and his party left," she said, "they went with the totality of their beings. They left with their boots on."

She said dreaming was the only authentic new realm of philosophical discourse- that Merleau-Ponty was wrong when he said mankind was condemned to prejudge an a priori world.

She said, "There is a place of no a prioris- the second attention. Don Juan always said philosophers were 'sorcerers manques.' What they lacked was the energy to jump beyond their idealities.

"We all carry bags toward freedom: Drop the baggage. We even need to drop the baggage of sorcery. "

I asked, "The baggage of sorcery?"

"We don't do sorcery; we do nothing. All we do is move the assemblage point. In the end, 'being a sorcerer' will trap you as sure as Miss Alabama."

A shabby, toothless woman shuffled toward us with postcards for sale- the Madwoman of the Miracle Mile. I picked one and gave her a dollar. I showed it to Abelar; it was a picture of Jesus, laughing.

"A rare moment," she said.


THE GUESTS ARRIVE

Where in this world is there left to explore?

It's all a priori-done and exhausted. We are slated for senility; it waits for us like magina, the river sickness. When I was a boy, I heard of it. A disease of memories and remembrance. It attacks people who live on the river shore. You become possessed of a longing that pushes you to move on and on- to roam without sense, endlessly. The river meanders; people used to say "the river is alive." When it reverses its course, it never remembers it was once flowing east to west. The river forgets itself.

There was a woman I used to visit at the convalescent home. She was there fifteen years. For fifteen years she prepared daily for a party she was throwing at the Hotel del Coronado. This was her delusion; she would ready herself each day but the guests would never come. She finally died. Who knows- maybe that was the day they finally arrived.


THE INDEX OF INTENT

"How should I say you look?", I asked Castaneda.

It was dusk in Roxbury Park. There was the steady, distant whomp of a tennis ball volleying against a concrete backstop.

His voice became unctuously absurd. He was Fernando Rey, the bourgeois narcissist- with just a hint of Laurence Harvey.

He said, "You may say I resemble Lee Marvin.

"I read an article once in Esquire about California witchcraft. The first sentence went: 'Lee Marvin is scared.' Whenever something is not quite right, you can hear me: Lee Marvin is scared."

We agreed I would describe Castaneda as wheelchair-bound, with beautifully 'cut' arms and torso. I would say he wore fragrance by Bijan and long hair that delicately framed a face like the young Foucault.

He began to laugh. "I knew this woman once, she gives seminars now on Castaneda. When she felt depressed, she had a trick- a way to get out of it. She'd say to herself: 'Carlos Castaneda looks like a Mexican waiter'

"This is all it took to pull her up. Carlos Castaneda looks like a Mexican waiter!- instantly refreshed. Fascinating! How sad. But for her, it was good as Prozac!"

I'd been leafing through the books again and wanted to ask about 'intent'. It was one of the most abstract, prevalent concepts of their world. They spoke of intending freedom, of intending the energy body-they even spoke of intending intent.

"I don't understand intent," I said.

"You don't understand anything," Castaneda replied.

I was taken aback. He continued, "None of us do! We don't understand the world, we merely handle it- but we handle it beautifully.

"So when you say 'I don't understand,' that's just a slogan. You never understood anything to begin with."

I was feeling argumentative. Even sorcery had a 'working definition.' Why couldn't he give one for 'intent'?

"I cannot tell you what intent is. I don't know myself. Just make it a new indexical category. We are taxonomists- how we love to keep indexes! Once, don Juan asked me: 'What is a university?' I told him it was a school for higher learning. He said, 'But what is a "school for higher learning"?' I told him it was a place where people met to learn. 'A park? A field?' He got me.

"I realized that 'university' had a different meaning for the taxpayer, for the teacher, for the student. We have no idea what 'university' is! It's an indexical category, like 'mountain' or 'honor.' You don't need to know what 'honor' is to move toward it. So move toward intent. Make intent an index.

"Intent is merely the awareness of a possibility- of a chance to have a chance. It's one of the perennial forces in the universe that we never call on- by hooking onto the intent of the sorcerer's world, you're giving yourself a chance to have a chance. You're not hooking onto the world of your father, the world of being buried six feet under. Intend to move your assemblage point.

"How? By intending! Pure sorcery."

I replied, "Move toward it, without understanding."

He said, "Certainly! 'Intent' is just an index- most fallacious, but utterly utilizable. Just like 'Lee Marvin is scared'."


POOR BABYISM

Castaneda: "I meet people all the time who are dying to tell me their tales of sexual abuse. One guy told me when he was ten, his father grabbed his cock and said, 'This is for fucking!' That traumatized him for ten years! He spent thousands on psychoanalysis. Are we that vulnerable? Bullshit. We've been around five billion years! But that defines him: He is a 'sexual abuse victim.' Mierda.

"We are all poor babies.

"Don Juan forced me to examine how I related to people when I wanted them to feel sorry for me. That was my 'one trick'. We have one trick that we learn early on and repeat until we die. If we are very imaginative, we have two. Turn on the television and listen to the talk shows: poor babies to the end.

"We love Jesus- bleeding, nailed to the cross. That's our symbol. No one's interested in the Christ who was resurrected and ascended to Heaven. We want to be martyrs, losers; we don't want to succeed. Poor babies, praying to the poor baby. When Man fell to his knees, he became the asshole he is today."


CONFESSIONS OF AN AWARENESS ADDICT

Castaneda has long eschewed psychotropic drugs, yet they were an enormous part of his initiation into the nagual's world. I asked what that was about.

He said, "Being male, I was very rigid - my assemblage point was immovable. Don Juan was running out of time, so he employed desperate measures."

"That's why he gave you the drugs?" I asked. "To dislodge your assemblage point?"

He nodded, saying, "But with drugs, there's no control; it moves helter-skelter."

I asked, "Does that mean the time came when you were able to shift your assemblage point and dream without the use of drugs?"

"Certainly!" he replied. "That was don Juan's doing. You see, Juan Matus didn't give a fuck about 'Carlos Castaneda'. He was interested in that other being, the energy body- what sorcerers call 'the double'. That's what he wanted to awaken.

"You use your Double to dream, to navigate in the second attention. That's what pulls you to freedom. 'I trust that the Double will do its duty,' don Juan said. 'I will do anything for it- to help it awaken.' I got chills.

"These people were for real. They did not die crying for their mommies- Crying for pussy."

We were at a little cafe in the middle of the Santa Monica Airport. I went to the bright bathroom to wet my face and take it all in. I stared in the mirror and thought about the Double. I remembered something don Juan told Castaneda in the Art of Dreaming. "Your passion," don Juan had said, "is to jump without capriciousness or premeditation to cut someone else's chains."

On the way back, I formed a question.

"What was it like- I mean, the first time you shifted your assemblage point without drugs?"

He paused for a moment, then moved his head from side to side. "Lee Marvin was very scared!"

He laughed. "Once you start breaking the barriers of normal, historical perception, you believe you are insane. You need the nagual then, simply to laugh. He laughs your fears away."


THE PLUMED SERPENT

Castaneda: "I saw them go- don Juan and his group, a whole flock of sorcerers. They went to a place free from humanness and the compulsive worshipping of man. They burned from within. They made a movement as they went, they call it the "plumed serpent." They became energy; even their shoes. They made one last turn, one pass, to see this exquisite world for the last time. Ooh-woo-woo! I get chills-I shake. One last turn . . . for my eyes only.

"I could have gone with him. When don Juan left he said, 'It takes all my guts to go. I need all my courage, all my hope- no expectations. To stay behind, you will need all your hope and all your courage.'

"I took a beautiful jump into the abyss and woke up in my office, near Tiny Naylor's.

"I interrupted the flow of psychological continuity: Whatever woke up in that office could not be the 'me' that I knew linearly. That's why I'm the nagual.

The nagual is a nonentity- not a person. In place of the ego is something else, something very old. Something observant, detached- and infinitely less committed to the Self. A man with an ego is driven by psychological desires.

The nagual has none. He receives orders from some ineffable source that cannot be discussed. That's the final understanding: The nagual, in the end, becomes a tale, a story. He cannot be offended, jealous, possessive- he can't be anything. But he can tell tales of jealousy and passion.

The only thing the nagual fears is 'ontological sadness.' [ontological: of or relating to the metaphysical study of the nature of being and existence]

Not nostalgia for the good old days- that's egomania. Ontological sadness is something different. There's a perennial force that exists in the universe, like gravity, and the nagual feels it. It's not a psychological state. It is a confluence of forces that unite to clobber this poor microbe who has vanquished his ego. It is felt when there are no longer any attachments. You see it coming, then you feel it on top of you.


THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG-DISTANCE REPLICANT

Castaneda used to love the movies, 10,000 years ago- back when they showed all-nighters at the Vista in Hollywood- back when he was learning the criteria for being dead. He doesn't go anymore, but the witches still do. It's a diversion from their freakish, epic activities- sort of like safe-sex dreaming. But not really.

He told me, "You know, there's a scene in Blade Runner that really got to us. The writer doesn't know what he's saying, but he hit something. The replicant is talking at the end: 'My eyes have seen inconceivable things.' He's talking about the constellations- 'I have seen attack ships off of Orion'- nonsense, inanities. That was the only flaw for us, because the writer hasn't seen anything. But then the speech becomes beautiful. It's raining and the replicant says, 'What if all those moments will be lost in time... like tears in the rain?'

"This is a very serious question for us. They may be just tears in the rain- yes. But you do your best, sir. You do your best and if your best isn't good enough, then fuck it. If your best isn't good enough, fuck God himself."


A FOOTNOTE TO FEMINISTS

Before I met him a final time, I was scheduled to see the mysterious Carol Tiggs for breakfast. Twenty years before, she had 'jumped' with don Juan Matus's party into the unknown. Unimaginably, she had returned, somehow triggering a veritable road show of sorcerers. I was feeling more and more uneasy about our pending appointment. Each time the Large Question loomed- "Where the hell were you those ten years?", it evanesced. I felt like I was on the tracks; Carol Tiggs was waving from the caboose.

In a universe of dualities, Tiggs and Castaneda are energetic counterparts. They are not in the world together as man and wife. They have 'double' energy; to a seer, their energetic bodies would each appear as two luminous eggs instead of one. This doesn't make them 'better' than Donner-Grau or Abelar or anyone- on the contrary. It gave them the predilection, as Juan Matus once said, to be "twice the asshole."

Until now, Castaneda wrote exclusively about don Juan's world, never his own. But The Art of Dreaming is suffused with Carol Tiggs's dark, extraneous presence- and rife with hair-raising accounts of their excursions into the second attention, including the precipitous rescue of a "sentient being from another dimension" who takes the form of an angular, steely-eyed little girl called the Blue Scout.

I was just about to leave when the phone rang. I was sure it was Tiggs, calling to cancel. It was Donner-Grau.

I told her a dream I had that morning. I was with Castaneda in a gift shop called the Coyote Trail. She didn't care! She said normal dreams were just "meaningless masturbations." Cruel, heartless witch.

She said, "I wanted to add something. People say to me, 'Here you are putting feminism down- the 'leader' of this group was Juan Matus and now the new nagual is Carlos Castaneda- why is it always a male?'

"Well, the reason those males were 'leaders' was a matter of energy-not because they knew more or were 'better.'

"You see, the universe truly is female; the male is pampered because he is unique. Carlos guides us not in what we do in the world, but in dreaming.

"Don Juan had this horrible phrase. He used to say women are 'cracked cunts'- he wasn't being derogatory. It's precisely because we are 'cracked' that we have the facility for dreaming. Males are rigid through and through. But women have no sobriety, no structure, no context; in sorcery, that's what the male provides. The feminists become enraged when I say females are inherently complacent, but it's true! That's because we receive knowledge directly. We don't have to endlessly talk about it- that's the male process.

"Do you know what the nagual is? The myth of the nagual? That there are unlimited possibilities for all of us to be something else than what we are raised to be. You don't have to follow the route of your parents. Whether I'm going to succeed or not is immaterial."


FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

Just after I hung up, the phone rang again. Carol Tiggs was calling to cancel. I expected to feel relief but it was a bringdown.

I'd spoken to people who had seen her lecture in Maui and Arizona. They said she was gorgeous; that she worked the room like a stand-up; that she did a mean Elvis. "I'm sorry we can't meet," she said. At least she sounded genuine. "I was looking forward to it."

I replied, "It's okay. I'll catch up with you at one of your lectures."

"Oh, I don't think I'll be doing that again for a while." There was a pause.

She said, "I have something for you. "

"Is it the lightning from your tits?"

She hesitated a moment then broke into peals of laughter.

She said, "Something much more dramatic."

I felt a tug at the pit of my stomach.

She continued, saying, "You know, they always said people have this split between mind and body- this imbalance, this 'mindbody problem.' But the real dichotomy is between physical body and energy body. We die without having ever awakened that magical Double, and it hates us for that.

"It hates us so much it eventually kills us. That's the whole 'secret' of sorcery: accessing the Double for abstract flight. Sorcerers jump into the void of pure perception with their energy body."

Another pause. I wondered if that was all she was going to say. I was about to speak but something held my words in check.

"There's a song that don Juan thought was beautiful- he said the lyricist nearly got it right. Don Juan substituted one word to make it perfect. He put in 'freedom' where the songwriter had written 'love'."

Then the ghostly recitation began:

      You only live twice
      Or so it seems.
      One life for yourself
      And one for your dreams.
      You drift through the years
      And life seems tame.
      'Til one dream appears
      And Freedom is its name.
      And Freedom's a stranger
      Who'll beckon you on
      Don't think of the danger
      Or the stranger is gone.
      This dream is for you
      So pay the price.
      Make one dream come true. . . *

   * From "You Only Live Twice" 
     by John Barry and Leslie Bricusse



She held back in silence a moment.

Then she said "Sweet dreams," parodied a witchy cackle, and hung up.


ITCH OF THE NAGUAL

As the days became chillier it was easy to feel regret- about anything, even Prozac. What if it turns out Castaneda is inventing nothing? If that's true, then you are in a very bad spot.

We met for the last time on a cold day at the beach, by the pier. He said he couldn't stay long. He was sorry I wasn't able to meet Carol Tiggs. Some other time. I felt much the poor baby - Damnit, I just want to be loved. I was scared as Lee Marvin; I was Rutger Hauer with a tin cup; a shrieking Miracle Mile Jesus. And Jesus looked down on all the people and said: I'm so bored. We sat down on one of the benches on the bluff. I wanted to detain him, just for a moment.

I said, "Tell me the last time you felt nostalgia."

He answered without hesitation.

"When I had to say goodbye to my grandfather. He was long dead by then. Don Juan told me it was time to say goodbye: I was preparing for a long journey, no return. You have to say goodbye, he said, because you will never come back. I conjured my grandfather in front of me- saw him in perfect detail. A total vision of him. He had 'dancing eyes.' Don Juan said, 'Make your goodbye forever.' Oh, the anguish! It was time to drop the banner, and I did. My grandfather became a story. I've told it thousands of times."

We walked to his car.

He said, "I feel an itch in my solar plexus- very exciting. I remember don Juan used to feel that, but I didn't understand what it meant. It means it will soon be time to go." He shivered with delight. "How exquisite!"

As he drove off, he shouted at me through the window: "Goodbye, illustrious gentleman!"


THE DIMMING OF THE LIGHTS

I heard about a lecture in San Francisco. I was finished writing about them but decided to drive up. To put a cork in it, so to speak.

The auditorium was in an industrial park in Silicon Valley. His plane was late; when he walked in, the hall was filled. He spoke eloquently for three hours without a break. He answered questions with incitements, solicitations, and parries. No one moved.

At the end, he talked about killing the ego. "Don Juan had a metaphor: 'The lights are dimming, the musicians packing away their instruments. There is no more time for dancing: It is time to die.' Juan Matus said there was endless time, and no time at all- the contradiction is sorcery. Live it! Live it gorgeously."

A young man rose from the audience.

"But how can we do this without someone like don Juan? How can we do it without joining-"

"No one 'joins' us. There are no gurus. You don't need don Juan," he said emphatically. "I needed him- so I can explain it to you. If you want freedom, you need decision. We need mass in the world; we don't want to be masturbators.

If you recapitulate, you'll gather the energy- we will find you.

But you need a lot of energy. And for that, you have to work your balls off. So, suspend your judgment and take the option. Do it.

"Don Juan used to say, 'One of us is an asshole. And it isn't me.'" He paused a beat. "That's what I came to tell you today." Everyone roared with laughter and rose in applause as Castaneda left through the back door.

I wanted to chase him down, screaming "Please love me!" That would have been good for a laugh, anyway. But I forgot my tin cup.

I walked the sidewalk edges of the pond in darkness. A light wind scattered the brittle leaves on its border. One of our conversations came back- he'd been talking about love. I heard his voice and imagined myself on the caboose, slowly turning to face the words as they advanced...

He had said, "I fell in love when I was nine years old. Truly, I found my other Self. Truly. But it was not fated. Don Juan told me I would have been static, immobile. My fate was dynamic. One day, the love of my life-- this nine-year old girl!-- moved away. My grandmother said, 'Don't be a coward! Go after her!'

"I loved my grandmother but never told her, because she embarrassed me- I thought she had a speech impediment. She called me 'afor' instead of 'amor.' It was really just a foreign accent, but I was very young, I didn't know.

"My grandmother put a bunch of coins in my hand. 'Go and get her! We'll hide her and I'll raise her!' I took the money and started to go. Just then, my grandmother's lover whispered something in her ear. She turned to me with an empty look. 'Afor,' she said, 'afor, my precious darling...' and she took the money back. 'I am sorry, but we have just run out of time.' And I forgot about it- it took don Juan to put it together, years later.

"It haunts me. When I feel the itch- and the clock says quarter to twelve- I get chills! I shake, to this day!

"'Afor... my darling. We have just run out of time.'"



Copyright March 1994 Details Magazine



1994 - Dimensions Magazine - Florinda Donner Interview by Alexander Blair-Ewart - Parts 1 and 2


Version 2011.07.09

Dimensions Magazine - 1994

"The Art Of Stalking True Freedom"

Taisha Abelar In Conversation with Alexander Blair-Ewart, Part 1.

In the long years when Carlos Castaneda first informed the world of the wonders of American aboriginal spirit knowledge, many recognized that a tradition of great significance had begun to reveal itself to the world. Over the years Castaneda has progressively shown the all-engulfing world view of the Toltecs in its reformed state as a work of spiritual art, shaped by the new seers, who have survived the devastating encounter with European colonial civilization.

Taisha Abelar, author of the new book The Sorcerer's Crossing (Viking Arkana) is one of the new seers whose designation "stalker" balances the world of the "dreamer" [see Dimensions Feb '92 interview with the "dreamer" Florinda Donner]. It is with true delight that we witness the emergence into the world of a new and genuine way of the spirit.

Alexander Blair-Ewart:   One meets people who have abandoned reason and logic, and the natural functions of the mind, and who end up in a kind of twilight zone of not really being able to derive any clarity about anything.

Taisha Abelar:   Yes, and that was one of the major pitfalls of the old sorcerers, who emphasized dreaming techniques to shift the assemblage point, but they did not have the stalker's technique to balance that out. It's a question of balance, because unless you have the sobriety and the control, what's the point of moving the assemblage point? You move it and you get lost in those realms and you're never able to return to this level, which is what we're doing at this point. We're moving into other realms, but we're also returning to this reality, shifting back and forth. And we have that control.

Abe:   So you also call that the 'day' and 'night' sides of consciousness. Is that correct?

Tashia:   Yes, you can think of it like that. although, when you are in the night side, you are absolutely in the night side, and that becomes your day. But it's true. You want to be able to maintain an order, because what stalking does is that it has to fixate the assemblage point to a new position, wherever that is. It could be out in a totally different reality. but you still want, within that, to maintain the sobriety and your consciousness, your awareness, that has to remain intact. And that's where your stalker's techniques come in, because if you lose that, either through fright or indulgence or just sheer ignorance, then you lose everything. It's like you say, you end up in this twilight zone, and you've lost the game, in other words. You want to be able to maintain the order, and in stalking you create the reality wherever you are by creating structure, by imputing order, be reasoning. You can reason even if you're in a totally different realm. You still maintain your awareness. You try to bring order to the inconceivable perceptions, the chaos that is the universe. And so wherever you move the assemblage point, the energy for maintaining your awareness intact has to also be there. So that's the prerequisite for shifting into different realities.

Abe:   So your essential beinghood, your essential humanity survives this transition into worlds of alternative reality?

Tashia:   I wouldn't say your humanity, but...

Abe:   ...I said your "essential" humanity...

Tashia:   ...your luminous "double".

Abe:   Yes.

Tashia:   Your luminosity and your awareness, which is the assemblage point, stays intact elsewhere. But it's not human. It doesn't have to be human, and there's the error that we don't want to make. No, you leave everything that's human behind.

Abe:   Now, most people would not really want to do that.

Tashia:   Exactly, no, they don't. And there's a lot of interest in our work, and in Carlos Castaneda, and in don Juan. But they don't really want it. What they like is an intellectual curiosity, the possibility that there's something else out there, because we all have that as human beings.

Abe:   So, in that sense, there's all of the work that Castaneda has published, and Florinda Donner. And now there's this book from you. And I have a hunch that there are going to be other books from other previously unheard of members of that spiritual school or tradition. And yet the books are going out there; literally millions of people, as you know, have read the books; hundreds of thousands of people have tried to do what is in them. And yet we're acknowledging here that this work, this sorcerer's path is really only for the few. Very very few people will actually walk this path. Why did you publish the book?

Tashia:   Good question. There's a double answer here. First of all, one reason is that Carlos Castaneda and Florinda Donner, myself and Carol Tiggs, we're the last of don Juan's line; he's the last of that lineage, the end of the line. They didn't know at the time that they were training us--and I came into don Juan's world very young, when I first became an adult. I'd been with don Juan and then with Carlos Castaneda all my adult life--and they didn't know that Carlos Castaneda was going to be the next Nagual, and that he would have his structure of people according to the rule, which is very specific, and sets up the dreamers and stalkers, and it has a certain numerical configuration. But they trained us in dreaming and stalking and many of the techniques that they use, they handed down to us. but then it turned out Carlos Castaneda is not at all a four-sided Nagual. A Nagual is one that has four energetic compartments, and this is really a question of the energetic makeup of luminous beings. He's a three-sided Nagual, meaning his mission is different, and one of the major differences is that the Nagual woman who usually goes with the previous Nagual's group, in this case Carol Tiggs, she went with don Juan, but one day she came back. The Nagual Carlos' intent, or Florinda Donner's and mine, we literally hold her back into this reality. In other words, her assemblage point shifted back, so that she is now with us. Now that's absolutely unheard of in all the generations of Naguals and seers in don Juan's lineage. So, because she came back, she gave us that energy of actually writing about our experiences.

Abe:   Carol Tiggs came back, and the idea was that she was going to go with don Juan Matus.

Tashia:   And she did. When they left they took her.

Abe:   And Carlos was supposed to find the next Nagual and the next Nagual woman. Then, when he would have taken her and the cycle would have continued. But now this unprecedented thing has occurred. What does it mean?

Tashia:   The designs of the Spirit are absolutely different from what they were for don Juan. His group followed the rules, they had a certain training procedure. Although they were abstract, they were in a sense very concrete. They were practitioners of the things that were handed down to them by the previous group. And they handed these things down to us. But the things that we actually only really keep are the most abstract things, like the recapitulation, the idea of impeccability, the things that we do or are not doing, which is the total negation of practices or procedures, and I am going to talk about those. but your question is why is it coming out now, and why are we writing. The Nagual woman gave us this extra energy to bring these things out into the ordinary reality. Otherwise, unless there's the energy, they would forever remain ideas. Although, we practice them; we are the ideas. There's no difference between what we say and what we do, and that's why we are able to move our assemblage points, because they're not only abstractions, but our bodies actually embody these things. So therefore our assemblage point moves. But unless the energy is there, one is not able to bring it out into this reality for other people to see. So a lot of these things, we've had, we've written down, we've had these things, we were taught them many many years ago. The things that I write about happened many years ago. But there wasn't that energy to put it out, to give it a concrete form, in other words. The second reason is that, since there are no apprentices, so to speak, the design of the Spirit, and I repeat that, I keep saying that, because it's nothing that we decide...There's no way I can say, oh, I'm going to write this and do this, because I have no volition in that sense. The design of the Spirit decides that this should be coming out now, and so it is, and because, I would say, there is no next generation, in the traditional sense. So it has to be put out to whoever is out there. And like you say, yes, there are thousands, maybe millions of people that are reading these things. And one of them could practice them and succeed in finding the way. And the reason I say that is because you don't need a teacher. Being abstract, the way all of us are in this last generation, we can see that all you need is like a minimal chance, and idea. Given the word, the possibility that this is what you can do, the recapitulation is like this, and then if somebody does it, they can move their assemblage point, and something will happen and the Spirit or the Intent itself will guide them and teach them. And that's already built into the recapitulation, into the not-doing exercises, into the books themselves. The intent is already there. Okay, so we said that most people won't want to leave the pack. They'll feel that this is not for them. That's the way it is, yes. But, there's some people out there that this will affect, and those are the people for whom the books are written, and who knows what will happen?

Abe:   Can you talk in a more specific way about the 'recapitulation'?

Tashia:   Okay. What it is is really a very very ancient technique handed down by the old sorcerer's in don Juan's lineage. But it was sort of forgotten by them, because they were more interested in power and having power over others, dominating people, that kind of thing. The furthest thing form their mind was the idea of losing self importance. But the technique was there, and the new sorcerers revived it, so to speak, and it was handed down, and it came to the Nagual Carlos and us. And we now consider it really the fundamental technique in sorcery of all the techniques we learned for moving the assemblage point. The recapitulation is really the best one for modern man, and the reason we put so much emphasis on it--don Juan put the emphasis on it, too--is because anyone can do it. You don't have to be a "sorcerer's apprentice" or anything like that. Just any individual with minimal interest--they don't even have to be absolutely devoted or anything, but have some curiosity--can start this. It is a technique for erasing the idea of the self, or what the self is, in terms of all the memories and associations with people that one had during one's lifetime. And it's not just an idea. I mean, I say idea, but it's an energetic idea, because when one interacts with persons, energy is exchanged, of course. Al lot of it is lost or left in things. Through concerns or deep emotions, it's left in the world and in people. And the strategy--because it is a sorcerer's strategy--is to regain that, to bring it back, so you can have it all with you now, in the present. Why leave it floating around in some mysterious past that kind of holds you fixed in the place where you are? So what you do is you sit, you find a place where you have some quiet and solitude, preferably a closet or big box or even a shower, because you want an enclosed space--the sorcerers used to have their recapitulation boxes, where they would bury themselves, or be in a cave. I started mine in a small cave. Something that encloses the energetic body, so that there's some pressure put on the luminous self. Before you sit, you make out your list. You have a list of everyone that you've every met, encountered, had anything to do with throughout your life. So this takes some doing, and some remembering. This remembering, in itself, sort of loosens the assemblage point. So it's kind of like a preliminary exercise. By going back in your mind and remembering everybody that you've every known, you work from the present backwards, and you write down all the people that you've worked with, your family, your associates, everybody that you've had anything to do with. Actually you make two lists. First of all your sexual experiences. Anyone that you've had any sexual dealings with. And sorcerers always say you start there, because that's the fundamental energy that's lost out there, and if you retrieve that, then that will give you the boost to do your other people. So you have your two lists, and then you sit in your recapitulation box, cave or closet, and you start the breathing. The third element besides the lists and the box or the place is the breath. And the breath is very important, because the breathing is what disentangles the energy. And this is already set up by Intent. Our interaction with others is done with our energetic body, and the breath moves the luminous fibres. You start on your right shoulder, where you put your hand--actually I describe this in my book pretty well--but you start on your right shoulder, and when you have set up the scene of people and places in your mind, you've situated everything and you've visualized it to perfection in all its detail, then you have your chin on your right shoulder and you breath in, turning your head to your left shoulder, and then you exhale moving your head back to your right shoulder, and then bring you head to the centre. You sweep it; it's like a sweeping of the scene. You just sweep the whole room or person or place, whatever. And you pull back whatever of that other person's energy was left in you. You exhale it and give it back. In a sense you detach yourself from that particular encounter. And you do this with everything.

FORMLESS AND PATTERNLESS:
After you've done it with your whole life, you detach pretty much from your remembered past. This is not an analysis, by the way. It's not meant to be like a real self analysis, but you can't help seeing in the way you act and behave and what is expected of you, a pattern forming, and absolute pattern emerging. And with the breath, you break that pattern. So what you essentially want to do is move into formless, patternless behaviour, which is the way a sorcerer acts. He's absolutely fluid. And that brings us back to stalking. A stalker is someone who makes himself inobtrusive, the art of being inobtrusive. He had no self, no pattern, nothing to assert, no point to make, no demands, no desires. And all this will be eliminated through the recapitulation. And then there's some other things that really need to be done with that, and that's quieting the internal dialogue. So that when you're now here it this today, you have all your energy with you so that you don't persist in repeating that same patterns of behaviour. And the way these patterns are ingrained in us is through that internal dialogue, in which we keep repeating certain things to ourselves, like "Oh, I'm no good" or "They don't like me" or "I have to be like this, prove myself here". Whatever goes through one's mind, which is a constant flow of thoughts or reaffirmations, really, of the self. And so, the sorcerers say that you really need to put a stop to that continual reinforcement of the self, which is that position of the assemblage point. Now when you do the breathing with the recapitulation, by moving back into the past, moving forward into now, and that intense concentration that is needed to sit there and visualize these things, that shifts your assemblage point minutely. And whoever does the recapitulation will see that. They'll see that oh, god, I'm doing this again, and ten years later doing it again. The same kind of relationships, again, the same type of man, the same type of woman. We know somebody who says he always picks difficult women. (laughter) I don't know what that means, but it's true. It's like this person is doomed to have difficult relationships. So patterns get repeated, no matter what they are, and whoever recapitulates will see that. So the seer within us gets to break out. And then, as you do this and you go back into your regular day to day life, you become more quiet, and then you do these techniques once a week to quiet the internal dialogue, and some of them are described in my book. There's lots of things like this in Carlos Castaneda's books on gazing, certain gazing techniques. Or you can do a match gazing technique. You just hold up the flame for a moment, and then you douse the tip of it, and then you turn it upside down, after you've kind of cooled off the tip while it's still burning, turn it upside down and hold it in your left hand and look at the flame as it burns the bottom of the match in front of your eyes, and that quiets the mind. You can use any minor meditation techniques. I wouldn't say go heavily into Oriental meditation techniques, because you're already doing recapitulation and you don't want to get fixed into any form. All we're doing now as abstract sorcerers is a minimal of technique so that we can get away from the self. We don't want to get heavier in the area of ego and ego enforcement, and "now we're meditators", or "now we're..."

Abe:   So you don't want to build up an image of yourself, even as a spiritual person.

Tashia:   No, you don't. You don't want to add to that. And when you look at how much you have to get rid of you'll be kind of careful not to add more. (laughter) And you don't want to add more in terms of becoming more important in other areas, just because you're getting rid of some of these old things. But you're putting that energy into fighting with your husband or wife. And that's where impeccability comes in. You want to maintain your daily behaviour on an impeccable level, and that means you just do your best, your humble best. We're no longer interested in reasserting the ego or the self, or defending the self. The brunt of energy really goes into defense of the self, because if it's attacked left and right...I mean, you can't go out of your house...even in your house, there's always something that is threatening, or your boss says something somebody looks at you the wrong way, and they gip you, this or that. Right away you have to go back and build up "I'm not that bad. They don't understand me." The mind rallies like lightning trying to patch up these things. No, you don't let it go. You're not interesting in defense of the self anymore. You're interested in getting rid of the self, in culminating the self. And don Juan had a good adage. He said, "Eliminate the self and fear nothing." So, if you don't have a self there's absolutely nothing to fear, because all the fears, the disappointments, everything comes from the idea of the self, or certain expectations that aren't met. Not just negative things, but if good things happen, then you feel good, you know. So it goes both ways. Stalkers, then are really indifferent, they're detached, and that gets us back to how we started this conversation. What stalkers really want to do is detach themselves from the self, which is saying that they want to detach the awareness from that position of the assemblage point where society, our parents, the sheer fact that we were born into a certain family, have certain relationships, has put us, has forced us, has imprisoned us, really. So when we recapitulate and detach ourselves from everything that's every happened, we're floating. The assemblage point becomes free. It can move, and very harmoniously. It can move without the aid of drugs, without the aid of some external person or Nagual. Because any time you have something external, you're not free, you're dependent on that thing. So the only thing that the modern sorcerer, or the stalker is really dependent on is something so abstract that he calls it the Spirit, the Unknown. By getting rid of the self, they give the self to the Eagle as a token. They give themselves in a symbolic death. And in that sense the Eagle, they say, allows the impeccable warrior to escape. And what that's metaphorically saying is that a person who has recapitulated and disentangled his energy from the expectations of the everyday world is able to move elsewhere. He's able to do dreaming with control, because even in dreaming he has no self. And this differentiates, again, the old sorcerers from the modern ones. When the old sorcerers did dreaming, they had very heavy ego and then of course they got lost and trapped in different levels of dreaming. They weren't able to move out again, because they were too heavy. But they had their ideas of power and they became obsessive. The stalker is absolutely not obsessed with anything. He treats the whole world as 'controlled folly'. What that means is that everything is there to be used. There's order; there's a structure. But it's not to be taken seriously, because there are other orders, other structures, an infinite number of layers to this onion of reality, and he can go elsewhere. But wherever he is, he creates his order and his structure, and when the Spirit moves him, something moves the assemblage point, and he moves elsewhere. And he's impeccable in his dreams, he's impeccable in this everyday reality, if and when he's here. But a stalker begins here in the everyday world, and that's why this recapitulation is really for everyone. They begin here, right wherever anyone is. That's where they start. And they start with their list and their place, they sweep the past, then they make themselves quiet internally, so that they don't accumulate more of the debris, using certain gazing methods--and I don't mean acrobatics or anything like that-- but there's some sorcery passes that have been handed down. Or just sitting quietly--you don't even have to call it meditating--just shut off the internal dialogue. And you elongate these moments of silence. And then you have the power that comes from sheer silence. That in itself will allow the assemblage point to move from your everyday state into heightened awareness. Then, that's when the practitioner--you don't even have to call them sorcerers-- that's when they enter heightened awareness. It's when they have that ability to have the silence extend itself into whatever they're doing. And they're active. If you've working, if you're driving, do whatever, but do it silently, because you don't have the idea of the self impinging. And them, of course, you use the petty tyrants of the world, because okay, so you've recapitulated... and I have to mention here that there's not just one recapitulation...it's really an ongoing process, because after you're finished all the sexual encounters, then you do everybody whom you've encountered in your life. Then you can go back to certain themes. Like you notice that there are still things like when you're working, or something happens during the day, you notice oh boy, that gave me a jolt, that really bothered me. Then you can see why did it bother you, and you can use certain themes. Like wanting to be liked seems to be so common. Everybody seems to want somebody to like them, support them, approve of them. That has to go, but that's a very strong driving force that keeps us in line, because as long as you still have that, it's just like the carrot being dangled in front of your nose. Whatever it is that somebody dangles out there that your body naturally would react to...

Abe:   Would you say it's a major accomplishment, then, on that part of the would be seer when they reach a point where they are no longer concerned with whether or not they're liked?

Tashia:   Yes, that's a major accomplishment. Absolutely. That is, for someone who is very concerned with that. Now, maybe there are the rare few that maybe just don't care, honestly. They have enough energy. And you know what that hinges on, really? Being liked, wanting to be liked? The sorcerers have a theory about the idea of the energy you were given at your conception. If your parents liked each other, and I mean sexually, if they had a very grand time, a great, great sexual experience, both of them, mother and father, when that child is conceived that child will have this great burst of energy. And he may not care whether people really like him or not because he has this intrinsic sense of energetic well-being. but, if one of the parents are bored--the sorcerer don Juan always called them 'bored conceptions'--or if they were made out of a very boring experience, with not much flash. Or maybe the partners didn't even like each other, they just went through the motions of having sex because they were married and it was the thing to do Friday night, then that child will come out into the world with really a disadvantage. And he will always feel that something is missing, and he wants to be liked. He wants his peers to like him, he wants his mama to like him, and she may not even like him at all. But that is not just theory, but it's something that sorcerers have arrived at through their seeing. They actually see how energetic a luminous being is. They can see how the energy moves. In some people it's very sluggish, stagnant, and of course that expresses itself in a very meek or low level zest for life. they sort of just barely get through the day. That kind of feeling. But others have a lot of energy. They meet everything as a challenge. Everything to them is an adventure. They dominate people naturally. They have this charisma, sort of a mesmeric effect on others, and on things around them. And they may not have this need, they're not as needy as other people they want to be liked and are needy.

Abe:   Of course, then that person who has all that energy, will attract all kinds of needy people who want to suck on it. (laughter)

Tashia:   Exactly. And you attract those people. The sorcerers say that the self is really a metaphorical dagger that we stab ourselves with. but, it's alright as long as we bleed in company. As long as there are others bleeding with us, we're okay. (laughter) As long as somebody else feels worse, we're happy. But the recapitulation will give those needy people...and I have to include myself in that category, because absolutely I was not a product of a zestful union...so those are demons and you will see them in the recapitulation. And that's why I say that the recapitulation is never done, because even when I was with don Juan and his people...okay with the, they had enough energy to cover up, let's say for my deficiency. Their energy would elevate me to this heightened level. But the minute they were gone or even left the room, I would slump back to my own natural level, and then I would want attention. And all the apprentices were like that. And of course they would test us by ignoring us, or not speaking to us, or doing things with others when we wanted to be included. So when I say recapitulation, it has to be tried and tested in the everyday world. You can't just escape into the desert and do it, and then feel good and that's the end of it. You have to get back with your mother, with your father. What do they do to you for you to react like the little girl, the little boy that wants mommy to do his laundry, to take care of his tummy? We still have those feelings. So, just recapitulation by itself is not enough. Stalkers stalk the self, and so when they're with people in the world, they're constantly stalking themselves and seeing what's happening.

End of Part 1.

"The Sorcerer's Crossing"

Taisha Abelar in conversation with Alexander Blair-Ewart, Part 2.

In the long years when Carlos Castaneda first informed the world of the wonders of American aboriginal spirit knowledge, many recognized that a tradition of great significance had begun to reveal itself to the world. Over the years Castaneda has progressively shown the all-engulfing worldview of the Toltecs in its reformed state as a work of spiritual art, shaped by the new seers, who have survived the devastating encounter with European colonial civilization.

Taisha Abelar is one of the new seers whose designation "stalker" balances the world of the "dreamer" [see Dimensions Feb.'92 interview with the "dreamer" Florinda Donner]. It is with true delight that we witness the emergence into the world of a new and genuine way of the spirit.

Alexander Blair-Ewart: Recognizing that this is a complex subject that can be understood only by people who are genuinely interested, can I get you to talk about stalking?

Taisha Abelar: That's a question that comes up often when I give lectures. People want to know exactly what is stalking. And there's two ways of approaching this. First, just a general definition is that a stalker is really someone who has made an art out of being inobtrusive. And that is he puts himself in the background, and there's a certain training that is involved in order to become inobtrusive, and I can tell you why it is necessary to be inobtrusive. Let me give you a couple other ways of talking about stalking. It's designed to give the sorcerer or the practitioner a jolt, and by a jolt we mean a push or a slight burst of energy, so that the assemblage point shifts ever so slightly. Now, I think I have to talk about the assemblage point because that is exactly what the stalkers are aiming at. They're aiming to move or shift the assemblage point, and through that to change the perception of the world. Perception, of course, can be changed through dreaming, but stalkers do it while they're awake. So the way sorcerers perceive the world is that they say that everything we see, while we are awake in this reality is a question of the position of the assemblage point. I'm sure you're familiar with Castaneda's books, and you know what the assemblage point is, but let me just describe it again. It is the focused awareness point of luminosity on the luminous cocoon (aura--ed).

We believe that the human being's energetic body is a mass of fibres of light that have infinite number, and each one of those is a specific awareness. So that they're not just light like electricity, but they're actually light like awareness. And on the luminous egg shape that makes up the energetic body there is a point of extra luminosity where the concentration of the person, his awareness, is assembled, and that point of luminosity is about the size of a golfball, from the point of view of the 'seer' who sees the person's luminous being. But it can change size; it also can change position on the luminous body. Now, where that is located determines what is perceived, because there's a matching of the fibres that are lit up within the luminous body and the fibres that are out in the universe at large, because sorcerers also maintain, of course, that the universe us a whole is an infinite number of both energetic fibres, some of which are perceivable, and others which are absolutely beyond our capacities as human beings to perceive. But where the position of this assemblage point is, this lighted up area on the luminous being, when that matches what is outside, then perception takes place.

Abe:   Would this apply to everyone?

Tashia:   We all have our assemblage point at pretty much the same place, because as an infant is born, by virtue of the fact that he is going to be a human infant and a human being, a social person, he has to match the location of his assemblage point to that of other human beings in the world so that he can interact with them, and perceive the same world, the same segment of the possibility of perception that is open to him, so that we can all agree as to what we are perceiving. Because our assemblage points are in the same place, we can have language, we can talk about trees and cars and solid walls and floors, and we can have a spatial and temporal continuity; we know that there was a yesterday, there'll be a tomorrow. All of that has to do with the position of the assemblage point. Time, our conception of everything we know to be so, is determined by where that heightened point of concentration awareness is located. And if by some anomaly it is not in the place where the human assemblage point ought to be, then these people are either sorcerers, (and we'll talk about that in a moment), or they're a candidate for the mentally ill. So you find these people in asylums, because their assemblage points are not fixed at the position where other human beings have theirs fixed. Therefore they don't have this intersubjectivity in terms of perception. And they can't have the agreements to what constitutes reality. There's a mandate, let's say, even a biological mandate that says that all human beings should have their assemblage point at this particular position so they can be what we call human. Animals have it at different places, and that's what fixes their species of animal. Trees have their assemblage point at a certain place in their luminous shell, and that makes them trees.

Abe:   So could we also call the assemblage point the position of collective persona reality agreement?

Tashia:   Exactly. It's our persona, it's our person. Now this person, sorcerers say, is not all that we are humanly capable of being. So we can we be more than just a social person. Now, in order to be more than what society, or what our birthright, has put forth for us, we have to move or shift the place of the assemblage point. We have to move it out of its position where it is stuck. So, not only is the assemblage point capable of moving elsewhere, but when it does, other luminous intelligent fibres of awareness are lit up and matched with the universe, and therefore other realities are constituted, and these other realities are as real and solid as the one we are in now, because the reason this reality where we are now is what we call undeniably real is because of the agreement that we have that this is what the world is like. And that is based on the fixation of the assemblage point. If it moves- and it does; it moves in dreams, by itself- we call that dream reality, to be separated of course from the waking state. So we acknowledge that there are other realms of experience, but we always refer to them from the position of everyday reality. But sorcerers don't do that. They say that you can move the everyday reality while you're awake. You don't have to do drearning... Dreaming, of course, is the control of the movement of the assemblage point in sleep, in dreams, and the fixation of it elsewhere.

Abe:   And you can do it without being insane.

Tashia:   Absolutely.

Abe:   That in itself is an enormously revolutionary statement.

Tashia:   Because our agreement says that yes, there's crazy people out there that have hallucinations. They see monsters and what not. But they're somehow deficient and in this sense, from the point of view of the social order, yes, they're deficient in the sense that they have not stabilized their assemblage point where everyone else has placed it. Somehow their assemblage point is in flux, it's constantly shifting, and therefore of course they're crazy because they're hallucinating, and they don't have the energy to maintain it at any one given position. If they did have that energy and the control, then they would be sorcerers, because they would be stalking that new position.

Abe:   Yes, I see that.

Tashia:   So what this all really boils down to is a question of having the energy to perceive more than we are allowed to perceive given the fact that we are born as human beings. Our social order doesn't allow us to venture into other realms except through insanity or through dreams, which they don't really count as real anyway. So those are two avenues that are open, but they're not really viable avenues. Now sorcerers say you can move the assemblage point, provided you have enough energy to fix it at another position, because you don't want to end up crazy and absolutely lost in these worlds upon worlds that they maintain exist out there, like the layers of an onion. So what is needed is control, energy and fluidity. And what they call 'unbending intent'. Now the fluidity enables one to shift the assemblage point to move away from the given spot that makes us persons, and we'll get back to this, because what this given spot that makes us persons really is is what we call the self. And that's where self-importance has to go out the window because as long as we maintain our allegiance to the self, what we're really doing is maintaining our allegiance to that particular position of the assemblage point. We'll never be able to perceive anything beyond what the taken-for-granted reality out there is. We're allowed only to perceive what is permissable by our given position within the social order. So we need fluidity to move the assemblage point elsewhere, and then we need the stability, the concentration, the energy to fix it on another position. And this is what sorcery really is, the movement and the fixation, fixing again the assemblage point at the different positions, thereby lighting up different realities that are just as concrete and real as what we take as reality of the everyday world.

Abe:   So sorcerers foster and cultivate energy in unique ways, and there's a way of fostering and cultivating dreaming energy, and your book is primarily about the way in which you foster and cultivate stalking energy. Would that be right?

Tashia:   Precisely. There are techniques, there are devices that sorcerers do, and they include 'not doing' techniques, 'recapitulation', which is the fundamental technique of enabling the assemblage point to move off its spot of the self, things like 'losing personal history', which also enables one to move away from what our expectation or our idea is of the self. Losing self- importance is the key, of course, because as I said, as long as we have this idea of a self, a strong self, an ego, a personality with which we interact with others in terms of an intersubjective agreement, they hold us. You see, the strength of the world, of the social order, is so gigantic through the agreement of billions of people holding that assemblage point at that particular spot.

Abe:   So, at a really crass level, you could call it 'peer pressure', and at a universal level you could call it 'the spirit of the times'.

Tashia:   Yes. At a very individual level you could call it 'self-indulging' or one's idea of the self, and then peer pressure. Exactly, all that, and then at a larger level the language itself, on a cultural level, and we have to get to the family, because that's fundamental, and you have to break through each of those barriers- individual, peer, family, cultural- and then some gigantic collective unconsciousness that holds everything in place. A sorcerer has to jump out of all of that onto a different level.

And then even behind this collective unconscious, you have the biological mandate that we're really trapped in this 'ape mold'. We have our biological drive, we need to be social, gregarious beings because we're social animals. Solitude is something that frightens people to death. I mean, that's one of the killers of neophytes, the idea that they have to have a solitary journey, a solitary quest, because the recapitulation is done in absolute solitude. But people think, well, they can meditate together, do things together, as long as they still have a group concensus. But you see, it's that very group concensus that prevents the subtle movement of the assemblage point. So you do have to get beyond that force, and you have to have the energy, and the energy comes from all the things that I mentioned before, including impeccability, and also using your death. You give a death, because you'll end up giving a death anyway. If you follow the sorcerer s path, if one wishes to move away from the self, from that given position of the assemblage point, and venture into the unknown, then it is like dying. The self has to capitulate, and it's a horrendous feeling. Emotionally, physically, it is like, you know, man against the universe.

Abe:   And that death is protracted, isn't it? I mean, it doesn't happen in one miraculous moment. It's something that progressively occurs. It will take years. When do you know you've really done it? When do you know that you've finally died to that old self, or become what is called in the literature a 'formless warrior'?

Tashia:   You have to be formless. You have to not have a self. First of all, like you say, it's not a sudden process, although it can be. The movement of the assemblage point can be, in some people, in some anomalous cases, sudden, or under a great shock all of a sudden it moves elsewhere, and a different reality is constituted in front of the person. All of a sudden he's somewhere else. But that usually doesn't last because it comes from an external force, and it usually shifts back. If it does last, he won't know what happened to him, and those are the cases for the asylums, the institutions. So, a gradual change is best

Abe:   I take it that drugs, power plants, can also induce this?

Tashia:   Yes, exactly. That too. Under the influence of psychotropic drugs you see different worlds, and the assemblage point is absolutely blasted out of its position. But you are not doing that, you don't have the control, again it's an external agent. The sheer presence of a Nagual moves the assemblage point, too. His impeccability can move the assemblage point in his students. He doesn't have to give them the slap on the back or anything like that. Sheer energy can cause apprentices to assemble different worlds. But you see, there again, whenever we were in the presence of Don Juan and his people, their force made us do fantastic things. Those things 1 write about in my book. But, when I came back to Los Angeles and they weren't around, there I was. I had the force of the social order on top of me, and my assemblage point moved back into the 'first attention'. And the tragedy, of course, is that unless you move your assemblage point back to the places that it was under the influence of don Juan and his people, you barely remember what you did or what those worlds consisted of. They're like dreams. So you have to store the energy to allow it to move into heightened awareness, so that you can maintain it there on your own, and venture. And then you move it further, and it's a gradual shift.

Abe:   How do you store or keep the energy to move your assemblage point?

Tashia:   The 'recapitulation' is the major one. I just want to mention that another way of moving it is sheer impeccability, by intending the movement. Intent is really a line, a force that connects one directly with the energy out there at large. And, because it has an intelligence, a guiding order of sorts. They call it the Spirit, the Eagle. But when man links his personal energy to the energy out there through impeccable acts, then the Spirit itself moves the assemblage point for him, because in a sense he has relinquished control. He has relinquished himself, his ego. He has let go, and is allowing the guiding force of intent to move him. And all of these sorcery activities that I mentioned, the recapitulation, all the not-doings, all those have the sorcerer's intent already linked to them. So a person just has to do these things and let the intent take him, and his assemblage point will move, because these are ancient techniques that have been handed down from generations within Don Juan's lineage, and they have already that link to the Spirit out there inherent in them. So the necessity of storing energy we already know, because that's the only way to get out of the mold that we are born into as humans. We always like to talk in terms of the human ape, because it really puts man in a proper perspective.

Abe:   Are you using that, though, as a metaphor, in the sense that what I understand is that these luminous beings that we are actually, in the process of "time", took on the form that we now have, that at some point we intended ourselves human or flesh and blood, but that what we intrinsically are is something that comes from that vast 'out there', but that we haven't, in the normal sense of evolution, evolved from monkeys? I mean, is that something that you deal with at all? I accept the ape metaphor very well. But the theory of evolution has never managed to explain to me how come we have these other capacities in us.

Tashia:   Ah hah. And what sorcerers say is that we are continually evolving. Therefore we should not stay or limit ourselves to that ape-like position of the assemblage point. As you say, within the luminosity of human beings is the potential for an infinite number of other possibilities. Yes, I would agree with you, that from the point of view of evolution we have sort of stopped there, and encrusted ourselves at that position. But the force of evolution continues. Sorcerers are beings who at one time were human beings. But they have evolved to something else. They are no longer human beings in the strict sense of the word, because they can move their assemblage point elsewhere and maintain those positions, and actually change their form. They don't have to maintain their human form. They can move downwards, shift down to the animal level, and they can change shape into animals, into crows, into birds, or any other animal or entity. Or they can shift into inconceivable realms that have no physical counterparts, but are abstractions.

Abe:   So there are old and new seers?

Tashia:   What the new sorcerers are doing...there is a distinction between the old sorcerers and the new sorcerers in Don Juan's lineage, or the modern day sorcerers, Don Juan and his teacher the Nagual Julian, and Don Juan's apprentice, the new Nagual Carlos Castaneda. These are all modern day sorcerers, and what they're interested in is this evolution towards the abstract, away from any of these downward shifts that are so easy to do in dreaming when the assemblage point by itself finds these positions. And for that reason all of the people associated with Carlos Castaneda, we're university graduates, educated, clear thinkers (hopefully). I mean, that is one of our tasks. An actual sorcery task is to be able to think coherently, to think clearly, to see where we are as human beings, and what our potential is, and be able to see and get to this level of actual truth, not only through reason, but using reason in its strictest sense, and not in the shoddy sense of reasoning something and then acting some other way totally in contradiction, which is what human beings do.

End of Part 2.

Copyright 1994 Dimensions Magazine



1994 - Magical Blend - No. 44 - Dreaming within The Dream by Merilyn Tunneshende


For the ordinary person, I would say that viewing life as a dream while awake is one of the most valuable meditations ever evolved in any discipline.


Version 2011.07.09

Magical Blend #44 - 1994

"Dreaming within The Dream"

By Merilyn Tunneshende of the sorcerer's party of Carlos Castaneda

The old Nagual found me in Arizona at the time that Carlos Castaneda was changing sorcerer's families. Carlos was leaving the sisters and the Genaros, and in transition toward his new party of Florinda, Taisha and Carol, for reasons that he himself explained. The problem resulting from this was a hole left in the original party, and Carlos' uncertainty as to the task left him by the Nagual.

I was, at that time, traveling through the southwestern U.S. and Mexico, recovering from the death of my fiance. I was a Spanish teacher with a master's degree on sabbatical. In Arizona, I met an old Native American man, who for my purposes shall be dubbed John Black Crow. He suggested that I stay in the area for a while to learn some things about the pre-Spanish conquest Americas. I was trained by him in some ancient magical practices; trained separately and then sent down to Mexico where I found Carlos, his original party and the consummate Dreaming teacher, who for my purposes shall be called Florentin (pronounced Florenteen).

According to the Nagual and his teachings, my body's energy configuration is that of a Nagual woman, which means that I am capable of leading a sorcerer's party or of flying with a male Nagual.

This is essential in a complete group. A female Nagual embodies the mystery. Therefore, it was hoped that I would close the hole in the original party, from which Carlos was departing.

Sorcerers can identify anyone's energy pattern. These patterns are like predispositions or natural talents. Actually, every being perceives these differences. All one has to do to solidify perception of the categories is be exposed to individuals who embody them. In writing about our world, we are each, of course, from our own category, trying to provide the rest of the world with the exposure necessary to form these perceptual refinements.

My training consisted of Dreaming and Stalking techniques, which I learned basically in the order and form that Carlos has presented in his books. However, I was also taught to Stalk through Dreaming; in other words, to set up, discover, and pursue the elements of a desired phenomenon in my Dreaming.

This technique is my path, and I now practice it most of the time. It brings extra energy to my awareness, and it requires me to spend tremendous amounts of time in the states of Dreaming and Dreaming Awake. Thus, in our group, I would classify myself technically as a Dreamer, though I am often Stalking as well.

For the ordinary person, I would say that viewing life as a dream while awake is one of the most valuable meditations ever evolved in any discipline.

It brings the knowledge of the illusory nature of what we call reality and of the potential to dissolve this perception into clear white light, as one can dissolve a dream into light.

During the course of my training in these methods, I received a piece of information from the old Nagual that few in either of the two newer parties possess. This is something that many readers have wondered and asked about. Namely, where did the old Nagual go and how can one get there?

Part of my task is to make this information a little more accessible to others, and I have been instructed to do this in writing. The old Nagual left the world, but he is still in it. He left the planet, but he is still able to be part of the life of it if the designs of power create an opening. Some of us have as a gift the almost constant possibility of his presence and know how to get to him. Others can no longer even perceive him. That is the way things are. And in the times we are moving into, that is the way they are going to be. Either one is in tune with the primordial purpose or one is not. Either you will perceive your teachers or they will be like cigar store Indians, forever still, shadowy, silent, while you concentrate on nonsense. There are teachers out there, enough if the world will wake up.

Carlos, Florinda, and Taisha have presented excellent accounts of their instruction, and good explanations of the goals of the training. La Gorda (Maria Tena), who I call Butterfly Woman, at this time chooses not to write, although if she ever did, I'm sure she'd do an excellent job of it. The sisters and the Genaros are involved in other tasks, and dona Soledad is much too mercenary. So it falls to me to take it from this point.

The purpose of all our teachings as it has been stated, is to perceive energy directly. One does this through Seeing, but one has to build up enormous perceptual energy to See. One can build up this energy through any number of storage techniques, many of which are available to any sincere seeker. The next step is to use Seeing (perceiving energy directly) to move directly through energy in a desired direction, like flowing with the Tao. When a Nagual does this with superb unfettered skill, it is called Flying.

To illustrate this I will share an example from my own training....

"Objects are not as solid as they appear," says John Black Crow as he stands in front of me.

"People are not solid. Their energy can be changed, transformed, even passed through."

"Are you trying to tell me you can walk through walls, John?" I ask as a joke.

"Better than that." He smiles with a glint in his eye.

He puts his hands on my shoulders, and at that moment I feel John Black Crow stare fixedly at my left eye. It is as if I go to sleep but I am still awake. I have already been taught by him that this is the state he calls Dreaming Awake. Then, it is as if I see him from a great distance. He is very small, and I see him coming rapidly towards me, growing larger. I feel a rushing sensation. Then I feel John seize and take hold of a vertical crack within me. He opens it. His full-size image rushes through me. He is no longer in front of me. Then he is. I gaze at John Black Crow with my mouth open.

"That's what Naguals call mating," he jokes.

I am speechless.

"Do you want me to teach you to fly now?" He has a huge grin on his face.

I nod like a zombie in a trance.

"All right, you'd better sit down for this." We both sit on the desert ground. "Now, I want you to find that crack I went through and open it. Open it like a door to the wind. Pry it open in the center," he instructs.

To my amazement, I am able to perceive a crack in my energy and open it by focusing on it. I feel a rushing wind.

"Dissolve yourself in the wind!" I hear him call. "But not entirely. Let that rushing become a part of you."

I begin to feel that I am a hollow tube of rushing wind. Then I feel an incredible falling sensation.

"That's it!" he shouts. "Free fall! Now direct yourself. Fall to the left, to the right!" He goes on shouting instructions. "All right now, slowly narrow the crack and land," he says. "Feel yourself settling."

I open my eyes and look at John Black Crow. He is beaming at me, and I seem to be my normal self. He explains that the energy configuration of a Nagual in flight is like a comet. And that flying females are like hollow comets. He seems to be very pleased with me.

"We are joined together now," John Black Crow says pensively. "You will go with me. I See that now." He is smiling. "You and I are the same. But before we go, I'd better send you to Mexico. I know someone who is waiting for you down there."

The instruction I received in Mexico took an unexpected turn. I arrived in a town called Catemaco and found everyone at the market. It took several days of waiting and talking with the others about their progress before don Florentin showed up.

When he did, he separated me from the group. I would work with him until he Saw it was time to quit, and then I would return to the others to practice what I was learning. I was quite a mystery to the group, especially since they knew that they were separating from Carlos. Also, there was a matter of lineage that was emerging as a question. The old Nagual was Seeing that through the designs of power, I might actually belong with his own party.

Don Florentin Saw that I was already developing my body of Dreaming, so he taught me a more advanced technique that he called "Dreaming within the Dream," which is endless, and in its final extrapolation, is the same as Flying.

The technique is this: One enters into the state of Dreaming Awake. As one Dreams, one searches for energy vortexes where other Dreaming is going on. One Dreams oneself into this Dream, and one repeats the process endlessly. When done correctly, it is like a wormhole in the universe.

Don Florentin first taught me this technique waiting for a bus. "We have to wait for a Dreamed bus," he says with a crazy look in his eyes.

"You mean someone will be Dreaming a bus?" I ask, thinking that I am playing along with his sense of humor.

He raises his hands to indicate the vastness of the universe. "Someone will," he says with a beautiful, emphatic tone.

We wait for about half an hour and then, lo and behold, don Florentin sees his bus. "We have to hurry and get on," he says as he hustles me.

Once on the bus, don Florentin tells me that our destination is the center of Dreaming within that Dream. We are not to get absorbed in the Dream of the bus. We want to get off in the Dream within it. After a while, we both feel moved to get off. We find ourselves standing in a bus terminal, and I am gazing at a man who has gotten off another bus and is gazing back at me. He looks like Carlos will, at seventy years old.

Don Florentin seems thrilled with how we have traveled. He indicates that we will walk back to the market by way of the lake, to retrace our path.

"Did we move forward in time don Florentin?" I ask, as I keep up with his hopping gate.

He grins his huge grin at me and runs his fingers through the longish strands of dark hair which always seem to stick up on top of his head. "Hmmm. We'll go back now. This way. You follow me," he says in a maniacal tone. "We went forward. But we don't want to get stuck! Better not talk any more just yet."

As we walk, it is almost like watching a movie with the sound turned off. Don Florentin seems to do everything very deliberately. I don't let him out of my sight. When we arrive on the little tree lined street with the courtyards, where I stay, the sound pops back. Some children are playing and talking musically in front of a small restaurant.

"You'll be all right now. Here we are." says don Florentin and sweetly chucks me under the chin. "Go have a nice afternoon." And off he jaunts.

I know I'll see him the next morning, but he never says when, where, or even that I'll see him. It is just understood that he will be there, at the right place at the right time. It is always the same way with the old Nagual.

It often amazes people to find out how far back this magic really goes. John Black Crow told me that this sorcery predates even the Toltecs considerably. These sorcerers are unraveling time backward as well as forward. Each of us have our tasks that prepare us to move more and more into that world. Others hopefully will benefit from the mysteries that encroach into the moment. For in the final analysis, what is possible for any being is possible for us all.

"Originally," John Black Crow stated, "the Dreaming techniques evolved from the practice of shape-shifting, which always used dreaming as an entry. Stalking evolved from the vision quest and from hunting."

Currently, there are several handfuls of practitioners of these ancient arts residing throughout the Americas, but there are many more in the nagual. Once you gain entrance into that realm, the number of practitioners expands exponentially.

Don Florentin stressed that you have to be smart and brave to follow this path. "A real trailblazer, and a little crazy too!" I remember him say. "But trailblazing is one path that is worthwhile to follow, if you follow it with heart all the way." I would say that he is right. And so, to all my fellow travelers on the path, "I wish you well."

After submitting this article to the editor, he asked me a very pointed question. "What does Toltec sorcery have to do with everyone who doesn't practice it?" I have to admit I was completely taken aback. It was such a good question that I even contacted other members of the group about it. They all laughed uproariously and agreed that it was indeed the best question any of us had ever been asked. The unanimous answer was that we are (all beings) part of a whole trying to improve our lot.

If any one of us, or any group of sentient beings, can beat even one of the things that we are up against and then share that information, the rest might also benefit. To reiterate: In the final analysis what is possible for anysone is possible for all.

Merilyn Tunneshende currently resides in the southeastern United States where she is writing a book about her training and experiences. She travels to the southwestern U.S. and Mexico frequently. In 1992 she was awarded a grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities to do research on the Maya.



Copyright 1994 Magical Blend Magazine



1994 - New Age Journal - Carlos Castaneda Interview by Keith Thompson


Version 2011.07.09

New Age Journal - Mar 1994

Carlos Castaneda Speaks, An interview by Keith Thompson

Literary agents are paid to hype their clients, but when the agent for Carlos Castaneda claimed that he was offering me "the interview of a lifetime," it was hard to disagree. After all, Castaneda's nine best-selling books describing his extraordinary apprenticeship to Yaqui Indian sorcerer don Juan Matus had inspired countless members of my generation to explore mysticism, psychedelic drugs, and new levels of consciousness. Yet even as his reputation grew, the author had remained a recluse, shrouding himself in mystery and intrigue. Aside from a few interviews given seemingly at random over the years, Castaneda never ventured into the public spotlight. Few people even know what he looks like. For this interview, his agent told me, there could be no cameras and no tape recorders. The conversation would have to be recorded by a stenographer, lest copies of Castaneda's taped voice fall into the wrong hands.

The interview-- perhaps timed to coincide with the publication of Castaneda's latest and most esoteric book, The Art of Dreaming-- took place in the conference room of a modest office in Los Angeles, after weeks of back-and-forth negotiations with Castaneda's agent. The arrangements were complicated, the agent said, by the fact that he had no way of contacting his client and could only confirm a meeting after speaking with him "whenever he decides to call... I never know in advance when that may be."

Upon my arrival at noon, an energetic, enthusiastic, broad-smiled man walked across the room, extended his hand, and greeted me unassumingly: "Hello, I am Carlos Castaneda. Welcome. We can begin our conversation when you are ready. Would you like coffee, or perhaps a soda? Please make yourself comfortable."

I had heard that Castaneda blends into the woodwork, or resembles a Cuban waiter; that his features are both European and Indian; that his skin is nut-brown or bronze; that his hair is black, thick, and curly. So much for rumour. His mane is now white, or largely so, short and mildly dishevelled. If asked to guide a police artist in making a sketch, I would emphasize the eyes-- large, bright, lucid. They may have been gray.

I asked Castaneda about his schedule. "The entire afternoon is available. I should think we'll have all the time we need. When it's enough, we'll know." Our conversation lasted four hours, continuing through a meal of deli sandwiches that arrived midway.

My first exposure to Castaneda's work had been as much initiation as introduction. It was 1968. Police officers were clubbing demonstrators in the streets of Chicago. Assassins had taken Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. Aretha Franklin's "Chain of Fools" topped the charts. All of this amidst an ocean of sandals, embroidered caftans, bell-bottoms, jangling bracelets, beads, and long hair for men and women alike.

Into all this stepped an enigmatic writer named Carlos Castaneda, toting a book called The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge. I remember how it transformed me. The book I began reading was a curiosity; the book I held when I finished had become a manifesto, the kind of delirious cause celebre for which my psyche had been secretly training. What Castaneda seemed to be affirming-- the possibility of awesome personal spiritual experience-- was precisely what the Sunday-morning-only religion of my childhood had done its best to vaccinate me against.

Believing in Castaneda gave me faith that someday, some way, I might meet my very own don Juan Matus (don is a Spanish appellative denoting respect), the old Indian wise man/sorcerer who implores his protege Carlos to get beyond looking-- simply perceiving the world in its usually accepted forms. To be a true "man of knowledge," Carlos has to learn the art of seeing, so that for the first time he can truly perceive the startling nature of the everyday world. "When you see," don Juan says, "there are no longer familiar features in the world.

Everything is new. Everything has never happened before. The world is incredible!"

But, really-- who was this Castaneda? Where did he come from and what was he trying to prove, with his mysterious account of a realm that seemed to be of an entirely different order of reality?

Over the years, various answers to that question have been offered. Take your pick: (a) dissenting anthropologist; (b) sorcerer's apprentice; (c) psychic visionary; (d) literary genius; (e) original philosopher; (f) master teacher. For balance, let's not forget (g) perpetrator of one of the most spectacular hoaxes in the history of publishing.

Castaneda has responded to the bestowal of these conflicting ID tags with something like ironic amusement, as though he were an audience member enjoying the spectacle of a Chekhov comedy in which he himself may or may not be a character. The author has consistently declined-- over a span of nearly three decades-- to engage in the war of words about whether his books are authentic accounts of real-world encounters, as he maintains, or (as numerous critics have argued) fictional allegories in the spirit of Gulliver's Travels and Alice in Wonderland.

This strategic reticence was learned from don Juan himself. "To slip in and out of different worlds you have to remain inconspicuous," says Castaneda, who is rumored (his preferred status) to divide his time nowadays between Los Angeles, Arizona, and Mexico. "The more you are identified by people's ideas of who you are and how you will act, the greater the constraint on your freedom.

Don Juan insisted upon the importance of erasing personal history. If little by little you create a fog around yourself, then you will not be taken for granted, and you will have more room for change."

Even so, scattered clearings in the fog offer glimpses of tracks left by the sorcerer's apprentice in the years before his life faded to myth.

The scholarly consensus, unconfirmed by the author himself, is that Carlos Cesar Arana Castaneda was born in Peru on Christmas day 1925 in the historic Andean town of Cajamarca. Upon graduating from the Colegio Nacional de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, he studied briefly at the National Fine Arts School of Peru. In 1948 his family moved to Lima and established a jewelry store. After the death of his mother a year later, Castaneda moved to San Francisco and soon enrolled at Los Angeles City College, where he took two courses in creative writing and one in journalism.

Castaneda received a B.A. in anthropology in 1962 from the University of California at Los Angeles. In 1968, five years before Castaneda received his Ph.D. in anthropology, the University of California Press published The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, which became a national best seller following an enthusiastic notice by Roger Jellinek in the New York Times Book Review:

"One can't exaggerate the significance of what Castaneda has done. He is describing a shamanistic tradition, a pre-logical cultural form that is no-one-knows how old. It has been described often... But it seems that no other outsider, and certainly not a 'Westerner,' has ever participated in its mysteries from within; nor has anyone described them so well."

The fuse was lit. The Teachings sold 300,000 copies in a 1969 Ballantine mass edition. A Separate Reality and Journey to Ixtlan followed from Simon & Schuster in 1971 and 1972. The saga continued in Tales of Power (1974), The Second Ring of Power (1977), The Eagle's Gift (1981), The Fire from Within (1984), The Power of Silence (1987), and The Art of Dreaming (1993).

(Bibliophiles may be interested to learn that Castaneda says he actually wrote a book about don Juan before The Teachings, titled The Crack Between Worlds, but lost the manuscript in a movie theater.)

In assessing the impact of his work, Castaneda's admirers credit him with introducing to popular culture the rich and varied traditions of shamanism, with their emphasis on entering nonordinary realms and confronting strange and sometimes hostile spirit-powers, in order to restore balance and harmony to body, soul, and society. Inspired by don Juan's use of peyote, jimsonweed, and other power plants to teach Castaneda the "art of dreaming," untold numbers of pioneers extended their own inner horizons through psychedelic inquiry-- with decidedly mixed results.

For their part, critics of Castaneda's "path of knowledge" dismiss his work as an ongoing pseudo-anthropological shenanigan, complete with fabricated shamans and sensationalized Native American religious practices. The writings, they claim, have netted an unscrupulous author tremendous wealth at the cost of denigrating the sacred lifeways of indigenous peoples through commercial exploitation. Castaneda's presentation, writes Richard de Mille in Castaneda's Journey, "appeals to the reader's hunger for myth, magic, ancient wisdom, true reality, self-improvement, other worlds, or imaginary playmates."

Appropriately, the Castaneda I encountered was a study in contrasts. His presence was informal, spontaneous, warmly animated, and at times contagiously mirthful. At the same time, his still heavily accented (Peruvian? Chilean? Spanish?) diction conveyed the patrician formality of an ambassador at court: deliberate and well-composed, serious and poised, earnest and resolute. Practiced.

The contradiction, like so much about the man, may strike some as a bothersome inconsistency. But it shouldn't. To reread Carlos Castaneda's books (as I did, astonishingly, all nine of them) is to see clearly-- perhaps for the first time-- that contradiction is the force that ties his literary Gordian knot. As the author had told me, intently, during our lunch break: "Only by pitting two views against each other can one weasel between them to arrive at the real world."

I had the sense he was letting me know his fortress was well guarded-- and daring me to storm it anyway.

---

Keith Thompson:
As your books have made a character named Carlos world-famous, the author called Castaneda has retreated further and further from public view. There have been more confirmed sightings of Elvis than of Carlos Castaneda in recent years. Legend has you committing suicide on at least three occasions; there's the persistent story of your death in a Mexican bus crash two decades ago; and my search for a confirmed photo and audio tapes was fruitless. How can I be sure that you're truly Castaneda and not a Carlos impersonator from Vegas? Have you got any distinguishing birthmarks?


Carlos Castaneda:
None! Just my agent vouches for me. That's his job. But you are free to ask me your questions and shine a bright light in my eyes and keep me here all night-- like in the old movies.


Keith Thompson:
You're known for being unknown. Why have you agreed to talk now, after declining interviews for so many years?


Carlos Castaneda:
Because I'm at the end of the trail that started over thirty years ago. As a young anthropologist, I went to the Southwest to collect information, to do fieldwork on the medicinal plants used by the Indians of the area. I intended to write an article, go on to graduate school, become a professional in my field. I hadn't the slightest interest in meeting a weird man like don Juan.


Keith Thompson:
How exactly did your paths cross?


Carlos Castaneda:
I was waiting for the bus at the Greyhound station in Nogales, Arizona, talking with an anthropologist who had been my guide and helper in my survey. My colleague leaned over and pointed to a white-haired old Indian across the room-- "Psst, over there, don't let him see you looking"-- and said he was an expert about peyote and medicinal plants. That was all I needed to hear. I put on my best airs and sauntered over to this man, who was known as don Juan, and told him I myself was an authority about peyote. I said that it might be worth his while to have lunch and talk with me-- or something unbearably arrogant to that effect.


Keith Thompson:
The old power-lunch ploy. But you weren't really much of an authority, were you?


Carlos Castaneda:
I knew next to nothing about peyote! But I continued rattling on-- boasting about my knowledge, intending to impress him. I remember that he just looked at me and nodded occasionally, without saying a word. My pretensions melted in the heat of that day. I was stunned at being silenced. There I stood in the abyss, until don Juan saw that his bus had come. He said good-bye, with the slightest wave of his hand. I felt like an arrogant imbecile, and that was the end.


Keith Thompson:
Also the beginning.


Carlos Castaneda:
Yes, that's when everything started. I learned that don Juan was known as a brujo, which means, in English, medicine man, curer, sorcerer. It became my task to discover where he lived. You know, I was very good at doing that, and I did. I found out, and I came to see him one day. We took a liking to each other and soon became good friends.


Keith Thompson:
You felt like a moron in this man's presence, but you were eager to seek him out?


Carlos Castaneda:
The way don Juan had looked at me there in the bus station was exceptional-- an unprecedented event in my life. There was something remarkable about his eyes, which seemed to shine with a light all their own. You see, we are-- unfortunately we don't want to accept this, but we are apes, anthropoids, simians. There's a primary knowledge that we all carry, directly connected with the two-million-year-old person at the root of our brain. And we do our best to suppress it, which makes us obese, cardiac, cancer-prone. It was on that archaic level that I was tackled by don Juan's gaze, despite my annoyance and irritation that he had seen through my pretense to expertise in the bus station.


Keith Thompson:
Eventually you became don Juan's apprentice, and he your mentor. What was the transition?


Carlos Castaneda:
A year passed before he took me into his confidence. We had gotten to know each other quite well, when one day don Juan turned to me and said he held a certain knowledge that he had learned from an unnamed benefactor, who had led him through a kind of training. He used this word "knowledge" more often than "sorcery," but for him they were one and the same. Don Juan said he had chosen me to serve as his apprentice, but that I must be prepared for a long and difficult road. I had no idea how astonishingly strange the road would be.


Keith Thompson:
That's a consistent thread of your books-- your struggle to make sense of a "separate reality" where gnats stand a hundred feet tall, where human heads turn into crows, where the same leaf falls four times, where sorcerers conjure cars to disappear in broad daylight. A good stage hypnotist can produce astonishing effects. Is it possible that's what don Juan was up to? Did he trick you?


Carlos Castaneda:
It's possible. What he did was teach me that there's much more to the world than we usually acknowledge-- that our normal expectations about reality are created by social consensus, which is itself a trick. We're taught to see and understand the world through a socialization process that, when working correctly, convinces us that the interpretations we agree upon define the limits of the real world. Don Juan interrupted this process in my life by demonstrating that we have the capacity to enter into other worlds that are constant and independent of our highly conditioned awareness. Sorcery involves reprogramming our capacities to perceive realms as real, unique, absolute, and engulfing as our daily so-called mundane world.


Keith Thompson:
Don Juan is always trying to get you to put your explanations of reality and your assumptions about what's possible inside brackets, so you can see how arbitrary they are. Contemporary philosophers would call this "deconstructing" reality.


Carlos Castaneda:
Don Juan had a visceral understanding of the way language works as a system unto itself-- the way it generates pictures of reality that we believe, mistakenly, to reveal the "true" nature of things. His teachings were like a club beating my thick head until I saw that my precious view was actually a construction, woven of all kinds of fixated interpretations, which I used to defend myself against pure wondering perception.


Keith Thompson:
There's a contradiction in there, somewhere. On the one hand, don Juan desocialized you, by teaching you to see without preconceptions. Yet it sounds like he then resocialized you by enrolling you in a new set of meanings, simply giving you a different interpretation, a new spin on reality-- albeit a "magical" one.


Carlos Castaneda:
That's something don Juan and I argued about all the time. He said in effect that he was despinning me and I maintained he was respinning me. By teaching me sorcery he presented a new lens, a new language, and a new way of seeing and being in the world. I was caught between my previous certainty about the world and a new description, sorcery, and forced to hold the old and the new together. I felt completely stalled, like a car slipping its transmission. Don Juan was delighted. He said this meant I was slipping between descriptions of reality-- between my old and new views.

Eventually I saw that all my prior assumptions were based on viewing the world as something from which I was essentially alienated. That day when I encountered don Juan in the bus station, I was the ideal academic, triumphantly estranged, conniving to prove my nonexistent expertise concerning psychotropic plants.


Keith Thompson:
Ironically, it was don Juan who later introduced you to "Mescalito," the green-skinned spirit of peyote.


Carlos Castaneda:
Don Juan introduced me to psychotropic plants in the middle period of my apprenticeship, because I was so stupid and so cocky, which of course I considered evidence of sophistication. I held to my conventional description of the world with incredible vengeance, convinced it was the only truth. Peyote served to exaggerate the subtle contradictions within my interpretative gloss, and this helped me cut through the typical Western stance of seeing a world out there and talking to myself about it. But the psychotropic approach had its costs-- physical and emotional exhaustion. It took months for me to come fully around.


Keith Thompson:
If you could do it over again, would you "just say no"?


Carlos Castaneda:
My path has been my path. Don Juan always told me, "Make a gesture." A gesture is nothing more than a deliberate act undertaken for the power that comes from making a decision. Ultimately, the value of entering a non-ordinary state, as you do with peyote or other psychotropic plants, is to exact what you need in order to embrace the stupendous character of ordinary reality. You see, the path of the heart is not a road of incessant introspection or mystical flight, but a way of engaging the joys and sorrows of the world. This world, where each one of us is related at molecular levels to every other wondrous and dynamic manifestation of being-- this world is the warrior's true hunting ground.


Keith Thompson:
Your friend don Juan teaches what is, how to know what is, and how to live in accord with what is-- ontology, epistemology, and ethics. Which leads many to say he's too good to be true, that you created him from scratch as an allegorical instrument of wise instruction.


Carlos Castaneda:
The notion that I concocted a person like don Juan is preposterous. I'm a product of a European intellectual tradition to which a character like don Juan is alien. The actual facts are stranger: I'm a reporter. My books are accounts of an outlandish phenomenon that forced me to make fundamental changes in my life in order to meet the phenomenon on its own terms.


Keith Thompson:
Some of your critics grow quite livid in their contention that Juan Matus sometimes speaks more like an Oxford don than a don Indian. Then there's the fact that he travelled widely and acquired his knowledge from sources not limited to his Yaqui roots.


Carlos Castaneda:
Permit me to make a confession: I take much delight in the idea that don Juan may not be the "best" don Juan. It's probably true that I'm not the best Carlos Castaneda, either. Years ago I met the perfect Castaneda at a party in Sausalito, quite by accident. There, in the middle of the patio, was the most handsome man, tall, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, barefoot. It was the early '70s. He was signing books, and the owner of the house said to me, "I'd like you to meet Carlos Castaneda." He was impersonating Carlos Castaneda, with an impressive coterie of beautiful women all around him. I said, "I am very pleased to meet you, Mister Castaneda." He responded, "Doctor Castaneda." He was doing a very good job. I thought, He presents a good way to be Castaneda, the ideal Castaneda, with all the benefits that go with the position. But time passes, and I'm still the Castaneda that I am, not very well suited to play the Hollywood version. Nor is don Juan.


Keith Thompson:
Speaking of confessions: Did you ever contemplate downplaying the eccentricity of your teacher and presenting him as a more conventional character, to make him a better vehicle for his teachings?


Carlos Castaneda:
I never considered such an approach. Smoothing rough edges to advance an agreeable plot is the luxury of the novelist. I'm not unfamiliar with the spoken and unspoken canon of science: "Be objective." Sometimes don Juan spoke in goofy slang-- the equivalent of "By golly!" and "Don't lose your marbles!" are two of his favorites. On other occasions he showed a superb command of Spanish, which permitted me to obtain detailed explanations of the intricate meanings of his system of beliefs and its underlying logic. To deliberately alter don Juan in my books so he would appear consistent and meet the expectations of this or that audience would bring "subjectivity" to my work, a demon that, according to my best critics, has no place in ethnographic writing.


Keith Thompson:
Sceptics have challenged you to exorcise that demon once and for all, by presenting for public inspection the field notes based on your encounters with don Juan. Wouldn't that alleviate doubts about whether your writings are genuine ethnography or disguised fiction?


Carlos Castaneda:
Whose doubts?


Keith Thompson:
Fellow anthropologists, for starters. The Senate Watergate Committee. Geraldo Rivera...


Carlos Castaneda:
There was a time when requests to see my field notes seemed unencumbered by hidden ideological agendas. After The Teachings of Don Juan appeared I received a thoughtful letter from Gordon Wasson, the founder of the science of ethnomycology, the study of human uses of mushrooms and other fungi. Gordon and Valentina Wasson had discovered the existence of still-active shamanic mushroom cults in the mountains near Oaxaca, Mexico. Dr. Wasson asked me to clarify certain aspects of don Juan's use of psychotropic mushrooms. I gladly sent him several pages of field notes relevant to his area of interest, and met with him twice. Subsequently he referred to me as an "honest and serious young man," or words to that effect.

Even so, some critics proceeded to assert that any field notes produced by Castaneda must be assumed to be forgeries created after the fact. At that point I realized there was no way I could satisfy people whose minds were made up without recourse to whatever documentation I might provide. Actually, it was liberating to abandon the enterprise of public relations-- intrinsically a violation of my nature-- and return to my fieldwork with don Juan.


Keith Thompson:
You must be familiar with the claim that your work has fostered the trivialization of indigenous spiritual traditions. The argument goes like this: A despicable cadre of non-Indian wannabees, commercial profiteers, and self-styled shamans has read your books and found them inspiring. How do you plead?


Carlos Castaneda:
I didn't set out to write an exhaustive account of indigenous spirituality, so it's a fallacy to judge my work by that criterion. My books are instead a chronicle of specific experiences and observations in a particular context, reported to the best of my ability. But I do plead guilty to knowingly committing willful acts of ethnography, which is none other than translating cultural experience into writing. Ethnography is always writing. That's what I do. What happens when spoken words become written words, and written words become published words, and published words get ingested through acts of reading by persons unknown to the author? Let's agree to call it complex. I've been extremely fortunate to have a wide and diverse readership throughout much of the world.

The entry requirement is the same everywhere: literacy. Beyond this, I'm responsible for the virtues and vices of my anonymous audience in the same way that every writer of any time and place is so responsible. The main thing is, I stand by my work.


Keith Thompson:
What does don Juan think of your global notoriety?


Carlos Castaneda:
Nada. Not a thing. I learned this definitively when I took him a copy of The Teachings of Don Juan. I said, "It's about you, don Juan." He surveyed the book-- up and down, back and front, flipped through the pages like a deck of cards-- then handed it back. I was crestfallen and told him I wanted him to have it as a gift. Don Juan said he had better not accept it, "because you know what we do with paper in Mexico." He added, "Tell your publisher to print your next book on softer stock."


Keith Thompson:
Earlier you mentioned that don Juan deliberately made his teaching dramatic. Your writings reflect that. Much anthropological writing gives the impression of striving for dullness, as if banality were a mark of truth.


Carlos Castaneda:
To have made my astonishing adventures with don Juan boring would have been to lie. It has taken me many years to appreciate the fact that don Juan is a master of using frustration, digression, and partial disclosure as methods of instruction. He strategically blended revelation and concealment in the oddest combinations. It was his style to assert that ordinary and nonordinary reality aren't separate, but instead are encompassed in a larger circle-- and then to reverse himself the next day by insisting that the line between different realities must be respected at all costs. I asked him why this must be so. He answered, "Because nothing is more important to you than keeping your personal world intact."

He was right. That was my top priority in the early days of the apprenticeship. Eventually I saw-- I saw-- that the path of the heart requires a full gesture, a degree of abandon that can be terrifying. Only then is it possible to achieve a sparkling metamorphosis.

I also realized the extent to which the teachings of don Juan could and would be dismissed as "mere allegory" by certain specialists whose sacramental mission is to reinforce the limits that culture and language place on perception.

This approaches the question of who gets to define "correct" cultural description. Nowadays some of Margaret Mead's critics declare she was "wrong" about Samoa. But why not say, less dogmatically, that her writings present a partial picture based on a unique encounter with an exotic culture? Obviously her discoveries mirrored the concerns of her time, including her own biases. Who has the authority to cordon off art from science?

The assumption that art, magic, and science can't exist in the same space at the same time is an obsolete remnant of Aristotelian philosophical categories.

We've got to get beyond this kind of nostalgia in the social science of the twenty-first century. Even the term ethnography is too monolithic, because it implies that writing about other cultures is an activity specific to anthropology, whereas in fact ethnography cuts across various disciplines and genres. Furthermore, even the ethnographer isn't monolithic-- he or she must be reflexive and multifaceted, just like the cultural phenomena that are encountered as "other."

So the observer, the observed phenomenon, and the process of observation form an inseparable totality. From that perspective, reality isn't simply received, it's actively captured and rendered in different ways by different observers with different ways of seeing.

Just so. What sorcery comes down to is the act of embodying some specialized theoretical and practical premises about the nature of perception in molding the universe around us. It took me a long time to understand, intuitively, that there were three Castanedas: one who observed don Juan, the man and teacher; another who was the active subject of don Juan's training-- the apprentice; and still another who chronicled the adventures. "Three" is a metaphor to describe the sensation of endlessly changing boundaries. Likewise, don Juan himself was constantly shifting positions. Together we were traversing the crack between the natural world of everyday life and an unseen world, which don Juan called "the second attention," a term he preferred to "supernatural."


Keith Thompson:
What you're describing isn't what comes to mind for most anthropologists when they think about their line of work, you know.


Carlos Castaneda:
Oh, I'm certain you're right about that! Someone recently asked me, What does mainstream anthropology think of Carlos Castaneda? I don't suppose most of them think about me at all. A few may be a little bit annoyed, but they're sure that whatever I'm doing is not scientific and they don't trouble themselves. For most of the field, "anthropological possibility" means that you go to an exotic land, arrive at a hotel, drink your highball while a flock of indigenous people come and talk to you about the culture. They tell you all kinds of things, and you write down the various words for father and mother. More highballs, then you go home and put it all in your computer and tabulate for correlations and differences. That to them is scientific anthropology. For me, that would be living hell.


Keith Thompson:
How do you actually write?


Carlos Castaneda:
My conversations with don Juan throughout the apprenticeship were conducted primarily in Spanish. From the outset I tried to persuade don Juan to let me use a tape recorder, but he said relying on something mechanical only makes us more and more sterile. "It curtails your magic," he said. "Better to learn with your whole body so you'll remember with your whole body." I had no idea what he meant. Consequently I began keeping voluminous field notes of what he said. He found my industriousness amusing. As for my books, I dream them. I gather myself and my field notes-- usually in the afternoon but not always-- and go through all my notes and translate them into English. In the evening I sleep and dream what I want to write. When I wake up, I write in the quiet hours of the night, drawing upon what has arranged itself coherently in my head.


Keith Thompson:
Do you rewrite?


Carlos Castaneda:
It's not my practice to do so. Regular writing is for me quite dry and laboured. Dreaming is best. Much of my training with don Juan was in reconditioning perception to sustain dream images long enough to look at them carefully. Don Juan was right about the tape recorder-- and in retrospect, right about the notes. They were my crutch, and I no longer need them. By the end of my time with don Juan, I learned to listen and watch and sense and recall in all the cells of my body.


Keith Thompson:
Earlier you mentioned reaching the end of the road, and now you're talking about the end of your time with don Juan. Where is he now?


Carlos Castaneda:
He's gone. He disappeared.


Keith Thompson:
Without a clue?


Carlos Castaneda:
Don Juan told me he was going to fulfil the sorcerer's dream of leaving this world and entering into "unimaginable dimensions." He displaced his assemblage point from its fixation in the conventional human world. We would call it combusting from the inside. It's an alternative to dying. Either they bury you six feet deep in the poor flowers or you burn. Don Juan chose burning.


Keith Thompson:
I guess it's one way to erase personal history. Then this conversation is don Juan's obituary notice?


Carlos Castaneda:
He had come to the end, deliberately. By intent. He wanted to expand, to join his physical body with his energy body. His adventure was there, where the tiny personal tide pool joins the great ocean. He called it the "definitive journey." Such vastness is incomprehensible to my mind, so I can only give up explaining. I've found that the explanatory principle will protect you from fear of the unknown, but I prefer the unknown.


Keith Thompson:
You've travelled far and wide. Give it to me straight: Is reality ultimately a safe place?


Carlos Castaneda:
I once asked don Juan something quite similar. We were alone in the desert-- nighttime, billions of stars. He laughed in a friendly and genuine way. He said, "Sure, the universe is benign. It may destroy you, but in the process it will teach you something worth knowing."


Keith Thompson:
"What's next for Carlos Castaneda?"


Carlos Castaneda:
"I'll have to let you know. Next time."


Keith Thompson:
"Will there be a next time?"


Carlos Castaneda:
"There's always a next time."



Copyright March/April 1994 New Age Journal



1995 - Body Mind Spirit -Carlos Castaneda Interview by Bruce Wagner


Version 2011.07.09

Body Mind Spirit - Apr 1995

An Interview with Carlos Castaneda

CARLOS CASTANEDA'S TENSEGRITY:

The Modernization of Ancient Magical Passes

Introduction by Gaylynn Baker

Interview by Bruce Wagner

From the sixties until now, Carlos Castaneda has inspired seekers everywhere.

Unfathomed mysteries unfolded as magical adventures in a series of books that began as "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge". After each spectacularly simple book, the literary world held its breath, awaiting the next adventure that was sure to be another best seller. Avid readers who wouldn't dream of leaving their armchairs traipsed through baffling worlds of sometimes conflicting, but always fascinating information. Thought of as the most mysterious writer of our time, Castaneda was never accessible to the public, and rarely ever granted interviews. Cynical marketing wizards with knowledge of the way things are "sold" to the soporific public voiced awe at the success of what they assumed was just a "take-away marketing" technique being used to build Castaneda's popularity.

Seekers, on the other hand, felt the books required Castaneda's willingness to disappear into a controversial cloud of smoke. Either way, reclusiveness became an accepted part of the Castaneda story. Finally, in the eighties, even the books stopped.

Then in the first three years of the 1990's, three new books appeared: Castaneda's "The Art of Dreaming", (HarperCollins), "Being-In-Dreaming" (Harper San Francisco) by Florinda Donner- Grau, and "The Sorcerers' Crossing" (Penguin USA) by Taisha Abelar. Each book gave a compellingly different account of apprenticeship in don Juan Matus' legendary world. To add to the excitement, mid-1993 brought the announcement that Florinda and Taisha would join Carol Tiggs, identified in the books as the Nagual Woman, to teach three separate workshops. The locations selected were the Rim Institute in Arizona, Akahi Farms in Maui, and Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California. The workshops sold out as quickly as they were announced. A new buzz was on everyone's lips: Tensegrity.

Tensegrity passes were taught in the workshops by demonstration and audience participation. It was announced at the Rim Institute that a video of these movements would be forthcoming. Meanwhile, workshop attendees studied their hastily written notes and crude drawings in a frantic attempt to absorb. Everyone involved in the workshops longed for the video. Now, a year later, the first in a series of videos has appeared. Demonstrated in February at the Phoenix Bookstore in Santa Monica, California, and now being introduced at various workshops around the country, (see listing at the end of this article).

Body Mind Spirit asked writer/director Bruce Wagner to reach Dr. Castaneda for a deeper explanation and understanding of what Tensegrity really means.


Q:
While your body of work reflects an enormous generosity towards your readers, you're also well-known for a certain "unavailability". Now you've released a videotape of "energetic movements" called Tensegrity. This seems to us unprecedented. Would you share your reasons behind this spate of availability?


A:
There was a time when our teacher, don Juan Matus, imposed on us, his four disciples, Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs and myself, a model of behavior patterned on his own life: a model of total unavailability. Things have changed, though, and in this respect, we are no longer bound to follow his steps.

However, our present availability is not our invention but the result of our strict adherence to a concept he himself taught us: fluidity, the essential condition of his world. In other words, nothing in the sorcerers' world is permanent. Nothing in the world of everyday life is permanent either, but people are determined to ignore this fact, hiding behind empty idealities.


Q:
Would you care to explain what you mean by empty idealities?


A:
Sorcerers believe that we are socialized to hide our true needs behind empty shields, placebos with no meaning whatsoever. For example, our preoccupation with the presentation and defense of the self in everyday life is one of those empty shields. Sorcerers regard it as a placebo because it does not bear at all on our true needs, which are best described by such basic issues as the questions about the nature of awareness, the purpose of our lives, the unchangeable condition of our death. Don Juan taught us the form to address such questions; he called it "the warrior's way".

Throughout my entire work, I have tried nothing else but to live up to a most serious responsibility: to describe the warrior's way. All of don Juan's disciples are deeply concerned about the same issue. Since we believe there is very little time left for us, we have agreed that this is the moment for all of us together to assume responsibility for demonstrating the warrior's way. To present this video is an attempt to do so.


Q:
The movements shown in the Tensegrity video were taught to you by don Juan Matus. They explore the dualism between the self and the energy body.

What is the energy body?


A:
The movements shown in the Tensegrity video were indeed taught to us not only by don Juan Matus, but by all the other members of his party. These movements, which they called "magical passes", are part of their heritage as sorcerers. These movements are energetic maneuvers designed to isolate and enhance what sorcerers call the "energy body", or the conglomerate of energy fields that they consider to be the counterpart of the physical body.


Q:
You've said that men and women who lived in ancient Mexico wished to store enough energy to extend or enhance their awareness. The movements depicted in the Tensegrity video were used to accomplish that end. How were these movements invented?


A:
Men and women sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times practiced these series of movements in order to store energy in their bodies and manipulate it. The movements were not really invented by them; the movements were rather discovered by them via their dreaming practices. Dreaming, for sorcerers, is the art of transforming ordinary, normal dreams into bona fide means of enhancing their perception. The explanation we were given was that in dreaming, those men and women were capable of reaching levels of optimum physical balance. In dreaming, they were also able to discover the specific movements that allowed them to replicate, in their hours of vigil, those same levels of optimum physical balance.

The belief of those sorcerers, derived from their dreaming observations, was that awareness is a glow focused on a specific spot on our energy bodies, a spot which is visible when we are seen as fields of energy. The greater the amount of energy the physical body can store and manipulate, the more intense the glow of awareness.


Q:
The persons demonstrating the movements are referred to in the video as "chacmools". Who are they? What is their significance?


A:
The three persons who present this video are Kylie Lundahl, Reni Murez and Nyei Murez. The three of them have worked with us for many years. Kylie Lundahl and Nyei Murez are Florinda Donner-Grau's wards; Reni Murez is Carol Tiggs'. Don Juan explained to us that the gigantic, reclining figures called chacmools, found in the pyramids of Mexico, were the representations of guardians.

He said that the look of emptiness in their eyes and faces was due to the fact that they were dream-guards, guarding dreamers and dreaming sites.

Following don Juan's tradition, we call Kylie Lundahl, Reni Murez and Nyei Murez chacmools, because the inherent energetic organization of their beings allows them to possess a single- minded purpose, a genuine fierceness and daring which make them the ideal guardians of anything they choose to guard, be it a person, an idea, a way of life, or whatever.

In the instance of our video, these three guardians demonstrate the techniques of Tensegrity because they are best qualified for the task, having the three of them completed the gigantic task of compiling the four individual strands of magical passes taught by don Juan and his people to us, his four disciples. And also because through their practice of Tensegrity, they have been able to transform the idea of routinary compulsive discipline into the art of the disciplined warrior, free of compulsion.


Q:
You say that don Juan had only four disciples: Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs, and yourself. What happened to the other disciples you mentioned in your earlier books?


A:
They are not with us any longer. They have joined don Juan. In terms of energetic configuration, they were dramatically different from us, and because of this, they were incapable of following my guidance; it was not that they did not want to-- it was rather that my actions and goals did not make any sense to them. There have not been any other disciples in don Juan's world. Claims that people have made of having been don Juan's or my students are absurd.

We have been thoroughly unavailable for thirty years. Allegations that anyone has known or worked with any of us are spurious. I am afraid people have made such statements out of sheer insanity, or worse yet, out of the reprehensible need to seek attention.


Q:
The movements of Tensegrity are also said to enhance well-being. Does one "feel better" doing them?


A:
Don Juan Matus himself said that not only does one feel better practicing the magical passes, but one becomes a better human being; the reason for such an assertion is very simple: increased energy generates calmness, efficiency and purpose. Don Juan used to say that the collective malady of our day is our total lack of purpose. He repeated to us endlessly that without sufficient energy there is no way of even conceiving any kind of genuine purpose in our lives. The magical passes, by helping us to store energy, do help us to grasp the idea of purpose in our thoughts and actions.


Q:
How did you come to call the movements "Tensegrity"? What does it mean?


A:
As I have said before, thanks to the effort of the three chacmools who compiled all the magical passes, we ended up with a vast system of body maneuvers. After that, all of us worked for years to turn such a system into a workable and veritable unit. I have called this unit "Tensegrity", a term which in architecture means: "the property of skeleton structures that employ continuous tension members and discontinuous compression members in such a way that each member operates with a maximum efficiency and economy".

The agreement among us is unanimous: such a term best describes the nature of this system of movements. Its essence consists of tensing and relaxing selected areas of the body at first, leading to the tension and relaxation of the entire body at the end. What we want is to replicate the efficiency of those men and women sorcerers of ancient times who discovered and practiced the magical passes.

To this effect, don Juan himself urged us to become versed in the practice of Oriental martial arts. He was inspired, no doubt, by one of his cohorts: Clara Boehm, Taisha Abelar's teacher, who had studied martial arts in ChinA: Clara's idea was that the discoverers of the magical passes poured an ominous obsession into the perfect execution of them. She said that in order to match that obsession, we needed the precision and the internal force acquired by the practice of Oriental martial arts: her predilection and bias. Every one of don Juan's disciples has been a student of martial arts at one time or another. The movements of Tensegrity, therefore, are already cushioned in something that would lead the body to develop maximum precision and internal force, in lieu of obsession.


Q:
In the video, you eschew the words "magic" or "sorcery", referring to the expertise of those men and women of ancient Mexico as the ability to "handle awareness". Why do "magic" and "sorcery" have negative connotations?


A:
"Sorcery" and "magic" are terms that have a negative connotation because of the way Western man faces the unknown. Sorcerers believe that he is imbued with an irrational fear of the unknown, and that in order to free himself of this fear, he has to change his basic orientation: instead of being terrified by the unknown, he must be intrigued by it. To avoid evoking anger or disapproval among the persons who might be interested in this video, I have refrained from arousing their fear at the use of terms like "sorcery" or "magic". What I would like to do is to entice them to suspend judgment and simply practice the movements. After all, if they faced the unknown with the increased energy resulting from practicing the movements of this videotape, they would have simply engaged themselves in handling awareness in a new fashion.


Q:
What would you say to those who approach the video as an exercise tape?

In other words, is there something to be gained by using the tape if one isn't up for the "abstract journey"? (Is the idea of gain reprehensible?)


A:
The idea of gain is not reprehensible at all. We practice Tensegrity exclusively to gain strength, fortitude, durability, youth. So, the idea that people might take the video as an exercise tape is perfectly acceptable. The grand trick, don Juan used to say, is not believing, but practicing. "You don't have to believe what I say," he told us repeatedly, "but do exactly as I tell you, because I am older than you and I know the road. At the end, what I recommend you to do will have its effect: it will change you."


Q:
We've heard through the grapevine that these movements may be offered in a workshop setting, taught by the chacmools".


A:
Yes, it is true that the chacmools are going to offer workshops on Tensegrity. The chacmools have deemed it necessary to teach Tensegrity to whomever wants to learn it on a direct basis. They came up with the idea of creating their own institution, "The Chacmool Center for Enhanced Perception".

Their argument is that don Juan's disciples, no matter how available they might want to be, are really inaccessible, by virtue of the practices don Juan left to them as a legacy. The position of the chacmools, on the other hand, is ideal for teaching, since they are young, accessible students of the rather inaccessible, older students.


Q:
We've also heard that the tape is the first volume of a projected series. How many movements are there?


A:
The tape is indeed the first volume of a projected series. The movements of Tensegrity are quite numerous and it is the chacmools' art to have compressed them into one single unit. Kylie Lundahl, being the chief of the guards, after years of painstaking effort, and in close consultation with don Juan's disciples, has selected for each videotape the most pertinent magical passes, ranging from the most simple to the most complex. In her selection, she has employed her best energetic output, always bearing in mind that what counts in practicing the movements of Tensegrity is the sorcerers' intent of storing energy and not merely their routinary repetition. Kylie Lundahl, in conjunction with all of don Juan's disciples, has organized the movements of Tensegrity for the maximum application to well-being and enhanced awareness.


Q:
Do you practice the movements each day yourself? If one applies oneself with abandon, when might one expect "results"?


A:
All of us practice the movements each day individually wherever we are. When we are all together, which is very rarely, the three chacmools lead the sessions. The positive results of Tensegrity are almost instantaneous, if one practices the movements meticulously and daily.


Bruce Wagner is a novelist, screenwriter and film director. He directed the first volume of Tensegrity: Twelve Basic Movements to Gather Energy and Promote Well-Being. At present he is the Writer and executive producer of Francis Ford Coppola's upcoming television movie, White Dwarf.


Copyright April 1995 Body Mind Spirit Magazine



1995 - Kindred Spirit - Carlos Castaneda Interview


Version 2011.07.09

Kindred Spirit - Jun 1995

An interview published in the Summer (June-August) 1995 issue of Kindred Spirit magazine.

INTERVIEW

A New Generation Of Sorcerers

From the sixties until now, Carlos Castaneda has inspired seekers everywhere. Here the three chacmools of his generation, Kylie Lundahl, Reni Murez and Nyei Murez answer our questions in the frank and particular way well known to all those familiar with their tradition.


Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity

Castaneda:
More than twenty-five years ago I wrote my first book: The Teachings of Don Juan, a book about my apprenticeship with Don Juan Matus, a Yaqui Indian sorcerer from the state of Sonora, Mexico. I developed the theme of Don Juan's teachings in eight subsequent books, the latest of which, The Art of Dreaming, was published in 1994. Now there is a new expression of those teachings; I call it TENSEGRITY. TENSEGRITY, a term I borrowed from architecture, refers to the 'property of skeleton structures that employ continuous tension members and discontinuous compression members in such a way that each member operates with the maximum efficiency and economy'.

I have applied this term to a system of movements that don Juan's four disciples, Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar, Carol Tiggs and myself, have developed, following the strict patterns of the sorcerers that lived in Mexico in ancient times.


THE HISTORY OF TENSEGRITY

Castaneda:
One of the major disadvantages that I encountered in portraying the teachings of don Juan for the reader was the use of the terms sorcerer and sorcery. The negative reaction that these terms evoke in us is something natural; the connotations that they bring to mind are all malignant and terrifying. In order to avoid such a reaction, I have opted for using the terms man of knowledge or seer.

The seers that lived in Mexico in ancient times discovered, by means of their dreaming practices, a series of movements conducive to physical well-being and mental sobriety. Dreaming for those seers meant the use of ordinary dreams as a means to enlarge the scope of their perception. Through such practices they used to enter into states of enhanced awareness, where they experienced a tremendous feeling of physical balance, an indescribable sense of well-being, and a great internal strength. Those men of knowledge longed for such feelings of well-being and internal strength when they were in their normal awareness; their longing was so intense and their efforts to repeat them were so overpowering that they finally discovered, in dreaming, bodily movements that allowed them to replicate at will those states of well-being and internal strength.

They called these movements magical passes, an in order to guard them, they transformed them into something tremendously secretive and mysterious by surrounding them with rituals.

The magical passes of the seers of ancient Mexico have survived to this day. They were handed down with utmost caution and great secrecy from generation to generation. Don Juan Matus and his cohorts taught to us, their four disciples, four different lines of magical passes. All of us kept our individual line of movements secret until ten years ago when we decided to amalgamate them into one single unit.


THE HISTORY OF THE CHACMOOLS

Castaneda:
The word Chacmool is applied to some monumental human figures made out of basalt found in the pyramids of Tula and Yucatan in Mexico. They portray human beings in a reclining position holding some sort of flat receptacle on their umbilical region. Scholars have classified the figures as incense burners; the sorcerer's of don Juan's lineage consider them to be the representation of a special class of fierce guardian warriors. For don Juan and other seers like him, the Chacmools were not incense burners, but rather the guardians of the pyramids as sites of power.

In the lifetime of those seers and throughout the ages, the chacmools were and are fierce warriors dedicated to guarding other men of knowledge; they guard their way of life, the places where they live, the spots where they do their dreaming. the chacmools are the custodians of the ideas, visions and possibilities of the seers under their care.

Among the men of ancient Mexico, the male or female entrusted with directing the actions of a whole generation within a given lineage of seers was known as the nagual. The nagual is a being gifted with a very special energy that gives him the quality of a natural guide, a conductor, a director.

Don Juan Matus was the guide of his generation and I am the nagual of the new one. In my generation there are three chacmools: Kylie Lundahl, Renata Murez and Nyei Murez; these three women are entrusted with the care of don Juan's four disciples.


THE CHACMOOLS AND TENSEGRITY

Castaneda:
The task of the chacmools, in their role of guardians of the ancient seer's way of life, was to compile the four lines of magical passes. It took them seven years to amalgamate them into a single unit. The chacmools, guided by us, don Juan's four disciples, erased the haze of mystery and enigma that surrounded the magical passes, and they transformed them into something that can be utilised by anyone.

Now the chacmools have prepared for use the first unit of the magical passes adapted to the new ideology that well-being and internal strength are the heritage of every human being. They have entitled the first unit TWELVE BASIC MOVEMENTS TO GATHER ENERGY AND PROMOTE WELL-BEING.

This first unit is the theme of their videotape-- which is already being sold in the United States and will soon be available all over the world-- and it is also the theme that they are going to develop in a series of workshops that they will conduct this year.

The seers of ancient Mexico believed that human beings are the beholders of a most peculiar dualism. They were not referring to traditional dualisms such as body and mind or matter and spirit, but to the dualism between the self and something they called the energy body. They considered the energy body to be a particular conglomerate of energy fields belonging to each of us individually.

The goal of those men of knowledge was to forge the energy body and transform it into a replica of the self, and vice versa, to forge the self and transform it into a replica of the energy body: a conglomerate of energy fields.

The necessary energy to accomplish the indescribable results of this dual transformation was obtained by those seers through their magical passes.

The TWELVE BASIC MOVEMENT TO GATHER ENERGY AND PROMOTE WELL-BEING were selected by us, don Juan's four disciples, in unanimous agreement, in order to serve as the basis to gather and store the necessary energy to give definition and scope to the energy body.





Question:
Can you tell us how you first came into contact with Carlos Castaneda and the sorcery tradition, and what impact this made on each of you?


Answer:
This question is impossible for us to answer on the basis that the sorcery tradition that Carlos Castaneda described in his books is a state of being. We cannot say in sincerity that there was a time when we came into contact with it.

This is no exaggeration on our part, nor is it a desire to give you a cynical, obscure, or cute answer. The truth of the matter is that we are barely coming into contact with it now. We began working with Carlos Castaneda about ten years ago, but our working with him had nothing to do with his world. We did research for gigantic upcoming book that he plans to publish some day, the title of which has changed through the years; it began as Ethno-hereneutics, but one of his best friends appropriated the name for his own research.

Then it changed to A New View of Interpretation; at present it's called Phenomenological-Anthropology. This work reveals Carlos Castaneda's deep interest in the social sciences that he has kept alive throughout all his life as an inheritor of don Juan Matus' sorcery tradition.

We cannot say, then, that when we came into contact with Carlos Castaneda we also came into contact with his world. The latter was a matter of gradual assimilation; we don't know when it took place. We feel, however, that it is taking place now.


Question:
In the books by Carlos Castaneda, humans are described as luminous beings who generally have a fixed assemblage point which locks then into 'normal reality' which is perceived as the external world. A movement of this assemblage point enables the adept to perceive and move into other equally 'real worlds'. Can you give us any examples of the experiences that might occur as a result of such a movement which might be more accessible to those unfamiliar with the sorcerer's path; would near death experiences be such an example?


Answer:
The assemblage point is displaced from its normal position during sleep. Sorcerers say that the farther away it is from its normal position, the more bizarre the experiences of that dream. This is the simplest example of the displacement of the assemblage point which occurs to all of us at all times.

Another example could be the displacement created by the intake of hallucinogenic plants or substances. Fatigue, hunger, fever, disease, dehydration and many other abnormal situations also produce a displacement of the assemblage point. The idea of sorcerers is that any displacement of the assemblage point produces a view of another world, but it is also their idea that we are incapable, under any conditions, of maintaining the fixation of the assemblage point on the place to which it is displaced. This incapacity results in a mere fleeting view of other worlds.

Near death experiences are certainly, we would say, the leading examples of a more sustained view of other worlds. Sorcerers maintain that the impact of death is so gigantic that it freezes everything in one place; therefore, the fixation of the assemblage point at the place where the impact of death displaces it must give the most sustained view of another reality to those who are not necessarily on the warrior's path.


Question:
We understand that, like his teacher don Juan Matus before him, Carlos Castaneda is now the nagual. What does this term mean?


Answer:
The term nagual refers to a man or woman who is the possessor of a special charge of energy which makes him or her appear to the eye of the sorcerers, who are viewing the world solely in terms of energy and energy flow, as a being double, meaning that what appears normally as a luminous egg or ball of energy appears in a nagual as one luminous ball of energy superimposed on another.

Sorcerers maintain that such beings are capable of guiding, directing and advising other sorcerers in a most natural way. Sorcerers define the nagual as the being who is best capable, due to his charge of energy, to express and to interpret the commands of the spirit. For Carlos Castaneda to be the new nagual means that he has assumed the responsibility of guiding us to freedom.


Question:
Has a successor to Carlos Castaneda been found?


Answer:
No. There is no successor to Carlos Castaneda - he is the last of his lineage.


Question:
For a tradition that is so secretive, enigmatic and mysterious, what has prompted the decision to undertake work in public at this time?


Answer:
The sorcerers' tradition is in no way secretive or enigmatic per se. The problem here is the reluctance on our part, as members of the Western world, to be serious about anything that does not stem from ourselves. In the case of the sorcery tradition of the Mexican Indians, ethnocentrism seems to be our cup of tea.

The other part of your question we can answer by saying that the nagual woman, Carol Tiggs, who came back from a most mysterious journey ten years ago, opened the door for a revolutionary attempt on the part of don Juan Matus' disciples-- Carlos Castaneda, Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar, and herself-- to disseminate the seed of an extraordinary idea: freedom.


Question:
How can someone who is not in contact with yourselves participate in the tradition.


Answer:
Carlos Castaneda has given in his nine books all the necessary clues to follow the warrior's path. He has presented those clues in the same fashion in which they were presented to him. Underlying this procedure is the sorcerer's conviction that the intellect has to be pricked first; once the intellect is curious about something, persistence can open energetic doors that will make direct participation possible. This answer seems mysterious and enigmatic but that is only a superficial appearance. The sorcerers in don Juan's tradition said that it is impossible for the linear mind to fathom the intricacy of the universe.

Energy, as a bona fide affair that rules our lives, is not part of our understanding of the world. Another way to answer the question would be to say that if we persist in following the warrior's path, energy itself will make it possible for us to continue.


Question:
Could you briefly comment on the sorcerers' understanding of the earth energy lines and sacred power places.


Answer:
Sorcerers believe that the earth is a conscious being, but conscious at a level that is more incomprehensible to our minds. Being alive and conscious, the earth generates energy which sorcerers perceive as luminescent lines.

A sacred power place is a description given to a nucleus of energy lines, that is to say, a centre where energy emanates naturally from the earth, like water flowing from a hidden well.


Question:
Can you tell us something about the secondary function of the womb, according to the teachings, the primary function being childbirth?


Answer:
We have been taught that the secondary functions of the womb are very much like the function of the brain as we know them. The sorcerers have told us that we can think with our wombs. However, whatever they call 'thinking with the womb' is not at all the kind of thinking we are accustomed to. What a woman gets are not actual linear thoughts but tremendously clear and powerful thought-feelings that we have to later interpret linearly. There seems to be a natural progression in the life of a sorceress to quiet down the linear thoughts and allow the feeling thoughts to rise until there is an equal amount of both.


Question:
Does the tradition recommend celibacy and if so, for what reasons?


Answer:
No. The tradition does not recommend us to be celibate or to be libertines. Celibacy is an issue related exclusively to what the sorcerers call 'the way in which we were conceived.' They say that if we were conceived in the midst of tremendous physical and emotional passion, our natural level of energy would be so high that we could do whatever we wanted without any detriment to ourselves; we could be libertines to our hearts' content. On the other hand, if we were conceived in what sorcerers call 'a super-civilised environment', our level of energy is the exact replica of the physical and emotional state of our parents at the moment of conception.

Sorcerers call the product of that conception a 'bored fuck'. In a joking manner we call them 'B.F.'s.' Of the three of us here, two of us are B.F.'s for sure; one of us seems to have escaped that fate. For us B.F.'s, sorcerers recommend that we save our energy any way we can because we don't have any. Celibacy in this instance is not recommended, it is demanded as our only way of being on par with the best non-B.F.'s.


Question:
Don Juan Matus describes the world as being predatory in nature, which is at variance to perhaps all other mystical, shamanic and esoteric traditions. Can you comment on this?


Answer:
In the tradition of the sorcerers to which don Juan belongs, it is maintained that the universe is predatorial in nature. For sorcerers, this is not a matter of speculation or of metaphorical predilection-- they know for a fact that it is predatorial. Throughout the ages they have described the condition of man, which is about the bleakest description we know. As time goes by, this description gains more and more ground. Sorcerers say that just as we keep chickens, or gallinas in Spanish, in a coop, or a gallinero, some entities that come from a universe of awareness keep us in human coops. Sorcerers make a joke and say that those entities, which they call flyers, or voladores, keep us human beings, or seres humanos, cooped up in humaneros.

The flyers of the sorcerers' tradition are black shadows that we sometimes detect and explain away as floaters in the retina. Sorcerers know for a fact, by means of their capacity to see energy directly, that those shadows are predatorial and that they keep us alive in order to devour our awareness.

Sorcerers say that our awareness is like a sheen around our total field of energy that looks to them like a luminous ball. To them, this sheen of awareness is like a plastic cover that would make the luminous ball shine even more if it were not for the fact that it has been eaten away down to the level of our heels.

Here is where the sorcerers description gets very disturbing to us; sorcerers say that the only sheen of awareness left in us by our eaters is the awareness of self-reflection. Therefore, all we are left with is the concern with me, myself and I. In our personal lives we have corroborated that the only force left in the immediate world around us is the force of self-importance, which comes disguised in the form of humility, compassion, altruism, kindness, you name it.

This sorcerer's description is of course our ultimate nemesis; we don't want to believe that we are being raised for food. In this sense, naturally, the sorcerers' tradition is at total variance with any other kind of spiritual tradition.

Sorcerers say, and believe me, not out of cynicism, that every ideal we deal with in terms of spiritual traditions, religions, etc, is a device concocted by the flyers to keep us in a lull. Imagine our disquietude upon examining, weighing and pondering this proposition.


Question:
What is the 'jump for freedom' and what is 'death' to those people who have not made this 'jump'?


Answer:
We understand that the jump to freedom is equivalent to evolving in a premeditated way. For sorcerers, the natural reason for our lives, aside from being eaten by the flyers, is to fend off our attackers in order to allow our awareness to grow to its full capacity. To complete this task is an evolutionary step which sorcerers call the jump to freedom. We haven't reached that state so we truly don't know what it means.

Your question of what death is to people who have not made this jump can be answered by sorcerers very simply by telling you that people who do not allow the regrowth of awareness die by being eaten by the flyers.


Question:
Could you please explain why you do not allow any photographs of yourselves or tape recordings of your voices.


Answer:
In doing this, we are directly following the tradition of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. Obeying their request is our only palpable link with them since our way of life and our situation, as the last members of this line of sorcerers, has made us reach areas that were never entered by preceding practitioners. We are immensely far away from the actual tradition that gives us sustenance. Sometimes what we have to do is in total opposition to that tradition. Our token adherence to it is our blind obeyance of this rule: no pictures and no recordings of our voices.


Question:
You are all now placing a great emphasis on 'the recapitulation'. Can you describe the method and purpose of this technique and tell us of its origins and explain why it has come to the forefront of the teachings at this time?


Answer:
No, it is not only now that we are placing a great emphasis on the recapitulation; Carlos Castaneda has been talking about it for years. The method of the recapitulation is to make a careful list of all the persons we have come in contact with in our lives; this is a formidable task.

Personally, we have found it staggering to remember every person we have met in our lives! When we were asked to do this we believed it was impossible. We were told then that once this list was made, if ever, we had to take the first person on the list, which goes from the present to the day we were born, and examine all the interactions we had and everything related to that interaction. In other words, we were told that we had to relive every experience, and that our list was a device to aid our recollection.

The reason for the recapitulation, we were told, was manifold. The first reason was explained as the certainty that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico had-- and they were the inventors of the recapitulation-- that an incredible force which they called the eagle, and which we call awareness at large, lends every newborn being, from a virus to a human being, a certain amount of awareness which they are to enhance by means of their life experiences. At the end of their lives, that force reclaims the awareness that was lent.

Those sorcerers maintained that this reclaiming of awareness is linked to our death only by contact, and that the force that lends us awareness is not interested in taking our lives-- that is a different process. They also maintained that by means of the recapitulation we can give that force what it wants, and in the end it will let us go through it without taking our lives away. This is what sorcerers understand as being consumed by the fire from within. Sorcerers don't really die the way the rest of our fellow men do.

The other function of the recapitulation is to give us fluidity. Upon reliving all our experiences, sorcerers say that we acquire a pliability that will facilitate our entrance into areas of perception veiled to normal human beings.

The last function, which sounds to us like the most important of them all, is that through recapitulating we can acquire a hard discipline which is the only means by which we can make ourselves unpalatable to the flyers. Sorcerers assert that the only awareness which cannot be eaten is the awareness produced by iron-handed discipline. The recapitulation seems to create a condition of fluidity and determination which is the discipline that sorcerers talk about, not the discipline of compulsive, routinary behavior.

We have corroborated in our lives that our awareness is different; we are certainly aware of things now that were inconceivable to us before.


Question:
What is the attitude towards using psychotropic teacher plants, such as datura and peyote, and others which were advocated by don Juan Matus in the early Castaneda books?


Answer:
We understand that the reason don Juan gave Carlos Castaneda a profusion of psychotropic plants was because Castaneda was a very difficult subject. The stiffness of his personality was so overwhelming that don Juan used to call him 'Mr Oldmann' and 'Mr Nightmare' and also 'Mr Bacon' because he was quite chubby. He himself says that being short, brown, chubby and homely made him an impossible subject, and that change was not his middle name. Castaneda's case was quite individualistic-- the rest of don Juan's disciples never took any psychotropic plants. Don Juan pushed them in the opposite direction to the point that they don't even drink tea.


Question:
We have heard that the nagual woman Carol Tiggs, who was introduced to the world in Carlos Castaneda's most recent book The Art of Dreaming, spent ten years in the second attention and then reappeared in a book shop in California.

Is this true and can you explain what it means?


Answer:
Yes, it is true. Carol Tiggs went to the Phoenix Bookstore in Santa Monica because she found out that Carlos Castaneda was giving a lecture there. He, Florinda Donner-Grau, and Taisha Abelar believed that Carol Tiggs was gone for the rest of their natural lives and was waiting for them somewhere in what the sorcerers call the second attention, where she would guide all of them some day. Carol Tiggs had returned from a ten-year journey two months prior to that encounter; she was still groggy from that experience; she couldn't conceive a way to get in touch with Carlos and the other two.

It is very difficult for us to explain what this means; the sorcerers would explain it by saying that don Juan's four disciples have not been eaten by the flyers for thirty years, so their level of awareness allows them extravagant play with perception and awareness. To try to make this into a linear explanation is impossible, unless we want to sound like three idiots babbling inanities. We hope we never get to that point.


Question:
What exactly is the 'second attention'?


Answer:
We have been taught that the second attention is the consciousness of human beings who have not been devoured by the flyers down to their heels. If a natural regrowth of awareness is allowed, the level of consciousness of that awareness that rises up allows the person who has it to enter into something indescribable. Since it has been impossible for us to get an idea of what this awareness is from a great number of people, all we have is our four wards; Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar, Carol Tiggs and Carlos Castaneda. We haven't been able to really deal with this subject.

From our own personal experience we draw a near blank. We have changed, yes, but our consciousness cannot verbalise what we experience; it seems like the world we used to know but we know that it isn't.

We hope that a moment will come when it will be possible for us to verbalise what the second attention is beyond saying that it is a consciousness of heightened awareness. As we have already told you, by heightened awareness we mean awareness that has not been eaten by the flyers.

Our insistence on this point may be very displeasing to you, it is to us, but we are convinced that there is no other way to explain bona fide change in human beings. Consider this point: in the world of everyday life, no matter what we do, we never change. So what are we going to do? Remain the same while we talk and talk about unrealistic idealities? This is the point where the sorcerers squashed us. They said to us, if you really want to change and be different you must fend off the flyers. If you do not do this, forget about change-- all you will do throughout your lives is talk about how wonderful you are.


Question:
Are you working for the collective jump for freedom and are we in a race against time to complete the jump?


Answer:
The three of us are in perfect agreement with the four of don Juan's disciples; we would like to bring the idea of change and freedom and purposeful evolution to whoever wants to listen. We are not in a race against time; if we are, it is subliminal-- we are not aware of it. But now that you ask the question, you have us wondering.


Question:
We understand that don Juan is no longer in the world. Where is he now and do you have any contact with him still?


Answer:
We came years and years after don Juan left the world. We don't know where he is-- neither do his disciples; he apparently died a sorcerer's death, which means he took his body with him and kept his life force. Sorcerers describe this as burning from a fire from within and turning every bit of oneself into awareness-energy. If that is the case with don Juan, he and his people vanished into infinity without leaving a trace.



Acknowledgment: Our thanks to Simon Bridgewater for his help with this interview.

Editor's Note: In order to publish this interview, we agreed to the chacmool's condition of not editing any published replies to questions. We apologise to those with failing eyesight for the small print at the beginning of the article.

Copyright 1995 Chacmool Center for Enhanced Perception

Copyright June 1995 Kindred Magazine



1995 - Los Angeles Times - E1 - Mystical Man Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Los Angeles Times - Tuesday, December 26, 1995


Home Edition

Section: Life & Style

Page: E-1

The Mystical Man; One of the most elusive writers of our time, Carlos Castaneda returns (briefly) to share a few secrets with devotees. To remain invisible, he says, is the sorcerer's way.

By: Benjamin Epstein

Special to the Times

Carlos Castaneda, the 20th century's own sorcerer's apprentice, has been nearly invisible for 25 years. Not that he was ever exactly in plain view. The author of nine books based on his experiences with Juan Matus, a Yaqui seer, Castaneda has been seen as a bridge to the unknown by millions of spiritual seekers-- especially in the soul-searching '60s and '70s.

Now he's back. Or was back.

Castaneda was center attraction earlier this month in Anaheim at a two-day "Tensegrity" seminar. More than 400 devotees paid $250 each to attend the seminar led by three women, called "chacmools," who taught a series of "magical passes," or movements.

Castaneda has succeeded in being one of the most elusive writers of our time-- to remain invisible, he says, is the sorcerer's way. In the '80s, he effectively vanished altogether. He never allows a photograph or a tape recording of his voice. He only rarely has granted interviews-- but unexpectedly agreed to one in Anaheim. (See accompanying story).

His books continue to sell-- 8 million copies in 17 countries-- and have never been out of print. Did he make up his fantastic desert tales, with their shimmering supernatural events, as his critics maintain?

"I invented nothing," he said at the seminar. "I'm not insane, you know. Well, maybe a little insane. But not ridiculously insane!"

In 1993, his book "The Art of Dreaming" (Harper Collins) was published. The same year, with the assistance of the chacmools, Castaneda and three fellow Don Juan disciples began presenting a few Tensegrity seminars. Tensegrity, Castaneda says, is derived from an architectural term relating to skeletal efficiency and seems to mean a way of tensing and relaxing the body.

Workshops were held in Arizona, Hawaii and at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. This month the show came to Anaheim.

"To be young and youthful is nothing," said Castaneda, exuberantly taking the stage before the devotees. "To be old and youthful, that is sorcery!" Castaneda is both. His hair is gray and cut short; his manner energetic and engaging. He's small and trim. He dresses simply and his olive complexion shows few signs of wear and tear.

The seminar participants, mostly middle aged, came from around the world-- about a third from California-- in hopes of seeing the charismatic Castaneda and to learn about Tensegrity. Many wore Tensegrity T-shirts ("The magic is in the movement").

In an open hall, the chacmools each stood on elevated platforms and demonstrated the elaborate Tensegrity sequences step by step, the seminar attendees following along closely. As each sequence was mastered, everybody stopped to applaud.

While learning Tensegrity filled most of the seminar hours, at least one couple came for another purpose: "We're not disinterested in Tensegrity," the woman said. "But we came to hear Carlos."

Among Castaneda's remarks to those at the seminar:

"We are all going to face infinity, whether we like it or not. Why do it when we are weakest, when we are broken, at the moment of dying? Why not when we are strong? Why not now?"

"We repeat slogans endlessly. We don't know how to think for ourselves... 'We are made in the image and likeness of God?' What does it mean? Nothing. Yet we hold on to it. Why?"

"Me, me, me. Everybody, it doesn't matter, is egomaniacal. The other person tells you what he did, then you say, ah, but I did this..."

It's hard to pin Castaneda down to one answer on points that, for most people, are pretty simply stated.

According to "Contemporary Authors," Castaneda lists his birth date and place as Dec. 25, 1931, in Sao Paulo, Brazil; immigration records indicate Dec. 25, 1925, in Cajamarca, Peru, and other sources the late 1930s. One New York Times article put him at 66 years old in 1981.

Similarly, biographies variously list the years he earned his degrees in anthropology. The records at UCLA, though, show he earned a bachelor's in anthropology in 1962, a doctorate in 1973.

In other words, this is one slippery organic being. (According to Castaneda, he spends a great deal of time among inorganic beings.)

While studying at UCLA, Castaneda traveled to Arizona to research medicinal plants. There he met Don Juan Matus, who sensed in the young man the possibility of a successor. Matus later moved to Sonora, Mexico, and Castaneda followed.

Castaneda's first three books-- "The Teachings of Don Juan" (University of California Press and Ballantine, 1968), "A Separate Reality" and "Journey to Ixtlan" (both Simon & Schuster, 1971 and 1972, respectively)-- describe a rather thickheaded student often bungling his way through a 12-year apprenticeship to become a "Yaqui man of knowledge."

All received enthusiastic reviews and made the bestseller lists. The most respected critics of the day praised them on one hand as "the best that the science of anthropology has produced" and, on the other, said that the tension between academic rationality and the magic of Don Juan's world made them first-rate literature, "remarkable works of art," in the words of Joyce Carol Oates. His more recent works have received somewhat less attention, but sell well nonetheless-- and increasingly well in other countries.

At least two volumes by other authors attempted to debunk Castaneda. One dismissed him as a fraud; the other, "Castaneda's Journey," (Capra Press, 1976) by Richard de Mille, found many discrepancies in his work, but the writer decided early on that Castaneda "wasn't a common con man, he lied to bring us the truth. ...This is a sham-man bearing gifts."

Shaman or sham-man, readers didn't care, and reviewers who saw him as a "trickster-hoaxer" still took him seriously. A Saturday Review critic wrote that Castaneda "works a strange and beautiful magic beyond the realm of belief... Admittedly, one gets the impression of a con artist simply glorifying in the game-- even so, it is a con touched by genius."

At UCLA in the '60s, Castaneda was perceived as "the little brown man with the big smile." Not much has changed; he's about 5 feet, 5 inches, funny and charming.

He can be amazingly convincing when describing some out-there ideas, such as: his life among inorganic beings; the assemblage point, a place about a foot behind our shoulder blades that can be shifted to visit other realms; a predatory universe in which "fliers" incessantly feed on mankind's awareness, taking the sheen off our luminous eggs and leaving only a rubble of self-absorption and egomania.

Back in the three-dimensional world of self-absorption and egomania, Castaneda is represented by talent agent Tracy Kramer. (Kramer also represents "Rug Rats," "Duck Man" and "The Real Munsters," and notes that "somewhere there's a purity about all of them.")

Both Kramer and Cleargreen Inc., which organizes the seminars, are based in Los Angeles. But it's unclear--as is so much else-- where Castaneda is based. Kramer contends that "the majority of [Castaneda's] time is not spent here. And what he does do here he doesn't share with me." Castaneda reportedly bought a home in Malibu sometime in the '70s. If a passing remark at the seminar was to be taken literally, he continues to pay property taxes somewhere.

At the center of Castaneda's books is the premise that the world as we know it is only one version of reality, a set of culturally embedded "agreements" and "descriptions." Time magazine described Yaqui sorcerer Don Juan Matus as "an enigma wrapped in mystery wrapped in a tortilla."

According to Castaneda, Matus gave him psychotropic plants-- peyote, Jimson weed and mushrooms-- only because he was such an intractable student.

Although the use of hallucinogens boosted the popularity of the first two books, they subsequently gave way to nonherbal perception-altering exercises. Castaneda believes that the negative connotations of the words sorcery and magic are rooted in Western man's irrational fear of the unknown. He recommends that people be intrigued rather than terrified by the unknown.

"It is a thinking universe, a living universe, an exquisite universe," he said. "We have to balance the lineality of the known universe with the nonlineality of the unknown universe."

"The Art of Dreaming" ends with Castaneda recounting an episode in the mid-'70s when he and fellow Matus disciple Carol Tiggs were "dreaming" in a hotel room in Mexico City and Tiggs disappeared into those dreams. According to Castaneda, Tiggs reappeared 10 years later in a bookstore in Santa Monica where he was giving a talk. It was the reconstituted Tiggs who provided the impetus to compile the "magical passes" of Tensegrity.

Castaneda and Tiggs were among four disciples of Matus who were each taught a separate line of magical passes. The others, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar, have also published accounts of their apprenticeships, markedly different from Castaneda's but still endorsed by him. Tiggs, Donner-Grau and Abelar attended a bonus Castaneda appearance the final night of the Anaheim seminar but didn't address the group.

The actual teaching of Tensegrity at the seminars and in instructional videos has been carried out by the three chacmools-- Kylie Lundahl, Nyei Murez and Reni Murez. The movements taught to seminar participants were often angular and fierce in character-- less like Yaqui yoga, more like martial arts. Tensegrity videos-- there are two volumes-- were on sale for $29.95.

According to Cleargreen President Talia Bey, proceeds from the seminar will help fund publication of a Castaneda periodical, the Warriors' Way: A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics.

At the close of the seminar, Castaneda delivered remarks both lighthearted and serious, and peppered with his self-deprecating humor.

But then, Castaneda obliquely dropped a bombshell: He was relieving the chacmools of their teaching duties. The announcement left many in the audience unsettled.

"Look, the whole front row is shaking in their boots!" Castaneda said. "The chacmools will be erased today. They go on to something else."

Seminar organizers later clarified: Although "erased," the chacmools will remain on the payroll at Cleargreen in capacities yet to be determined. And the teaching of Tensegrity will apparently continue-- a seminar is planned in Oakland, Feb. 9-11, and a women's workshop in Los Angeles for March 1-3. Said Castaneda: "If the chacmools go away, something else will appear. That is a world that is alive, in flux. ...If I am needed, I will be there. Just call me."


OK, Carlos. But who has your number?



Photo: Carlos Castaneda's "Tensegrity" seminars are led by three "chacmools," Kylie Lundahl, from left, Nyei Murez and Reni Murez, who teach "magical passes," a series of movements, angular and fierce in character.

Photo: Reni Murez, from left, Nyei Murez and Kylie Lundahl teach movements designed to heighten awareness, focus and increase energy.

Photographer: Kari Rene Hall / Los Angeles Times



1995 - Los Angeles Times - E4 - Carlos Castaneda Questions and Answers


Version 2011.07.09

Los Angeles Times - Tuesday, December 26, 1995

Tuesday, December 26, 1995

Home Edition

Section: Life & Style

Page: E-4

By: Benjamin Epstein

Q & A: A Rare Conversation With the Magical Mystery Man

When Benjamin Epstein caught up with Carlos Castaneda in Anaheim to ask if he would agree to an interview, Castaneda unexpectedly invited him to join his party for lunch. In a conversation over a this-worldly melted cheese sandwich, side of bacon and fries, Castaneda was personable and spontaneous.

Here's some of what he had to say:



Question:
Why don't you allow yourself to be photographed or tape recorded?


Answer:
A recording is a way of fixing you in time. The only thing a sorcerer will not do is be stagnant. The stagnant word, the stagnant picture, those are the antithesis of the sorcerer.


Q:
Is Tensegrity the Toltec t'ai chi? Mexican martial arts?


A:
Tensegrity is outside political boundaries. Mexico is a nation. To claim origins is absurd. To compare Tensegrity with yoga or t'ai chi is not possible. It has a different origin and different purpose. The origin is shamanic, the purpose is shamanic.


Q:
Where would Jesus fit into all this? Where would Buddha fit in?


A:
They are idealities. They are too big, too gigantic to be real. They are deities. One is the prince of Buddhism, the other is the son of God. Idealities cannot be used in a pragmatic movement.

The difference between religion and shamanic tradition is that the things shamans deal with are extremely practical. Magical passes [movements] are just one aspect of that.


Q:
Is that what you've been doing all this time, magical passes?


A:
Nooooo... I was very chubby. Don Juan [Matus] recommended an obsessive use of magical passes to keep my body at an optimum. So in terms of physical activity, yes, this is what we do. The movements force the awareness of man to focus on the idea that we are spheres of luminosity, a conglomerate of energy fields held together by special glue.


Q:
Where do you live?


A:
I don't live here. I'm not here at all. I use the euphemism, "I've been in Mexico." All of us divide our time between being here and being pulled by something that is not describable, but that makes us visitors into another realm. But you start talking about that and you start sounding like total nincompoops.


Q:
According to your book "The Eagle's Gift," Don Juan Matus didn't die, he left, he "burned from within." Will you leave, or will you die?


A:
Since I'm a moron, I'm sure I'll die. I wish I would have the integrity to leave the way he did, but there is no assurance. I have this terrible fear that I won't. But I wish. I work my head off-- both of my heads-- toward that.


Q:
I recall an article, at least a decade ago, calling you the "Godfather of the New Age."


A:
It was "grandfather!" And I thought, please call me the uncle, or cousin, not grandfather! Uncle Charlie will do. I feel like hell, being the grandfather of anything. I'm fighting age, senility and old age like you couldn't believe.

I've fought for 35 years. The three people I worked with have been at it for 35 years. They look like fabulous kids. They continually take this energy on and on and on in order to remain fluid. Without fluidity, there's no way to journey anywhere.


Q:
Matus taught you to see. When you look at me now, what do you see?


A:
I have to be in a special mood to see. It is very difficult for me to see. I've got to get very somber, very heavy. If I'm lighthearted and I look at you I see nothing. Then I turn around and I see her, and what do I see? "I joined the Navy to see the world, and what do I see? I see the sea!"

I know more than I want to know. It's hell, true hell. If you see too much, you become unbearable.


Q:
Talia Bey, seminar organizer and president of Clearwater Inc., seems to stick pretty close to you. Are you two a couple?


A:
We are ascetic beings. No relationships of a sexual order. This is very difficult, a difficult maneuver for us. Don Juan recommended that I had to be a conserver of energy, because I don't have much energy. I myself was not created under conditions of great sexual passion. Most people are not... [Talia] was born with enough energy that she can do what she wants.


Q:
Can married people do what they want?


A:
That question has come up a lot, and it's a question of energy. If you know you were not conceived in a state of real excitation, then no. On one level, it hasn't mattered if people are married. But with the launching of Tensegrity, we don't really know what is going to happen.


Q:
You don't know what is going to happen?


A:
How can you know? This is an implication of our syntaxical system. Our syntax requires a beginning, development and end. I was, I am, I will be. We are caught in that. How can we know... what you are going to be capable of if you have sufficient energy? That is the question.

The answer is, you are going to be capable of stupendous things, much more exciting than we can do now, with no energy at all... [Don] Juan Matus recommended me to be careful with energy, because he was grooming me for something. But I didn't know for what...


Q:
You talk about Matus' line of sorcerers. Are you aware of others?


A:
I ran across one marvelous Indian from the Southwest and that was a memorable event. It was the only time I met a sorcerer outside of Don Juan's lineage, a young man deeply involved in the type of activity in which Don Juan was involved. We talked for two days, [after which] for some reason he felt he owed me something.

One day, I was driving a VW in a sandstorm and it was just about to turn my car over. It had already ruined my windshield, the paint on one side was totally gone. A big rig came and stood between the wind and my car. I heard a voice call down from the cabin, "Hide alongside my rig." I did. We drove for miles along Highway 8. When the wind died down, I realized I was off the paved road. The guy stopped and it was that Indian.

He said, "I have paid my indebtedness. You are somewhere else. We are even now. Back up to the paved road." He went back, I went back. Once out on the main road, I went back and forth trying to find the dirt road but I could not. He took us into another realm. What power, what discipline, exquisite! I could hardly contain myself.

He had taken my VW, everything, there. I could barely take myself somewhere else at that time. I looked for any deviation in the road, but could never find it. Zippo. It was an entrance of sorts. He never talked to me again, ever.


Q:
Some of your biggest fans will say you've contributed great literature, even great anthropology, but would never call it nonfiction. Others would say you're laughing all the way to the bank.


A:
I invented nothing. Somebody once told me, "I know Carlos Castaneda..."

I said, "You met Carlos?"

He said, "No, but I saw him in the distance all the time. You know he admitted he made up all that in an interview."

I said, "Really? What interview, you remember?"

He said, "I read it, I read it..."


Q:
Why do you say you are the last sorcerer in Matus' line?


A:
For me to continue Don Juan's line, I would have to have a special energetic disposition I don't have. I'm not a patient man. My ways of moving are too sharp, too disturbing. For us, Don Juan was there, available always. He didn't disappear. He measured his appearances and disappearances to suit our needs. How can I do that?


Copyright 1995 Times Mirror Company



1995 - Tensegrity Workshop - Carlos Castaneda and the Death Defier


Version 2011.07.09


The words of Carlos Castaneda: Abridged From the Los Angeles Intensive Tensegrity Workshop lecture, August 13, 1995

=====

[At his point he paused, at which point one person from the audience asked him about the Death Defier, the proposed topic of this lecture]

As part of don Juan's lore, the "Death Defier" was...is...there was one person who appeared in 1725, who went to see the nagual Sebastian, who was a sexton for a church in Tula. The nagual could work in the church and was safe there. He took care of bells, and other property at the church. One day an old indian came to him and said, "I need your energy, or else I will denounce you as a practitioner of the black arts..." Of course with this, Sebastian was compelled to listen.

The indian wanted energy from only the nagual. We all have an umbilical, the belly button. We all die from here, it's a deadly place, a hole in the energy body from which life force escapes upon death. A nagual has twice the energy of a normal man, so the indian said that to give a minimal amount would do him no harm.

This indian was actually a sorcerer from 7000 years ago, he lives today by placing his assemblage point on different points, getting a "mortgage" on life. He moves his assemblage point to a key position, which gives him an insect-like quality. He then draws energy from the belly-button of the nagual, and has a "sac" into which he pulls this energy. His assemblage point then returns to the habitual position, then he's like everyone else.

He didn't need energy until 1725. Then, he became fixed to the lineage. He gave in exchange for the nagual's energy, gifts of positions of the assemblage point. Knowledge about how to attain these new positions, and what to expect. Sebastion was extraordinary. He received 8 new positions from this "death defier". Lujan got 52 positions! But this was not for don Juan, he was not interested in the death defier's gifts, nor was I. But he tapped me, he couldn't help it. Munched me to death, don Juan said.

I was willing to half-believe what don Juan was saying about the existance of the death defier. Corn was found in Mexico which was carbon-14 dated to 34,000 years ago. The first migration into Mexico suposedly happened only 10,000 years ago, and were simple hunter/gatherers. But don Juan said this was not true. He said, "we both have ways of measuring time; you measure, while I...ask."

One day don Juan said he'd take me to see the death defier. No problem, it's all horshshit, I thought. So he took me. Scared the living daylights out of me. I met this Indian with the weirdest accent. The accent was on all the wrong syllables. If a word had the accent on the first syllable, he'd put it on the second. But he did it so consistently as to convince me it was genuine.

The man was thin, wiry. He drove me nuts talking like that. He told me, "My eyes have feasted themselves on the helmets of the Spanish conquerors. I saw them, how they moved. I felt their discomfort, and felt how they had to sleep with their helmets and armor on, I felt their pain. I've seen incredible things. What do you want?"

"Nothing!", I replied.

"But we have an agreement. With you, it will be difficult, for you are the last..." Of course, he somehow knew I was to be the last nagual in this line, yet I myself didn't know it at the time. We met in a town in Mexico, it was a Saturday. I ate cheese with him, seemed very normal. We took a walk. The next thing I knew I was waiting for don Juan to pick me up, and I'd had no idea what had transpired. I left with a sensation, tremendously old, musty, kind, foreign, unthreatening. This weird nostalgia. It's been as if I'd been involved in a fight that had no end. This is the first time I truly realized that there were things with no end...

I woke up in a peculiar town. There was a paved road, which sloped high in the middle, a "1st gear" road. The first thing you see walking up this hill is the hats of the mexicans on the other side. It was a peculiar sensation, a "cinematic" one for me. So, I was watching that... (By the way, don Juan found this town to be the epicenter of "energetic convolutions".) I was waiting for don Juan with this sensation of nostalgia, but not for my life or past, it was foreign. So old, sad, yet charming, haunting. It's never left me, I'm always playing with that sensation, the neverending fight, with no possibility of looking for a lull. don Juan said it was poison that the death defier left me. It was like being prone, being ready, as if something is coming. A foreign feeling.

The next time I found the death defier, was at nearly the end of don Juan's life. A small church in Tula - met a gorgeous woman. I had much fear at the prospect, don Juan had to literally drag me to the church. There were two women nearby, with 3 men coming out from the church. The 3 men went down the stairs, and the two women went inside. "Where is he", I wondered to don Juan, "the men left."

Don Juan responded, "Who told you that the death defier is a man?" He pointed to the woman in the last pew. don Juan emplored me to "cross" myself, to observe the customs, and not to make a spectacle. The woman turned and smiled. At this point I ran out of the church, falling prey to a bout of asthma. I'd had asthma when I was a child...

Don Juan asked me, "why this fear?"

My family name is Carlos Arana (pronounced "Arania"), and in portugese, Arana means "spider". don Juan asked, "What's wrong, Mr. Spider?" The more I walked away, the more tachycardia (irregular heartbeat condition) acted up. Then I got insane and simply said to don Juan, "OK, lets go", and went back to the church and sat next to the woman.

She had a raspy voice, as she greeted me and held my hand, "I like your energy...muy bien." She took me to dreams upon dreams - 9 days I was lost, although I thought it was one. don Juan told me that I'd came to agreements that I'd not be aware of until I was "fully grown".

The death defier is as real as me or don Juan. Different, but bizarre possibility which is available to us all, not that we'll take it. The human unknown is as far away as anything, but it's still within our realm of possibilities. Wow! Who are we?!

Are we just some travellers caught in some disgusting trap? Maybe. For me, I saw the death defier and don Juan as navigators. I navigate, therefore who are we? Why accept what's been handed down--nagging, senile, discontent, repetitive, with endless regrets--no desicions whatsoever.

"I decided to come to this seminar--if it's chicken-shit, then so be it." That's the sorcerer's way. "Oh, I didn't get personal treatment..." People come, at the first twist, they tell us to go "blow our barracks". We've got to get rid of the ego, I say, but then it's, "Fuck you". We've got to be as sharp as a razor, go slowly at first, then you can jump. Don't give me this, "I volunteer for your group, take me, take me, I'll do whatever you want..." Stop being an egomaniac, I say. "Oh, I'm so disappointed, Carlos...no peyote in the desert?"

Last night I invited for you to read up on your "heritage" (writings of the Bible, Jesus, Mohammed, etc), and look for the "me, me me". It's a man talking for God. It can't be personalized. The minute it is, we inject "me" into it. What is heaven? Humanness for eternity? We don't want it! What is the Pace of heaven? I'm in a toga, walking like this [walks torturously slow for several steps]...

Then comes the death defier. An outstanding male of his time. The inorganic beings are also blasted by flyers. There's nothing they'd like to do more than to unite with us. But the only ones brave enough are the sorcerers, as beings wanting to enhance their wareness. You profess to be who you are in their realm, and they grab you! How else would they do it, as they have no way of making themselves known. We are being systematically separated [from the inorganic beings] by the flyers.

Don Juan said that the inorganic beings were dangerous. The death defier got grabbed by the inorganic beings, but he accepted the bidding. He spent thousands of years in that world. One day this ultimate freedom fighter discovered the way to escape. Turn into a woman! This is simple for a sorcerer. A woman has her assemblage point with its "shiny" side facing inward, while a man's assemblage point has its shiny side facing out. All one needs to do is to turn the assemblage point around, and your whole body turns into something else. It's not merely an illusion. As a woman the inorganic beings didn't know he existed, and he simply slipped by without notice. In making a deal with the inorganic beings, he lost his possibilities. But now hes' caput. I'm the last of the line, so what will the death defier do? He'll go with me, I'm his last chance. It gives me the goose bumps. Infinitely more exciting...

So, this death defier has escaped twice! First death itself, then the inorganic being world. I get emotional. What beauty/elegance. He chose not to be human, but is still a being who's going to die. He knows only fighting, it's a story, but NOT a story. He's everyone of us, but enhanced by his thirst for freedom. I don't think the death defier truly knows what freedom is, but so what? He goes to something not defined.

That's why I try to sneak out of it [talking about the death defier]. I would weep like an imbucile. Don't you dare believe that I wouldn't...



END



1996 - Los Angeles Magazine - Carlos Castaneda Interview by Bruce Wagner


Version 2011.07.09

Los Angeles Magazine - May 1996

Los Angeles Magazine, Los Angeles, May 1996
Authors: Wagner, Bruce

Part I of II

ON THE PLANE BACK FROM MEXICO CITY WITH CARLOS CASTANEDA. And I'm wigged, because there is no fucking peyote. None offered; none smelt or dealt -- no child's-size button or gill-thin slice in evidence. No drugs! No mescalito! Only those cloying, silvery zip-locked honey-coated peanuts and a pallid fangy stewardess with purple-glossed Anistonian pout ("It's called'Manic Panic,"' she says. "I got it on Melrose.") who, upon seeing the outre fire-engine red CAA script in my lap hovers; a warm and fizzless 7-UP away from asking "what's shooting in Mex-hee-ko?" Seems she worked the Sundance shuttle and it really gave her the show-biz; bug. I'm tempted to say Dr. Castaneda and I are teaming on a Tim Burton or, "something with Drew." Or how's about we're headed for the famed Churubusco Studios to do a rewrite on the $38 million Honey, I Shrunk the Boundaries of Normal Perception (Touchstone)? Nah, she's 23 and wouldn't know Carlos Castaneda from a hole in Werner Erhard. After all, CC's no Learning Annex cover book. Suddenly, I'm mugged by that hideous L.A. Times movie promo, the one with the sexed-up rappelling location scout. (Director: "Where's my river?") It's all over me like a cheap Joan Osborne jingle -- in my personalized version, Purple Lips is the scout, and me the hairy, arrogant genius boy: "Where's my peyote?"

Sheesh. I had hoped a workshop in Mexico with Don Carlos was going to be my sinfully mystic moment; I'd expected nothing short of flying monkeys and a brand-new brain. The idea was to frolic through the spookily high-concept, coyote-strewn chaparral of those famous book covers, time and terrain collapsing as I duked it out with 18-foot shape-shifting allies, then morphed into a crow flying over an IMAX diorama of Sonoran sky, feeling what it's like to peck the shit out of some trippy little jackrabbit. You can't always get what you want.

Even stone-cold sober, I have to say Mexico was kicky. The archbishop decried "the pseudo-religion of the New Age" (you know, the kind that promotes una falsa vision de la realidad), while the smog-socked metropolis, oblivious to His Bunuelian imprecations, descended on a private club a thousand-strong to attend Castaneda's "Tensegrity" seminar, profits of which were donated to local orphanages. How retro! On line, the curious, the faithful, the fateful and the just plain media, fingered excerpts of CC's forthcoming book, Readers of Infinity, an exeges "from the world, as interpreted by sorcerers." For those who've followed the elusive nagual and his global peregrinations, Tensegrity is the heart of the big artichoke of his teachings: a mysterious set of physical movements, "magical passes developed by Indian shamans who lived Mexico in times prior to the Spanish Conquest."

Whoa.

THE CABIN SPASMS THROUGH A tunnel of turbulence; my cue to lurch to the loo. I'm forever fleeing to the washroom when I'm with the man -- I get morose and skittish, like a fucked-up Jimmy Olson. CC once told me bathrooms are dangerous places. If one gets "silent" enough on the bowl, a crack in the world opens up. One minute you're braced against the $600 ergonomic seat of your Snyder-Diamond toilet-bidet combo; the next you're shimmying through that pesky Third Gate, the one he talks about in The Art of Dreaming, where you find yourself staring at a sleeping snorer who turns out to be ... you! With a shudder, I stare at the 37,000-foot-high black rubber hole and ruminate on Dr. Castaneda's sorceric toilet-training riff.

"We're taught very carefully how to view the world -- and how to 'handle' it," he had said a few moments earlier, as a beastly dip jostled the stewardess into the easily bruisable arms of a stunned retiree. "The social order commands us: How to blow our nose, read a map or interpret the gesture of a stranger -- 'practical actions.' We learn so well, even a psychotic uses the toilet instead of the planter in a hotel lobby." He adds coyly: "Most psychotics. You have to learn a new set of 'practical actions' if you want to see that the world is not the way your mother described it." I'd told him that in order to break those boundaries, I need drugs -- I'm not talking Prozac or Percocet Nation. None of that Brentwood caca fo me. I'm talking Datura inoxia. I'm talking Lophophora williamsii and Psilocybe mexicana. Isn't that what his books were about (the early ones anyway)? UCLA student working on thesis seeks out expert on hallucinogenic plants, unwittingly meets Yaqui Indian brujo, Don Juan Matus. Don Juan tells him we are magical beings, exquisite animals, true perceivers -- now fallen, toothless lions, caged and flea-bitten, with no awareness of the meaning or majesty of our lives or deaths. Castaneda yawns at brujo. Don Juan napalms him with psychotropics until CC sees, writes bestseller and lands on cover of Time. Becomes cultural icon and so-called godfather of the New Age. Well, I've been trying three [...?] he wants me to know drugs are unnecessary(*) --"Yes, they shift the assemblage point, but in an unstable fashion."

STRAPPED IN MY SEAT NOW, NURSING drugless wounds and sending the stewardess those righteous Don't-Ask-Me-Anything-About-the-Business vibes. As we begin our slow, drug-free descent, I think of how I came to meet CC. I was working on a script for Ixtlan (Oliver Stone's company; we're all journeymen here), when I heard OS and the legendary shaman had broken bread. How slick! Hats off to wily, clowning, dharma-bumming, decade-foraging pop ethnographer Oliver, I thought (cumbersomely). Hmmm. Too good to pass up; I should do a little weaseling myself. I'd read all CC's books, had all the big-time apprentice/accidental-tourist fantasies.

If I could just finagle a dinner, a lunch, some time under the volcano, so to speak, then get on with it: write the definitive David Foster Wallace-size bio and get Annie Leibovitz'd for the New York Times Magazine cover ("Bruce Wagner's Warrior: On Shamans, Castaneda and the Elusive Art of Biography").

I'd met Billy Wilder through Oliver easily enough. But OS was off scouting in Thailand, as is his wont -- Where's my delta? -- so someone in-house put out feelers. Nothing happened. Gelson's sushi- and caffeine-sodden days blurred into weeks blurred in months; projects kindled, flared, sizzled, flickered, smoldered and died; scripts winked like horny burn patients from the ICU of their IKEA shelves. Still, all quiet on the energetic front. Finally, a San Rafael hippie source called to say CC was to speak at the Phoenix Bookstore in Santa Monica. So there I go an there he is, and it's weird! Because he's "diminutive" and gregarious with a broad, rubbery smile, and he's talking phenomenology, intentionality, sorceric intersubjectivity; Brentano, Husserl and Heidegger -- and then he's effervescing about ... Hollywood! Castaneda, at'70s studio pitch meetings! Reminiscing about all the suits who wanted to make movies from his books! And he's flat-out, obscenely, Orson Welles ? funny -- I say that because I used to drive Welles to Ma Maison in a limo, and Welles was the same conversational way, with those unexpected scarily au courant, trenchant tummy-roiling references. (We chauffeurs kept a board in the trunk to slide the custom-shod, ascoted elephant seal in and out of the car; did that with Larry Flynt, too, when we brought him to Martin Luther King hospital for rehab.) Between yuks -- CC says his jokes are a "dissonance" to soften people up so they'll suspend judgment -- he talked the oddest shit from his books that everyone there had of course read but kind of temporarily forgot with the shock of seeing the obsessive mythic diarist before them, in the flesh. I got the feeling half the group was trying to make sure it was him -- still uncommitted, not wanting to be Don Juan Barnum'd. After all, he's never been photographed, recorded, et cetera. When the crowd warmed up enough, he said things like

(1) We've been seduced into perceiving the world as a place of hard surfaces and finalities; (2) The universe is only energy-no good and no evil, only energy; (3) Definition of a sorcerer? Someone who "sees" that energy as it flows; (4) We're electromagnetic beings: When a sorcerer "sees" a man or woman energetically, they resemble "luminous eggs;" (5) Each luminous egg has an "assemblage point." Sorcerers learn to shift that assemblage point so that - That was all I could take.

NEARLY ON THE GROUND NOW. Under the trembling, mucousy wing rivets, Hollywood Park looks like something out of Toy Story -- impossibly big, bright, fun and dumb. The lurid stewardess faces us, from the safety high chair that flaps from the wall. She's definitely turned on me. Serves me right for traveling under CAA cover.

"The sorcerer's idea," says Castaneda, "is to venture to a place where socialization and syntax no longer rule. To dream, for a sorcerer, isn't to be the hero -- that's the 'lucid dreamer,' obsessed with self to the end. To dream oneself someplace else takes tremendous discipline. One dreams when there's nothing left: no desires or debts, anger or happiness -- only silence. Then, boom! Don Genaro Flores said that was the sound of the world stopping. When you stop the system of interpretation, that's what you hear: BOOM. At that moment, all of you goes to that other place -- hair, pocket money, shoes."

For now, that other place was Customs. We're back in L.A. I can tell, because it's the only airport I know that comes with paparazzi.

A FEW MONTHS ago, I got a call from the wife of an old friend, felled by a tumor in his head. Boom. A tousle-haired jock with a weed growing in the garden of his skull for what doctors guessed was the better part of a decade. They said it sat on the brain like a skullcap, but I saw it more like a man-o'-war gently riding cerebral fluids. This was the kind of bud you'd grimly joke with if it happened to someone else. How could it be? I saw him at Cedars after surgery, and he told me about a dream. He had dreamed a passel of ghouls. The ghouls, polite ones at that, asked in best ghoulish voice if he'd be so kind as to be the "official spokesperson for the disembodied." That gave me a chill. My friend went on to say he had agreed -- in the dream, that is -- "because now I had some time on my hands."

Jesus. That was one for Oliver Sacks -- or Carlos Castaneda.

"DEATH IS TOO SHOCKING," CC says, as we scan the lobby of the Chateau Marmont. "We prefer to be King of the Hill." His manner is casual, offhand. "Ten thousand years ago" he came here to visit a writer working on a screenplay of The Teachings of Don Juan. We walk pass the front desk on the way to Sunset Boulevard. Is that Judy Davis entering the lift?

"The sperm count of man is dropping -- did you read about it? It's below the level of hamsters. They blame it on migration to the cities, but that's absurd. The bats will win -- their sonar systems have become inconceivable. While the bats hone themselves, what does man do? He eats. He fights. He fucks. He defends his ego. Man is truly an insane ape! He has his holy men -- the special chair the guru sat in is on display. 'This is where Baba sat,' they say during the tour ... They've wrapped his feces in plastic. That's the New Age. I'm the Old Age!"

CC and I stroll into Bar Marmont. The hip setting lends a hallucinatory whiff to his juxtaposition, but he seems to be enjoying himself. I point out notables: Michael Stipe, a table with Abel Ferrara and Steve Buscemi, Paul Schrader and Bridget Fonda, a UTA agent with the super-model.

I think they call Shalom (a peace in any language). All in all, the perfect moment to ask about the luminous egg.

"Okay, let's say you, uh, see Michael Stipe standing before you. I mean, energetically."

"Michael Stipe would appear as a luminous sphere."

I'm into it now; the shadow-boxing apprentice is getting his see legs. "You've said that such luminous spheres have a bright spot called the assemblage point."

"Roughly at the height of the shoulder blades," he demonstrates, "an arm's length back. That's where perception is assembled and interprete The old sorcerers saw that the assemblage point is in the same position for all men -- that's why we view the world, this world, in such uniformity. The assemblage point is displaced when we dream -- and when that happens, new worlds come together, as real as our own. The sorcerer's art is to willfully displace that assemblage point, then fix its new position. That's the art of dreaming."

My energetic Everlasts torn, I rush back to my corner for solace and stitching -- the bathroom again, to sit on my stool. I think I understand what he's saying, but it makes me fucking uneasy. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to conjure the luminous egg ... so cogent one minute, outlandish the next. The world has always been extravagantly improbable; how, then, do we go about choosing what is or isn't so, personally? Is it merely a question of context?

I splash water on my face, grounding myself in the soothing petty paranoias of Film World. Edgily, I muse: Hey. Doesn't Stipe have some kind of "overall" at Miramax? He's probably already rushed over and introduced himself to Castaneda -- handshaking a deal right now on The EagI Gift. A little feature ... something around 7 to 10 -- with Buscemi as the brujo Don Juan. Schrader's already joined them, cobbling together a second act on a napkin, while hot-and-bothered UTA shoehorns Shalom as a Species-like Sonoran ally.

Castaneda is alone when I return, nursing his hot water. He's always drinking hot water. By the time I sit down, the luminous egg and its assemblage point are absurdities again. My attention span is sucky; maybe a little Ritalin would help me crack the energy code. Disconsolately I tell him I've been mulling those tricky shamanistic concepts but can't seem to suspend judgment. My ego's in id-lock.

"You're thinking too much, that's all," he says. "We're all ponderers." A scarily obese person lumbers toward us, then floats from view like a leaky barge -- today? factotum? publicist? "That's us: dying to be fat and useless. The difficult part about Don Juan's world is that you have to experience.

If all the pondering is properly examined, it's revealed to be meaningless. Pondering -- the obsession with linear response, with cause and effect -- is fallacious. There's no way to explain anything. We've been trained to believe we're curious to know the why of things. We think we can arrive at an 'understanding'; 'noble' intellectuals, totally unaccustomed to action. We pretend to seek answers, but our desire is to debunk. We're all Grand Inquisitors-I have met Torquemadas in my time! We hunger for the Big Question and we're enthralled by the Inadequate Answer, so we can go back to Seinfeld. The truth is, we're not curious at all."

PART II of II

AS WE WALK ALONG SUNSET, WE pass an enormous mobile home; pinch-faced men and women in black scurry about with garment bags. There's some kind of Vogue shoot going on in the Chateau garden, and we take a look. Helmut Newton is straddling a supermodel, six feet of pale, thrift-store Prada. It makes CC think of Fellini, who came to see him once in L.A. Il Maestro wanted to make a movie of his books; more to the point, he wanted to crash that Third Gate, swept through on the muscular black-tie arm of mescalito.(**) What a dream-date And, oh! How I sympathized with the dead, extravagant fish-mouthed auteur!

MY MOOD SWINGS LIKE A HAMMOCK in the caressing Santa Ana. I'm melancholy and mention my friend, he of the erstwhile tumor.

"We are beings who are going to die. That's exquisite -- think what can be accomplished by a being who knows he's going to die, who's fully aware. That's not morbid, that's a triumph. But we don't believe it, that's the flaw. Your friend, is he okay?"

"Yes. He seems to be recovering."

He brightens. "Ah! It's possible to reject all kinds of things. But then we need proof and assurances -- guarantees we're in remission. The doctors want to test endlessly. We are compulsive fatalists. I have a friend whose father e-mails him writings about his prostate; Daddy got the Big C and wants to make sure the son's on schedule. 'Cancer's just around the corner -- watch out!' We've been slated for conventional defeat, conventional death; we know how the end will come. For him, the prostate; for her, the breast. We hedge our bets with investments: retirement funds, pensions, vacation plans. The 'hot' hotel in Lanai is on the horizon! We want to know -- everything. Against that immensity out there, we know nothing! How could we? We cling: If only we could really know, like Leonard Nimoy."

I do the Vulcan spit-take. "Please explain."

"An Argentinean once wrote me a letter. 'My dear Carlos,' he said. 'For whatever it's worth, you must be aware of one thing: Leonard Nimoy knows."'

THE WORLD IS MAD, OF THAT much I'm certain. But is Carlos Castaneda? He believes we're magical beings; only the worst of cynics would disagree. He asserts our electromagnetism; the scientists nod. He wishes to replace the inner dialogue with silence; Buddhists wouldn' have a problem. He desires to navigate in the unknown with something called the double, or "energy body." Oh shit.

We meet downtown at the Pantry, where he occasionally came with Don Juan. If sorcerers dream of diners, surely they dream of this one. There's a quintessence-of-eatery about the place: burnished, vaguely haunted, perfectly distilled -- the diurnal bookend to Hopper's Night Hawks.

"I wanted to ask you about the double."

"We call that the 'energy body' or'dreaming body.'

"It's different than the luminous egg?"

"Yes, the double is something else. It's a counterpart. We all have one, but we're separated from it at birth -- like Spy magazine says. What sorcerers do is call back the double. They use it to navigate ... out there."

I get that urge again and quickly scan for bathroom egress. For the hell of it, I decide to break an old pattern and stay put -- what sorcerers call a "not-doing." This, then, will be my men's room not-going. Instead, I inquire about the crux of his recent seminars, the series of strange movements taught him by the legendary brujo -- "magical passes" never mentioned in any of his books. He calls this lost art "Tensegrity" and says it is essential to gathering enough energy to "cancel out our inherited view of the world."

"The magical passes were discovered by shamans of ancient Mexico during dreaming navigations. They were intensely secretive -- I never wrote about them because they were just too personal."

"But were Don Juan's explanations enough?" My not-going has left me feeling feisty. "I would think he business about dreaming navigations was a bit on the abstract side -- this was probably early in your apprenticeship, no? Weren't you more curious about the movements' origins?"

"Certainly! I wanted to know everything, to arrive at an 'understanding.' Oh, I ached to ponder. But Don Juan discouraged that particular discussion. Just as he discouraged me looking into a mirror or videotaping myself while dreaming."

"How freakish." Though I wasn't sure what he meant, I found the prospect genuinely unsettling.

"I assure you 'Mr. Nightmare'was more inquisitive than Geraldo -- or Mike Wallace." He laughed so hard he practically coughed up his porterhouse. "That's what Don Juan called me: Mr. Nightmare."

Cleargreen -- the company that sponsors CC's worldwide Tensegrity workshops -- recently announced over the Internet that "due to circumstances related to energy flow," L.A. would now have Castaneda's special focus. When I ask him to elaborate, he suddenly seems far away. Not nostalgic, just remote. "I'll never catch up to Don Juan. How beautiful! How much more beautiful than the shitty sadness I carried around for my parents and their fate. There isn't much time; I'm the end of Don Juan's line. Being here, in Los Angeles, is very real. You know Don Juan had a place of 'predilection' -- a valley around 60 miles north of Mexico City, near the pyramid of Tula. For me, he said that place of predilection was Los Angeles."

AT THE BUFFALO CLUB (WITHOUT him). On the way, I thought I hit a bird. Which alarms me because Castaneda had told me that was a standing joke back in Don Juan's time -- "Everyone was always nervously saying, 'I think I hit a bird."' Bad omens rising.

I sit at the Buffalo bar and drink. Steve Buscemi and Steve Bochco and Frank Stallone and Michael Stipe and Cameron Diaz and Lauren Shuler-Donner and Paul Schrader and Eric Idle and Traci Lords and Spike Jones and Bob Shaye and Shalom and Michael Mann and Elisabet Shue and Helmut Newton and Abel Ferrara and Dominick Dunne. None of them were there! Must be an off night. I imagine my friend with the excised tumor sweeping in, darkly Dolce & Gabbana'd, an insectoid Foreign Legion pin on lapel denoting Official Spokesperson for the Disembodied.

Over a martini, I review my crib notes: (1) We're magical beings, not just assholes; (2) We've been taught to see the world in a certain way; (3) We can temporarily cancel out what we've been taught and experience new worlds, real as our own; (4) There are no words to describe those new worlds; (5) Those worlds can be accessed during dreams, when our ironclad perceptual grip relaxes; (6) We use our birthright -- the double, or dreaming body -- to navigate; (7) To do that takes a shitload of energy; (8) Energy is accrued by shutting up the inner dialogue and doing strange, ancient physical movements; (9) Energy is accrued by "intent"; (10) Intent is a natural force, like gravity. (Sorcerers say dinosaurs intended to fly, so grew wings. If man is to evolve, so must he intend the abstract wings of freedom.)

I see Kim Cattrall and run the 10 points past her while her boyfriend, Daniel Benzali, the Murder One guy, visits the head. I ask what she thinks, and she says I sound PMS. I tell her about my erstwhile-tumored friend, and this opens the morbid floodgates: She mentions someone who got shot and I mention Elisabeth Leustig, the casting director mortally hit-and-run in Moscow. Regrettably, my mind, always looking after its own, segues to the novel I just wrote, the galleys of which arrived this morning in a torn FedEx package, the back of each page stamped with massive tire tracks. Bad omens rising!

I walk them out. A few pasty, subdued Baader-Meinhof types push colored pens and notebooks at her -- glossies from Bonfire, Star Trek and Masquerade. Kim talks to them in fluent German, but all the starstruck autograph hounds can muster is "Zuper!" While she signs, Daniel, having overheard my energy rant, references John Cage, then asks about Castaneda's idea of "silence. " He's gracious, trodding delicately -- the way one is around the emotionally challenged.

"He says that once you shut off the inner dialogue, you become empty. And that opens you to all kinds of bizarreness."

"And what was that you said about colors, Bruce?"

"When you're empty -- I mean, this is what Castaneda says -- you see a kind of sheet on the horizon. And it's lavender! He says there's a point of color on that sheet: pomegranate. He says the pomegranate point expands, then bursts into an infinity that can be'read."'

"As in literal text?" Kim asks.

A pause. She had me there. The charitable Daniel winces a goodbye.

FOUR A.M. HUNCHED AT THE MultiSync, surfing unofficial Internet newsgroups like alt.dreams.castaneda, Spanish poems -- Gorostiza, Vallejo, Neruda -- and tango lyrics exchanged. Advice to the love- and energy-lorn. Seems to me my tumorless bud will have to unseat incumbent Bill Gates -- the real spokesperson for the disembodied (you only vote by absentee). I ask the ether if Infinity can be read as text, an someone says, Yeah, that's how CC writes his books. Upcoming workshop gossip. Speculation about possible attendance of Blue Scout, a stellar wild child introduced in 1994's The Art of Dreaming. Names of passes dropped: "Preparing to Cross Over," "Stabbing Energy in Search of a New Position of the Assemblage Point," "The Female and Male Winged Being," "The Stellar Hatch." Someone says the latter draws on "the energy of dead stars," which provokes more queries: Do trees have assemblage points? Where is L.A.'s "power spot"? (Hint: Not Drai's.) Are there worlds where hues have scents? And what is the color of discipline?

THE WORKSHOP AT UCLA. Five hundred seekers, choreographed on the shiny wood court in a shamanistic half-time show. In keeping with the weekend's theme -- " Warriors on the Run" -- the passes seem speedier, more propulsive than those in Mexico: qi-soaked eruptions that resemble kung fu; then, sudden filigreed handwork akin to tai chi. But what the hell do I know.

"Tensegrity isn't a'fighting form,"' CC tells the group. "It isn't competitive. In the world, one thought competes with 10 others. We have to try and leave the world behind." The magical passes are'maneuvers designed to isolate and enhance what sorcerers call the'energy body"' -- not necessarily the goal of your average storefront dojo for savage young white boys. Someone asks if the movements were performed en masse in the days with Don J. "Not then -- because the passes were injurious. The movements taught to myself were solely for me, to balance my energetic conifiguration and purge its obsessive nature. You see, our idea is that the men and women who discovered these movements were a little dark, a little ... ominous. Those qualities had to be removed before the passes could be shared."

I DO 20 MINUTES OF TENSEGRITY in my living room; oddly, my limbs seem to remember one of the longer sequences. I imagine my dreaming body floating toward me like a ghostly pet at chow time. Then I lie down for one of the Silence exercises: Calves dangling, I place a weight on my belly, applying pressure to the top of the rib cage with my fingertips. I shut my eyes and transcend the lids, focusing somewhere far on the dark horizon. After flirting with silence, I swig down some Kahlua and dream liqueured inanities.

Awaken at four a.m. Turn on the television. Ping-pong between Bravo, CNN, VH- 1, Cops, IFC, Court-TV. On the latter, a compendium of trials: war criminals on the stand in The Hague; in Atlanta, a divorce attorney divorces his wife, herself a former client; a woman abandons her Alzheimer's-stricken father at an Idaho dog track. (A trend. The media calls it "granny-dumping.") Press the mute and drift ... What if Castaneda's right? hums the refrain in my vaguely nauseated head. What if, in fact, this Bosnian Citywalk reality we're so cockily possessive of turn out to be some Twilight Zone joke (the one where the drunken couple awakens in what turns out to be the dollhouse of an extraterrestrial little girl). What if the whole seductive bankrupt Barneys world is one shamelessly imposed -- not merely the imposition of laws or learned social niceties but, far more insidious, the dictator of how we perceive, tyrant of the way we watch the very things in front of us (it has our eyes) ... and, uh, if it's really true we've been mugged at birth, robbed of even the shitty amount of awareness it takes to see some kind of wonder beyond its well-worn, leeching inventory -- well that's, uh, like jail. Huh? A snakepit of dysfunction and fatal surprises for most of us -- and for the rest, well, kinda cushy really: a well-kept, well-lit federal jail with Burke Williams massages, AIDS walkathons, nec plus ultra cel phones, Internet lecheries, successful surgeries, successful adoptions, successful hardworking antidepressants and Four Seasons brunches with smiley omelet chefs in big puffy hats -- like one of those Tijuana prisons I read about, where money buys you a sort of brownstone and you can have weapons and whores and heroin and the family over for BBQ. What if it's really true that ... BOOM! As they say.

THE GETTY LOOMS AS WE PULL onto the 405. A cruddy promontory for a $750 million building, what with the freeway and the circular hotel and the garbage dump nearby -- talk about Your funky feng shui. But who am I to say'? I ask about local power spots, and CC mentions somewhere in El Monte.

"Do you actually go there?"

"Visiting those places," he says, "is something one does in one's youth -- it's not for me. I'm focused on the horizon.

"Does that mean," I ask, 'with the power spots and all, that the earth is aware? If it is, then it must have an assemblage point." My chest swells. Groovily conversant, I work the wild, newfound lingua franca.

"The earth is a conscious being," he answers. "It has a very weird pull, When you get a little hysterical, lie on it with your stomach -- it'll cure you. The earth absorbs; it holds us. Then, at a certain moment, it has nothing left. It tells a warrior,"You may go."' I glance over; he shivers. "The earth as a conscious being -- a superior mother-cuts the roots to let him float. 'Go!' she tells him. How gorgeous."

We embrace at the terminal. I wonder just where the hell he's going, flightwise. It isn't Mexico -- so one of his colleagues said. I wasn't about to press. A giant cop, shooing away the naked and the double: parked, works his way toward us. I linger, repeating what I had read the night before in Journey to Ixtlan:

"Don Juan said there was no way for you to go back to Los Angeles. 'What you left there is lost forever."'

"True. Very true. But he also said the feelings in a man don't die or change. 'The sorcerer starts on his way back home knowing he'll never reach it, knowing no power on earth, not even his death, will deliver him to the place, the things, the people he loved."'

Then he's gone and the cop is here, welcoming me back to the world.

(*) I'll be glad to see the end of the'90s: Can it be that even sorcerers aren't immune to the long arm of the Twelve Steps? "I came to believe I was powerless over the Social Order ... " What have things come to?

(**) In Sorcerers Anonymous, the secret handshake query is, "Are you friends of williamsii?"

Copyright Los Angeles Magazine, Inc. May 1996



1996 - Psychology Today - My lunch with Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Psychology Today - Apr 1996

"My lunch with Carlos Castaneda"

Psychology Today

New York, Mar/Apr 1996

Author: Epstein, Benjamin

He is the 20th century's own sorcerer's apprentice. He is the invisible man, ephemeral, evanescent: now you see him, now you don't. He is a navigator making his way through a living universe in exquisite flux. Or as Carlos Castaneda himself might say, he is a moron, an idiot, a fart. It's been said that Jesus Christ was either the Son of God or the greatest liar who ever lived.

Carlos Castaneda, who may have a cult following but says deities are the last thing people need, presents a similar conundrum. Critics grapple for middle ground: One called him a "sham-man bearing gifts... He lied to bring us the truth."

The jury has been out ever since books such as The Teachings of Don Juan took the public and academia by storm in the 1960s and 70s, and it's still out. Castaneda has now produced nine books he claims are based on his supernatural experiences with Don Juan Matus, a Yaqui seer.

To remain invisible, he says, is the sorcerer's way. He never allows photographs or a tape recording of his voice. He only rarely grants interviews. In the 80s, he effectively vanished altogether. But the books continue to sell (8 million in 17 countries) and have never been out of print. In 1993, he began to give occasional seminars, and the following year The Art of Dreaming appeared.

Despite ads promoting "Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity," even event organizers didn't know whether Castaneda would actually show up at a recent weekend seminar near Disneyland in Anaheim. Yet 400 devotees from around the world-- about a third from California-- paid $250 each to attend, whether Castaneda showed or not. They came to learn a series of "magical passes," movements intended to heighten perception.

"It is a thinking universe, a living universe, an exquisite universe! " Castaneda said, exuberantly kicking off the seminar. "We have to balance the lineality of the known universe with the nonlineality of the unknown universe."

The charismatic Castaneda proved amazingly convincing when describing life among inorganic beings, with whom he apparently spends a great deal of time; the assemblage point, a place about an arm's length behind our shoulder blades that can be shifted to visit other realms; and a predatory universe in which "flyers" incessantly feed of mankind's awareness, taking the sheen off our luminous eggs and leaving only a rubble, of self-absorption and egomania.

He invents none of this, he insists "I'm not insane, you know. Well, maybe a little insane. But not ridiculously insane!"

He is also charming, energetic, fit, and funny. And at the conclusion of his opening talk, Castaneda responded to a request for an interview by unexpectedly inviting the writer to lunch.

Sitting in a coffee shop in Anaheim opposite Castaneda was enough to realign anybody's assemblage point: The writer later took his nonlineality to heart, slipping easily between lunch and workshop talks, and indulging in the conversational format that Castaneda often used to elucidate his master's ideas.

After all, Castaneda had replaced Don Juan as nagual, the head sorcerer, a being with double luminous spheres and if it was good enough for one nagual, it's good enough for another.


AT THE TABLE WERE SEVERAL Tensegrity staffers and the three women chacmools who helped Castaneda compile the movements and who taught them step-by-step at the seminar.

"Is this what you've been doing all this time, magical passes?" I asked Castaneda.

"Noooo... I was very chubby," he said. "Don Juan recommended an obsessive use of magical passes to keep my body at an optimum. So in terms of physical activity, yes, this is what we do. The movements also force our awareness to focus on the idea that we are spheres of luminosity, a conglomerate of energy fields held together by special glue."

"Is Tensegrity the Toltec t'ai chi? Yaqui yoga?" I asked.

"To compare Tensegrity with yoga or t'ai chi is not possible. It has a different origin and a different purpose. The origin is shamanic, the purpose is shamanic. It has to do with our reason for being. Our reason for being is to face infinity.

"We're all going to face infinity, at the moment of dying," he said. "Why face it when we are weakest, when we are broken? Why not when we are strong? Why not now! You have to face it pragmatically. No idealities allowed."

"Where would Jesus fit into all this? Where would Buddha fit in?"

"They are idealities," Castaneda replied. "They are too big, too gigantic to be real. They are deities. One is the Prince of Buddhism, the other is the Son of God... Idealities cannot be used in a pragmatic movement.

"Allowing your perception to break the interpretation system-- a tree ceases to be a tree and becomes sheer energy-- that is a pragmatic maneuver. The things shamans deal with are extremely practical. They break down parameters of normal historical reality. Magical passes are just one aspect of that."


CASTANEDA IS VERY NEGATIVE ABOUT religion. But these aren't your usual diatribes: "'Leave Jesus on the cross. He's very happy there!' Don Juan said, 'Don't bother him, leave him alone. Don't ask him "why are you there crucified." He'd go bananas trying to explain to you why.' So I did that. He said hello to me, and goodbye."

The waiter arrived to take our lunch orders. The only choices under discussion seemed to be top sirloin, prime rib, and filet mignon, hardly the snuggest fit with most New Age disciplines.

"The sorcerers say that whether you're eating lettuce or a steak, it's a sentient being," chacmool Kylie Lundahl explained. As it turned out, the chacmools, named for the gigantic, reclining guardian figures of the Mexican pyramids, were quite literally here today, gone tomorrow. Castaneda relieved them of their duties at the end of the seminar, during his closing remarks. Nobody ever said the warrior's way would be easy.

Castaneda ordered a melted cheese on rye with a side of bacon and fries.


DON JUAN WAS ONCE DESCRIBED AS "an enigma wrapped in mystery wrapped in a tortilla," and Castaneda followed suit. His agent, Tracy Kramer, and Cleargreen, Inc., which organizes the seminars, are based in Santa Monica. Where Castaneda spends his time is unclear. If a passing remark at the seminar was to be taken literally, he pays Property taxes somewhere.

"I don't live here," Castaneda said. "I'm not here at all. I always use the euphemism 'I've been in Mexico.' All of us divide our time between being here and being pulled by something that is not describable but that makes us visitors into another realm. But you start talking about that and you start sounding like total nincompoops.

"I had once an interview. First thing the interviewer said was, 'They tell me you turned into a crow. Is that true? Hahahaha.' I tried to explain to him about intersubjectivity. 'Pfhhhh,' he said, 'tell me yes or no.' I said no."

"Why don't you allow yourself to be photographed or tape-recorded?" I asked.

"Recording is a way of fixing you in time," Castaneda answered. "The stagnant word, the stagnant picture, those are the antithesis of the sorcerer... Maybe you've seen a drawing of Carlos Castaneda by Richard Oden for Psychology Today in December 1977. There was no photograph, so he drew it. This was 30 years ago. No good. He decided to draw it again. It was a flop."

Photographs are not all that stand still. "The Word of God is unchanging," he said. "It is a living universe. What is in flux is what is alive. An unchanging word must by definition pertain to a dead world. In a universe that is forced to change there is a written word not forced to change? That is the world of a taxidermist."

When Castaneda's melted-cheese sandwich arrived, the rye was marbled with pumpernickel. "What is this, chocolate bread?" he asked before sending it back.

My own mind was worlds away, perhaps on a bench in Oaxaca.

"According to your book The Eagle's Gift, Don Juan Matus didn't die, he left, he 'burned from within.' Will you leave or will you die?"

"Since I'm a moron, I'm sure I'll die," Castaneda replied. "I wish I would have the integrity to leave the way he did... I have this terrible fear that I won't. But I wish. I work my head off-- both heads toward that."


I RECALLED AN ARTICLE FROM AT least a decade ago calling Castaneda the "godfather of the New Age.

"It was 'grandfather'!" he protested. "And I thought, please call me the uncle, or cousin, not grandfather! Uncle Charlie will do. I feel like hell being the grandfather of anything. I'm fighting age, senility and old age, like you couldn't believe. I was senile when I met Don Juan, I've fought for 35 years...

"To be young and youthful is nothing," said Castaneda. "To be old and youthful, that is sorcery!"


CASTANEDA, FOR WHOM AMBIGUITY is a way of life to be ruthlessly pursued, is both. And his age is as good a place as any to get a sense of the man.

According to Contemporary Authors, Castaneda lists his birth date and place as December 25, 1931, So Paulo, Brazil; immigration records says December 25, but 1925, and Cajamarca, Peru; other sources cite the late 1930s. One New York Times article put him at 66 years old in 1981.

So he's somewhere between 60 and 80, most likely 64. Or 70. Similarly, otherwise reliable sources variously list the year he earned his Ph.D in anthropology from UCLA as 1970 and 1973. In other words, this is one slippery organic being.

I asked about inorganic beings.

"They are possessors of consciousness but not possessors of an organism," Castaneda responded. "Why should awareness be the exclusive possession of organisms?"

The Art of Dreaming ends with Castaneda recounting an episode in the mid-70s when he and Carol Tiggs were "dreaming" in a hotel room in Mexico City, and Tiggs disappeared into those dreams. (She was on a journey in the "second attention," a state of consciousness not devoured by the "flyers.") According to Castaneda, she reappeared 10 years later in a bookstore in Santa Monica, where he was giving a talk.


IT WAS THE RECONSTITUTED TIGGS who provided the impetus to compile the "magical passes" of Tensegrity. According to Castaneda Don Juan taught four disciples separate lines of ever-changing magical passes. The other two, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar, have each published accounts of their apprenticeships, both markedly different from Castaneda's but endorsed by him. Over the past 10 years, the group "fixed the passes," arriving at a consensus generic enough to be used by mankind. If the movements of Tensegrity (the name derives from an architectural term related to skeletal efficiency, happily combining "tension" and "integrity") often see angular and fierce in character, they are intended to produce a jolt.

"I saw once a beautiful science fiction movie in which creatures from another planet appeared," Castaneda said, "veeeery slowly. A change in perception is never like that. It is like this. Yank it out! You cancel the parameters of normal perception. You move into it like a robber band Almost immediately, the robber bandit comes back. It's just a moment. But the moments get longer and longer."

The chacmools may have been erased, but not Tensegrity. A new formation of warrior guardians were set to lead future seminars with lectures to be given by all four Don Juan disciples-- and an inorganic being called the blue scout.


DON JUAN'S PREMISE WAS THAT the world as we know it is only one version of reality, a set of culturally embedded "agreements" and "descriptions."

Castaneda addressed the futility of the usual avenues of inquiry: 'If you seek with the mind, it will not take you anywhere, except to a tautological situation where you repeat the obvious. In science, the tautological questions prove themselves. That's the art of our science... 'All these variables and nothing else.' We are champions of pseudo control-- we reduce the problem to manageable science. What a fantasy!

"One day on my way to the cafeteria at UCLA, I didn't see people anymore, I saw energies, blobs, luminous spheres. It was dazzling. Before that, nothing existed except me, me, me. I went to talk to a psychiatrist I worked with. He very kindly prescribed a tranquilizer and said, 'Carlos, you're working too hard. Take two days off.' It was impossible to establish a dialogue with him."

Castaneda's own inquiries have led him from academic anthropology to practical hen-hermeneutics, the science of interpretation; he launched a newsletter, The Warriors' Way: A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics, in January. Titles under consideration for a gigantic work in progress have included "Ethnohermeneutics" and "Phenomenological Anthropology."

"When sorcerers see, hermeneutics is the ultimate affair for us," Castaneda said. Seeing for the rest of us apparently involves only the visual sense, and then only minimally.

"When you look at me now, what do you see?" I asked.

"I have to be in a special mood to see," he said. "It is very difficult for me to see.

I've got to get very somber, very heavy. If I'm lighthearted and I look at you I see nothing. Then I turn around and I see her, and what do I see? 'I joined the navy to see the world, and what do I see? the sea!'

"I know more than I want to know. It's hell, true hell. If you see too much, you become unbearable."

Castaneda ordered a cappuccino, then meticulously removed the foamed milk teaspoon by teaspoon.


ACCORDING TO CASTANEDA, MOST sorcerers must remain celibate in order to conserve energy. It all depends on the circumstances under which they were conceived."

Most of us are what we call BFs, the product of bored fucks," he explained.

"How was I conceived? Was it in the middle of great sexual excitation, or was it nonsense, idiotic, pointless? Mine was stupid. The two people involved didn't know what they were doing. I was conceived behind a door, so I came out very nervous, watching. And this is the way I am, basically. For me to make use of energy I don't have is lethal."

"What about married people?"

"That question has come up a lot. It's a question of energy," he said. "If you know you were not conceived in a state of real excitation, then no. On one level, it hasn't mattered if people are married. With the launching of Tensegrity, we don't really know what will happen."

"You don't know what is going to happen? Sounds irresponsible."

"How can you know?" he asked. "This is an implication of our syntactical system. Our syntax requires a beginning, development, and end. I was, I am, I will be. We are caught in that. How can we know what you will be capable of if you have sufficient energy?

"I am giving you a series of ideas, if you have the balls to take them seriously. Maybe you say this is idiotical, what kind of shit is this? Like the little boy victims whining 'But what is going to happen to me?' They'll never find out.

"The other three disciples-- those farts-- have balls; these are huge women with the biggest balls you've ever seen. Try to stop Taisha Abelar and see what happens. Try to stop Florinda."

The fourth disciple is no squeaker himself.

"Don Juan categorized people into three types," he said. "One was farts, like me, a smelly fart-- very assertive, ready to tell you, 'Fuck you, are you sure that's the way to do it,' and Don Juan would very patiently assure me that, yes, he was sure. I don't have that patience myself. If somebody asks me am I sure, I go bananas because I'm not sure!

"The other, golden piss-- the sweetest, wonderful beings. They could die for you, or so they say. They won't, but they say it, which is very nice-- nicer than the fart-- but then you die for him.

"The third type, puke. Not fart, not piss, just puke--the kind that doesn't have anything to give, but promises the world, and has you begging...

"Fortunately I was fart. And Don Juan had a ball with this fart."



Copyright Sussex Publishers, Inc. Mar/Apr 1996



1996 - Readers of Infinity: Number 1 - by Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Carlos Castaneda's
The Warriors' Way | Readers of Infinity
Number 1. Volume 1.

[page 1/4]

by Carlos Castaneda
"THE WARRIORS' WAY"

To be called "READERS OF INFINITY" starting issue Number 3 of Volume 1.


A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics
Number 1, Volume 1
Los Angeles, January 1996



[page 2/4]

WHAT IS HERMENEUTICS ?

Hermeneutics was first a method for interpreting sacred texts, essentially Biblical texts. Later, it covered the interpretation of literary texts and texts in general, and finally as it stand today, it is a philosophical method that deals with the interpretation of the historical, social, psychological, etc., aspects of our world.

It is called a method because it is a manner or mode, a systematic way to approach a topic of inquiry. Hermeneutics as a philosophical method seeks to examine the bases that structure the different aspects of our world and to lay bare their presuppositions.

What we propose to do in this journal of applied hermeneutics is to take the position delineated by don Juan Matus, a Yaqui Indian sorcerer from Mexico, and to describe the way which he and other sorcerers like himself interpreted the social, historical, psychological, etc., aspects of their world.

Thus our intention to emphasize the sorcerers' idea of practicality as opposed to the purely abstract reflection of a philosophical method; hence, our proposal to call it a journal of applied hermeneutics.



THE WARRIORS' WAY VIEWED AS A PHILOSOPHICAL-PRACTICAL PARADIGM.

One premise of the warriors' way will be discussed in every one of our issues.

WE ARE PERCEPTORS. This is the first premise o the warriors' way, according to the form in which don Juan Matus taught it to his disciples. It seems to be a tautological statement: the reassertion of the obvious; something like saying a bald man is one that doesn't have hair, but it is not tautology, what we have here. In the sorcerers' world, it refers to the fact that we are organisms whose basic orientation is perceiving. We are perceptors, and that, according to sorcerers, is the only source from which we could establish our stability and obtain our orientation in the world.

Don Juan Matus told his disciples that human being as organisms perform a stupendous maneuver which, unfortunately, gives perception a false front; they take the influx of sheer energy and turn it into sensory data, which they interpret following a strict system of interpretation which sorcerers call the human form. This magical act of interpreting pure energy gives rise to the false front : the peculiar conviction on our part that our interpretation s stem is all that exists. Don Juan explained that a tree as we know tree is more interpretation than perception. He said that for us to deal with tree, all we need is a cursory glance that tells us hardly anything. The rest is a phenomena which he described as the calling of intent: the intent of tree, that is to say, the interpretation of sensory data pertaining to this specific phenomena that we call tree.

And just like this example, the whole world for us is composed of an endless repertoire of interpretations where our senses play a minimal role. In other words, only our visual sense touches the energy influx which is the universe, and it does so only minimally. Sorcerers maintain that the majority of our perceptual activity is interpretation ; they maintain that human beings are the kind of organisms that need a minimal input of sheer perception in order to create their world or, that they perceive only enough to serve their interpretation system. To assert that we are perceptors is an attempt on the part of sorcerers to push us back to our origin; to push us back to what should be our original stand : perceiving.




[page 3/4]

QUERIES ABOUT THE WARRIORS' WAY

WHO ARE THE CHACMOOLS?

One of the questions that has been asked with remarkable insistence has to do with the three persons who have been teaching the seminars and workshops so far: Kylie Lundahl, Reni Murez and Nyei Murez. They have been called "the chacmools." This is a term taken from the name given to some massive human figures found in the pyramids of Tula and Yucatan in Mexico. Archeologists have classified those massive figures of reclining men as incense burners set at the doors of the pyramids, but don Juan Matus believed that they were representations of warrior guardians that protected the pyramids as sites of power.

These figures were first encountered in the Mayan town of Chacmool, hence the name "chacmool." The three persons mentioned above fit into this general category of warrior guardian. However, it is erroneous to believe that the three of them by themselves constitute this category of warrior. The three of them are the ones on which has rested, so far, the responsibility of sustaining the idea of a warrior guardian. Any one of us who accepts the responsibility of guarding becomes, ipso facto, a chacmool. Carlos Castaneda, as the nominal head of our enterprise of freedom, is the chacmool of all of us, and by the same measure, so is Carol Tiggs.

On Kylie Lundahl, Reni Murez and Nyei Murez falls, nevertheless, the burden of having been the first ones to apply to dayly living some movements called magical passes discovered and developed by shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times ; on these three women falls also the joy and the honor of having brought those magical passes to the public in general. And the act of bringing them out should have liberated them; it should have further cut their ties with the self-importance that rules the acts of everyday life. Ideally, Tensegrity should bring freedom to its practitioners, and the three chacmools known to the participants in our seminars and workshops should profit from this situation. However, the novelty of our bringing out for public consumption something so secretive as the magical passes has been a pitfall we had no means to anticipate.

After having said thank you and good-bye, in the seminar and workshop of December 9 and 10 of 1995, to their audience, the three of them will head for another strata of the multi-leveled affair that is the warriors' path. They will part to test their discipline against indeterminable odds.



THE TENSEGRITY LOG:

WHAT IS TENSEGRITY?

Another question that has been asked consistently is "What is Tensegrity ?" Tensegrity is the modernized version of some movements called "magical passes" developed by Indian shamans who lived in Mexico in times prior to the Spanish Conquest.

"Times prior to the Spanish Conquest" is a term used by don Juan Matus, a Mexican Indian sorcerer who introduced Carlos Castaneda, Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar to the cognitive world of shamans who lived in Mexico, according to Don Juan, between 7000 and 10000 years ago.

Don Juan explained to his four disciples that those shamans, or sorcerers, as he called them, discovered through practices that he could not fathom, that it is possible for human beings to perceive energy directly as it flows in the universe. In other words, those sorcerers maintained, according to don Juan, that any one of us can do away, for a moment, with our system of turning energy inflow into sensory data pertinent to the kind of organism that we are (in our case, we are apes). Turning the inflow of energy into sensory data creates, sorcerers affirm, a system of interpretation that turns the flowing energy of the universe into the world of everyday life that we know.

Don Juan further explained that once those sorcerers of ancient times had established the validity of perceiving energy directly, which they called seeing, they proceeded to refine it by applying it to themselves, meaning that they perceived one another, whenever they wanted it, as a conglomerate of energy fields. Human beings perceived in such a fashion appear to the seer as gigantic luminous spheres. The size of these luminous spheres is the breadth of the extended arms.

When human beings are perceived as conglomerates of energy fields, a point of intense luminosity can be perceived at the height of the shoulder blades an arm's length away from them, on the back. The seers of ancient times who discovered this point of luminosity called it "the assemblage point," because they concluded that it is there that perception is assembled. They noticed, aided by their seeing, that on that spot of luminosity, the location of which is homogeneous for mankind, converge zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments which constitute the universe at large. Upon converging there, they become sensory data, which is utilizable by human beings as organisms. This utilization of energy turned into sensory data was regarded by those sorcerers as an act of pure magic : energy at large transformed by the assemblage point into a veritable, all-inclusive world in which human beings as organisms can live and die. The act of transforming the inflow of pure energy into the perceivable world was attributed by those sorcerers to a system of interpretation. Their shattering conclusion, shattering to them, of course, and perhaps to some of us who have the energy to be attentive, was that the assemblage point was not only the spot where perception was assembled by turning the inflow of pure energy into sensory data, but the spot where the interpretation of sensory data took place.

Their next shattering observation was that the assemblage point is displaced in a very natural and unobtrusive way out of its habitual position during sleep. They found out that the greater the displacement, the more bizarre the dreams that accompany it. From these seeing observations, those sorcerers jumped to the pragmatic action of the volitional displacement of the assemblage point. And they called their concluding results the art of dreaming.

This art was defined by those sorcerers as the pragmatic utilization of ordinary dreams to create an entrance into other worlds by the act of displacing the assemblage point at will and maintaining that new position, also at will. The observations of those sorcerers upon practicing the art of dreaming were a mixture of reason and seeing energy directly as it flows in the universe. They realized that at its habitual position, the assemblage point is the spot where converges a given, minuscule portion of the energy filaments that make up the universe, but if the assemblage point changes location, within the luminous egg, a different minuscule portion of energy fields converges on it, giving as a result a new inflow of sensory data : energy fields different from the habitual ones are turned into sensory data, and those different energy fields are interpreted as a different world.

The art of dreaming became for those sorcerers their most absorbing practice. In the course of that practice, they experienced unequaled states of physical prowess and well-being, and in their effort to replicate those states in their hours of vigil, they found out that they were able to repeat them following certain movements of the body. Their efforts culminated in the discovery and development of a great number of such movements, which they called magical passes.

The magical passes of those sorcerers of Mexican antiquity became their most prized possession. They surrounded them with rituals and mystery and taught them only to their initiates in the midst of tremendous secrecy. This was the manner in which don Juan Matus taught them to his disciples. His disciples, being the last link of his lineage, came to the unanimous conclusion that any further secrecy about the magical passes was counter to the interest that they had in making don Juan's world available to their fellow men. They decided, therefore, to rescue the magical passes from their obscure state. They created in this fashion, Tensegrity, which is a term proper to architecture that means "the property of skeleton structures that employ continuous tension members and discontinuous compression members in such a way that each member operates with the maximum efficiency and economy."

This is a most appropriate name because it is a mixture of two terms : tension and integrity ; terms which connote the two driving forces of the magical passes.




[page 4/4]

ANNOUNCEMENTS

Cleargreen announces that its first seminar in 1996 will be given on February 9, 10, and 11 in San Francisco. The theme of this seminar will be Intentionality. Intentionality is a theme of philosophical discourse which pertains to the tacit act of filling out the empty space, left by direct sensory perception. In other words, what is called Intentionality is the act of enriching the observable phenomena by an act that calls intention as its main driving force. When we try to explain intentionality we are trying deliberately to stay away from the standard philosophical definitions of it. We want a pragmatic slant to whatever we do. There is an entry in the discipline of philosophy called intentionality ; and there is an entry in the sorcerers' discipline which is named calling intent. We believe that the philosophers' intentionality in an intuitive version of the pragmatic sorcerers' calling of intent. We want to explore this difference/similarity to the course of this seminar. The magical passes taught in this workshop have been singled out exclusively because of their effects in producing the internal quietness necessary for the calling of intent. The magical passes will be taught by a new formation of warrior guardians called the PATHFINDERS.

The second seminar sponsored by Cleargreen, Incorporated in 1996 will be given on March I, 2, and 3 in Los Angeles. The theme of the workshop and seminar will be The Female Energy Body. Efforts are going to be geared towards explaining certain basic sorcerers propositions presented by don Juan Matus to his three female disciples : Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar. The magical passes which will be taught in the workshop will be in the exclusive realm of the female body. Their stated purpose is the enhancement of faculties proper to women only ; faculties which, if exercised, lead women to a state of profound quietude and alertness at the same time. The magical passes will be taught by don Juan's three female disciples : Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar, and by the blue scout. Each one of them will teach an original and unadulterated magical pass taught to them personally. They will each be assisted by a warrior guardian most closely related to them who will show the same pass, but in a more generic form. The lectures will be given by Carlos Castaneda, Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar, and the blue scout, interspersed with the performance of the magical passes.

Another issue of interest for our readers this month is the release of our new video on Tensegrity, called Redistributing Dispersed Energy. This video is now available in both VHS and PAL formats. Volume 1 of Tensegrity, Twelve Basic Movements to Gather Energy and Promote Well-Being. is also available now in PAL format. The cost of each video is $29.95, including shipping and handling in the United States. Canada and Mexico, add $5. All other countries add $8. To order, please call (800) 490-3020 or (214) 243-6809. The Spanish language domestic edition of The Art of Dreaming -- El Arte de Ensoñar -- will appear in the United States, published by Harper Collins this month.

All articles in this issue of The Warriors' Way, were written by Carlos Castaneda and edited by Nyei Murez. Journal design by Elaby Gaethen. To subscribe to The Warriors' Way please send a check, money order, or major credit card number with expiration date to Cleargreen, Incorporated. 11901 Santa Monica Boulevard, Suite 599. Los Angeles, California 90025 Attn. : The Warriors' Way Subscription Department. Annual Subscription : $24 for twelve copies plus a special issue. Single Copies : $2.50. Outside North America : $30 for annual subscription, $3.00 for single copies.

Cleargreen. Incorporated email address: TGAQ72A @ PRODIGY.COM

Published by Cleargreen, Incorporated. Copyright 1996, Laugan Productions, Incorporated. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part of this text cannot be done without permission of the publishers.





1996 - Readers of Infinity: Number 2 - by Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Carlos Castaneda's
The Warriors' Way | Readers of Infinity
Number 2. Volume 1.

[page 1/4]

by Carlos Castaneda
"THE WARRIORS' WAY"

To be called "READERS OF INFINITY" starting next issue.


A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics
Number 2, Volume 1
Los Angeles, February, 1996



[page 2/4]

Author's note :

For purposes of elucidation, it is necessary that language be used in this journal in its fullest permissible scope. Thus, philosophical discourse will be rendered as formally as it demands. Sorcerers' discourse, on the other hand, will be rendered as it was stated. The fullest permissible scope of language enters into play in this instance.


WHAT IS INTENTIONALITY ?

In the first issue of this journal, intentionality was defined as "the tacit act of filling out the empty spaces left by direct sensory perception, or the act of enriching the observable phenomena by means of intention." This definition is an attempt at staying away from the standard philosophical explanations of intentionality. The concept of intentionality is of key importance in elucidating the themes of sorcery, as bona fide topics for philosophical discourse. The slant proposed for this journal -- applied hermeneutics -- is expressed through the revision and reinterpretation of themes pertinent to the discipline of philosophy ; themes which are congruous with other themes pertinent to the discipline of sorcery.

In the discipline of philosophy, intentionality is a term first used by the Scholastics in the Middle Ages to define, in terms of natural and unnatural motion, the intent of God in relation to his creation and the free will of man to choose or reject a virtuous life ; Scholastics were Western European scholars who developed a system of theological and philosophical teachings based on the authority of the church fathers and of Aristotle and his commentators.

The term intentionality was restructured in the late 19th century by Franz Brentano, a German philosopher, whose main concern was to find a characteristic which separates mental from physical phenomena. He said, "Every mental phenomenon is characterized by what the Scholastics of the Middle Ages called the intentional or the mental inexistence of an object, and what we would like to call the reference to a content, the directness toward an object, which in this context is not to be understood as something real. In the representation, something is represented, in the judgment, something is acknowledged or rejected, in the desiring, something is desired. This intentional inexistence is peculiar alone to mental phenomena. No physical phenomenon shows anything like it. And thus, we can define mental phenomena by saying that such phenomena contain objects in themselves byway of intentionality."

Brentano's understanding was that it is the property of all mental phenomena to contain objects as inexistents, combined with the property of referring to those objects. Therefore, for him, only mental phenomena encase intentionality. Thus, intentionality becomes the irreducible feature of mental phenomena. He argued that since no physical phenomena could encase intentionality, the mental (the mind) cannot stem from the brain.

In the discipline of sorcery, there is an entry called calling intent. It refers to the definition of intentionality that was given in this journal: "the tacit act of filling out the empty spaces left by direct sensory perception, or the act of enriching the observable phenomena by means of intention." Sorcerers maintain, as Brentano intuited, that the act of intending is not in the realm of the physical ; that is to say, it is not part of the physicality of the brain or any other organ. Intent, for sorcerers, transcends the world we know. It is something like an energetic wave, a beam of energy which attaches itself to us. A



QUERIES ABOUT THE WARRIORS' WAY

There are two questions that we would like to address ourselves to in this issue. The first is:


"When am I going to see?

".. I have been doing Tensegrity steadily, and I have been recapitulating as much as I can. What's next?"

To see energy as it flows in the universe has been the primary goal of sorcerers since the beginning of their quest. For thousands of years, according to don Juan, warriors have endeavored to break the effect of our interpretation system and be able to perceive energy directly. In order to accomplish this, they developed, over the millennia, very exigent steps. We don't want to call them "praxes" or "procedures," but rather, "maneuvers." The warriors' way, in this sense, is a sustained maneuver designed to buttress warriors so they might fulfill the goal of seeing energy directly.

As the various premises of the warriors' way are discussed in each issue of this journal in the section called The Warriors' Way Viewed as a Philosophical-Practical Paradigm, it will become obvious that the sorcerers' efforts have been and are directed at obliterating the predominance of self-importance, as the only means to suspend the effects of our interpretation system. Sorcerers have a description of suspending that effect ; they call it stopping the world. When they reach this state, they see energy directly.

The reason don Juan advised refraining from focusing on praxes and procedures is because, along with doing Tensegrity or recapitulating or following the warriors' path, practitioners must intend their change ; they must intend stopping the world. So, it is not merely following the steps that counts ; what is of supreme importance is intending the effect of following the steps.



"Are you doing something to me through Tensegrity?

".. Today, I felt something moving on my back and I am afraid. I have stopped doing Tensegrity until you clarify this point.

It has been our experience that the most rational people, such as lawyers, for instance, or psychologists, have asked this type of question. Some years ago, Florinda Donner-Grau made the following statement in Spanish to one of her friends, a very serious, cultured woman : "Eres tan linda que te queremos robar." "You are so darling that we want to steal you." In Spanish, this locution is thoroughly correct as an expression of endearment.

Florinda did not see her friend until a year later, when she announced to Florinda that she had to see her on her psychiatrist's advice. She wanted to confront Florinda and her cohorts, after a year of analysis spurred by obsessive, recurring dreams in which an inhuman force was trying to take her away from her family and her close friends. In her mind, that inhuman force was, of course, Florinda DonnerGrau and her cohorts.

Nothing of this is new to us. Every one of us has had the same feelings and asked the same question to don Juan Matus in varying degrees of coarseness. We all felt something moving on our backs. Don Juan said that it was a thankful muscle which had been fed with oxygen for the first time ever, after we had done the magical passes. He assured every one of us, self-important complainers, that he needed us as he needed a hole in the head. He reminded us that he had daily appointments with the infinite ; appointments that he had to attend in a state of profound ease and purity, and that influencing others was not in any way part of that needed ease and purity. He pointed out to us that the idea that we were being manipulated by some evil force that had us by the neck, like guinea pigs, was a product of our lifetime habit of relishing being victims. He used to chide us in a mocking tone of despair, "He's doing it to me, and I can't help myself."

Don Juan's recommendation to us, regarding our fears of being unduly influenced, was a sort of parody of the political turmoil of the sixties, when the following statement was an axiom of the political activists of the time: "In case of doubt, burn." Don Juan modified it to : "In case of doubt, be impeccable."

Nowadays, we understand don Juan's position when he said, "It is inconceivable to fulfill, loaded with misgivings, misconceptions and wrongdoings, the true goal of sorcery : a journey to infinity."

When we hear our old complaints voiced by someone else, our act of impeccability is to assure the complainer that we are in search of freedom and that freedom is free ; free in the sense that it is gratis and free in the sense of not having the staggering grip of unwarranted and obsessive self-importance.




[page 3/4]

The Warriors' Way Viewed as a Philosophical-Practical Paradigm

In the previous issue of this journal, the first premise of the warriors' way was stated as : We Are Perceptors. Perceptors was used in place of perceivers. This was not an error, but the desire to extend the use of the Spanish language term perceptor which is very active, in order to connote in English the urgency of being a perceiver. In this journal of applied hermeneutics, the problem of enhancing the meaning of a term by propping it with a foreign cognate is going to arise quite often ; sometimes even to the point of forcing the creation of a new term ; not as a show of snobbery, but because of the inherent need to describe some sensation or experience or perception that has either never been described before, or if it has, it has escaped our knowledge. The implication is that our knowledge, no matter how adequate it might be, is limited.

The second premise of the warriors' way is called WE ARE WHAT OUR INCEPTION IS. This is one of the most difficult premises of the warriors' way ; not so much because of its complexity or rarity, but because it is nearly impossible for any of us to admit certain conditions pertaining to ourselves, conditions which sorcerers have been aware of over the millennia.

The first time don Juan Matus began to explain this premise, I thought he was joking, or that he was merely trying to shock me. He was teasing me at the time about my stated concern with finding love in life. He had asked me once what were my aims in life. Since I couldn't come up with any intelligible answer, I replied to him half jokingly that I wanted to find love.

"The search for love, for the people who reared you, meant having sex," don Juan had said to me on that occasion. "Why don't you call a spade a spade? You are in search of sexual satisfaction, true ?"

I denied it, of course. But the topic remained with don Juan as a source for teasing me. Every time I saw him, he would find or construct the proper context to ask me about my search for love, i.e. sexual satisfaction.

The first time he discussed the second premise of the warriors' way he began by teasing me, but suddenly he became very serious.

"I recommend that you change venues," he said, and abstain totally from continuing your search. It will lead you nowhere at best ; at worst, it will lead you to your downfall."

"But why don Juan, why must I give up sex?" I asked in a plaintive voice.

"Because you are a bored fuck," he said.

"What is that, don Juan? What do you mean, bored fuck?"

"One of the most serious things warriors do," don Juan explained, "is to search, confirm, and realize the nature of their inception. Warriors must know as accurately as they can whether their parents were sexually excited when they conceived them, or whethertheywere merely fulfilling a conjugal function. Civilized lovemaking is very, very boring to the participants. Sorcerers believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that children conceived in a civilized fashion are the products of a very bored . . . fuck. I don't know what else to call it. If I used another word, it would be a euphemism, and it would lose its punch."

After being told this incessantly, I began to ponder seriously what he was talking about. I thought I had understood him. Then doubt crept up on me every time and I found myself asking the same question : "What is a bored fuck, don Juan ?" I suppose I unconsciously wanted him to repeat what he had already said dozens of times.

"Don't begrudge my repetition," don Juan used to say to me every time. "It'll take years of pounding before you admit that you are a bored fuck. So, I'll repeat to you again : If there is no excitation at the moment of conception, the child that comes out of such a union will be intrinsically, sorcerers say, just as he was conceived. Since there is no real excitation between the spouses, but perhaps merely mental desire, the child must bear the consequences of their act. Sorcerers assert that such children are needy, weak, unstable, dependent. Those, they say, are the children that never, ever leave home ; they stay put for life. The advantage of such beings is that they are extremely consistent in the midst of their weakness. They could do the same job for a lifetime without ever feeling the urge to change. If they happen to have a good, sturdy model as children, they grow to be very efficient, but if they fail to have a good pattern, there is no end to their anguish, turmoil and instability

"Sorcerers say with great sadness that the enormous bulk of humanity was conceived like that. This is the reason we hear endlessly about the urge to find something that we don't have. We search, for the duration of our lives, according to sorcerers, for that original excitation that we were deprived of. That's why I said that you are a bored fuck. I see anguish and discontent written all over you. But don't feel bad. I am also a bored fuck. There are very few people, in my knowledge, who are not."

"What does this mean to me, don Juan?" I asked him once, genuinely alarmed.

Somehow don Juan had hit my inner core directly with every one of his words. I was exactly what he had described as the bored fuck reared in a bad pattern. Finally one day, it all boiled down to a crucial statement and question.

"I admit I'm a bored fuck. What can I do?" I said.

Don Juan laughed uproariously, tears coming to his eyes. "I know, I know," he said, patting me on the back, trying to comfort me, I suppose. "To begin with, don't call yourself a bored fuck."

He looked at me with such a serious, concerned expression that I began to take notes.

"Write everything down," he said encouragingly. "The first positive step is to use just the initials : B.F."

I wrote this down before I realized the joke. I stopped and looked at him. He was veritably about to split his sides laughing. In Spanish, bored fuck is cojida aburrida, C. A., just like the initials of my birth name, Carlos Aranha.

When his laughter had subsided, don Juan seriously delineated a plan of action to offset the negative conditions of my inception. He laughed uproariously as he described me as not only an average B.F., but as one that had an extra charge of nervousness.

"In the warriors' path," he said, "nothing is finished. Nothing is forever. If your parents didn't make you as they should have, remake yourself."

He explained that the first maneuver of the sorcerers' kit is to become a miser of energy. Since a B.F does not have any energy, it is useless to waste the little bit that he has in patterns that are not adequate to the amount of energy available. Don Juan recommended that I abstain from engaging in patterns of behavior that demanded energy I did not have. Abstinence was the answer, not because this was morally correct or desirable, but because it was energetically the only way for me to store enough energy to be on par with those who were conceived under conditions of tremendous excitation.

The patterns of behavior he was talking about included everything that I did, from the way I tied my shoes, or ate, to the way I worried about my selfpresentation, or the way I pursued my daily activity, especially when it referred to courtship. Don Juan insisted that I abstain from sexual intercourse, because I had no energy for it.

"All you accomplish in your sexual foragings," he declared, "is to get yourself into states of profound dehydration. You get circles under your eyes ; your hair is falling off ; you have weird spots on your nails ; your teeth are yellow ; and your eyes are tearing all the time. Relationships with women cause you such nervousness that you devour your food without chewing it, so you're always plugged up."

Don Juan enjoyed himself immensely, telling me all this, which added enormously to my chagrin. His last remark was, however, like the act of throwing a lifesaver to me.

"Sorcerers say," he went on, "that it is possible to tuma B.F into something inconceivable. It is just a matter of intending it ; I mean, intending the inconceivable. To do this, to intend the inconceivable, one must use anything that is available, anything at all."

"What is 'anything at all,' don Juan ?" I asked, genuinely touched.

"Anything is anything. A sensation, a memory, a wish, an urge ; perhaps fear, desperation, hope ; perhaps curiosity"

I didn't quite understand this last part. But I understood it sufficiently to begin my struggle to get out from the underpinnings of a civilized conception. A lifetime later, the Blue Scout wrote a poem that explained it to me in full.


The Conception of a B.F

by the Blue Scout


She was made in an Arizonan trailer,

after a night of playing poker

and drinking beer with friends.


His foot got caught

in the torn lace of her nightie.

She smelled like a mixture of tobacco smoke

and Aqua Net hair spray.


He was thinking of his bowling score

when he found himself erect.

She was wondering how this life

could possibly last a lifetime.


She wanted to go to the bathroom

when she found herself pinned down.

He stifled a belch as she was conceived.


But luckily for her

the two were in the desert,

and at that moment

a coyote howled;

sending a chill of longing

through the woman's womb.


That chill was all

she brought into this world.




[page 4/4]

THE TENSEGRITY LOG

WHAT ARE WARRIOR GUARDIANS?

It was stated in the previous issue, that for don Juan and other practitioners like him, a sorcerer was any person who, through discipline and purpose, was capable of interrupting the effect of the interpretation system we use to construct the world that we know. Sorcerers maintain that energy at large is transformed into sensorial data and these sensorial data are interpreted as the world of everyday life. Sorcery is, therefore, a maneuver of interference ; a maneuver by means of which a flow is interrupted. For sorcerers, sorcery has nothing to do with incantations or rituals, which are mere concatenations designed to obscure purposefully its true nature and goal : the enlargement of the parameters of normal perception.

For don Juan Matus, the practitioners of sorcery were fighters who struggled to return their perceiving attributes to an origin that was more engulfing than the perceiving accomplished in daily living. He called this kind of fighter, warrior guardian, and said that all the practitioners like him were warrior guardians. Warrior guardian was for him a synonym for sorcerer.

The only thing that differentiates some warrior guardians from others is the fact that a specific goal or purpose has been designated for some of them, and not for others. A case in question is, for example, the three Chacmools, known to the attendants of the Tensegrity seminars and workshops. Their specific purpose was to guard the other warrior guardians and, as a unit, teach Tensegrity.

Circumstances beyond anybody's control appeared on the scene, and the reactions of those three warrior guardians made it imperative to dissolve their configuration. Don Juan had already warned his disciples that whoever takes the warriors' path is subject to the effects of energy, which opens the way or closes it. He insisted that his disciples have the prowess to obey the dictums of energy and not try to command it by imposing their wills.

When a state of profound sobriety is reached by a practitioner, there is no mistake whatsoever when reading the commands of energy. It is as if energy is conscious and alive, and it gives manifestations of its will. To go against it means an unnecessary risk which practitioners pay for dearly when, due to ignorance, or willfulness, they refuse to follow energy indications.

The present format of warrior guardians that has replaced the Chacmools, has been selected by energy itself. This new format is called the Energy Trackers. At the beginning, when the formulation presented itself, the Energy Trackers were called, for a moment, the Pathfinders. The belief was that the Pathfinders would find new paths, new procedures, new solutions. In the act of working together, it became apparent that what they were doing was tracking energy.

The explanation of tracking energy that don Juan Matus gave was somewhat confusing at the beginning. It became more and more clear as time went by, until it reached a level of being obvious to the point of redundancy.

"To track energy is to be able to follow the tenuous trail that energy leaves as it flows," don Juan explained. "Not every one of us is an energy tracker ; however, a moment comes in the life of every practitioner when he can follow the flow of energy, even if he does it in a clumsy manner. So I could say that some warriors are more elegant energy trackers than others, because their proclivity is to track energy."

The sparseness of his explanation made it very difficult for me even to conceive what he was referring to. Later on I became more acutely cognizant of what don Juan had in mind. My change of awareness was at first a vague sensation, derived mostly from a curious intellect, which affirmed that it is reasonable to assume that energy, although I didn't know what energy was, must leave a trail. As my involvement with don Juan Matus' world became super-intense, I became convinced that all of his concepts were based on direct observations made at a level incomprehensible to my daily awareness.

Don Juan explained my queries and sensations as a natural consequence of an inner silence I had gradually learned to attain.

"What you are feeling is the flow of energy," don Juan told me. "It is like a very mild electric charge, or a weird itching on your solar plexus, or above your kidneys. It is not a visual effect, yet every sorcerer I know speaks of it as seeing energy. I'll tell you a secret. I have never seen energy. I only feel it. My advantage is that I have never tried to explain what I feel. I just feel whatever I feel, end of the story."

His statements were a revelation to me. I happened to feel what he was describing. From there, I passed to the acceptance of those new feelings as events in my life without trying to explain them by finding a relationship of cause and fect [fact].

On the topic of tracking energy, don Juan also said that a nexus of warrior guardians could be formed, because of their close proximity to one other ; and that the members of such a nexus that could very well show a remarkable capacity for tracking energy. Such an event took place among us after the Chacmools' collapse. And a new format emerged ; a group of warrior guardians became, quite suddenly, strangely capable of tracking energy. This was manifested by their unusual nervousness and their agility to grab onto new situations with uncanny certainty.

If the modern jargon were to be used, it could be said that energy trackers are "channelers" par excellence. But the idea of channeling implies a certain degree of will on the part of the practitioner, who as the term describes, channels things into himself or herself. Energy trackers, on the other hand, do not impose their volition. They simply allow energy to show itself to them.





1996 - Readers of Infinity: Number 3 - by Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Carlos Castaneda's
The Warriors' Way | Readers of Infinity
Number 3. Volume 1.

[page 1/6]

by Carlos Castaneda
"READERS OF INFINITY"

Formerly "THE WARRIORS' WAY"


A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics
Number 3, Volume 1
Los Angeles, March, 1996



[page 2/6]

Author's note :

The exclusive goal of this journal is the dissemination of ideas. Due to the fact that the ideas proposed here are, to a considerable degree, foreign to Western man, the format of this journal must be adapted to the nature of those ideas. The ideas I am referring to were proposed to me by don Juan Matus, a Mexican Indian sorcerer or shaman who guided me through a thirteen-year apprenticeship into the cognitive world of sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times. I intend to present these concepts in the same fashion that he did : directly, concisely and using language to the fullest possible extent. This is the manner in which don Juan conducted every facet of his teachings ; it attracted my attention, from the beginning of my association with him, to the extent that I have made clarity and precision in language usage one of the desired goals of my life.

My attempts to publish this journal go back as far as 1971, when I presented this format to some book editors, who promptly turned me down because it did not conform to the preconceived notion of a scholarly journal, nor did it conform to the format of a magazine, or even a newsletter. My argument that the ideas contained in the journal were foreign enough to dictate a format that was an amalgamation of all three of those established genres did not have the sufficient force to convince them to publish it. The title that I had for the journal, at that time, was The Journal of Ethno-Hermeneutics. Years later, I actually found that a publication bearing that name was in circulation.

Now, I find myself in the position of publishing this journal. It is not an attempt at commercializing anything, nor is it a vehicle for apologetics of any sort. I envision it as an attempt to join the Western man's world of philosophical speculation with the seeing-observations of the Indian sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times and whose cultural descendants were don Juan Matus and his cohorts.

I vowed, since entering into don Juan's cognitive world, to remain truthful to what he taught me. I can say, without being boastful, that for thirty-five years, I have kept this promise alive. It now bears on the conception and development of this journal. It conforms to one of don Juan's seeing-observations : he called it reading infinity. He said that when one is empty of thoughts and has acquired something he called "inner silence," the horizon appears to the eye of the seer as a sheet of lavender. On that sheet of lavender, a point of color becomes visible : pomegranate. That point of pomegranate expands suddenly and bursts into an infinity that can be read. It can be said that at this moment in our history, we human beings are readers, regardless of whether we read philosophical themes or instructional manuals. A worthwhile challenge conceived by don Juan for such readers is to become readers of infinity . Thisjournal is congruous, I assure you, in spirit and practice, with that challenge. It stems from inner silence ; it is an invitation to all to become readers of infinity.

In view of these arguments, I have decided, backed by the unanimous agreement of my cohorts, to change the name of this journal from, The Warriors' Way, a term long in use, to something current, which has not been used yet: READERS OF INFINITY



What is Phenomenology?

Phenomenology is a philosophical method, or a philosophical system proposed by a German mathematician and philosopher, Edmund Gustav Husserl (1859-1938) in a monumental work whose title has been translated as Logical Investigations, which he published in three volumes from 1900 to 1913.

The term Phenomenology had already been in use in philosophical circles since the 1700's. It meant, then, abstracting consciousness and experience from their realm of intentional components and describing them in a philosophical frame ; or it meant the historical research into the development of the consciousness of the self from primary sensations to rational thought.

It is, however, Husserl who gave it its modern-day format. He postulated Phenomenology as a philosophical method for the study of essences, or the act of putting those essences into the flux of life experience. He thought of it as a transcendental philosophy dealing only with the residue left after a reduction is performed. He called this reduction epoché, the bracketing of meaning or the suspension of judgment. "Going back to the origins" was Husserl's motto, when it referred to any philosophical-scientific inquiry. To go back to the origins implied such a reduction, which Husserl expected to inject into any given philosophical inquiry, as an integral part, a world that exists before reflection begins. He intended Phenomenology to be a method for approaching living experience as it occurs in time and space ; it is an attempt to describe directly our experience as it happens, without pausing to consider its origins or its causal explanations.

To achieve this task, Husserl proposed epoché : a total change of attitude where the philosopher moves from things themselves to their meanings ; that is to say, from the realm of objectified meaning - the core of science - to the realm of meaning as it is experienced in the immediate life-world.

Later on, other Western philosophers defined and redefined Phenomenology to suit their particular specifications. Phenomenology as it stands today is a philosophical method that defies definition. It has been said that it is still in the process of defining itself. This fluidity is what holds the interest of sorcerers.

From my association with don Juan Matus and the other practitioners of his line, I came to the conclusion, by directly experiencing their shamanistic practices, that the bracketing of meaning, or the suspension of judgment that Husserl postulated as the essential reduction of every philosophical inquiry, is impossible to accomplish when it is a mere exercise of the philosopher's intellect.

I was told by someone who studied with Martin Heidegger, Husserl's student, that when Husserl was asked for a pragmatic indication of how to accomplish this reduction, he said: "How in the hell should I know? I'm a philosopher." Contemporary philosophers who have reworked and enlarged the parameters of Phenomenology have never actually addressed the subject of practicalities. For them, Phenomenology has remained a purely philosophical theme. In their realm, therefore, this bracketing of meaning is at best merely a philosophical exercise.

In the sorcerers' world, suspending judgment is not the desired beginning of any philosophical-practical inquiry, but the necessity of every shamanistic practice. Sorcerers expand the parameters of what they can perceive to the point that they systematically perceive the unknown. To realize this feat, they have to suspend the effect of their normal interpretation system. This act is accomplished as a matter of survival rather than as a matter of choice. In this sense, the practitioners of don Juan's knowledge go a step beyond the intellectual exercises of philosophers. The proposition in this section of this journal is to follow the statements made by philosophers and correlate them with the practical accomplishments of sorcerers, who have, strangely enough, worked their practices, in many cases, seemingly along the same lines as those proposed by Western philosophers.




[page 3/6]

The Warriors' Way Viewed as a Philosophical-Practical Paradigm

The third premise of the warriors' way is: PERCEPTION MUST BE INTENDED IN ITS COMPLETENESS. Don Juan said that perception is perception, and that it is void of goodness or evil. He presented this premise as one of the most important components of the warriors' way, the essential arrangement that all sorcerers have to yield to. He argued that since the basic premise of the warriors' way is that we are perceivers, whatever we perceive has to be catalogued as perception per se, without inflicting any value on it, positive or negative.

My natural inclination was to insist that good and evil had to be inherent conditions of the universe; they had to be essences, not attributes. Whenever I presented my arguments to him, which were unwitting counterstatements, he would point out that my arguments lacked scope, that they were dictated merely by the whims of my intellect and by my affiliation to certain syntactical arrangements.

"Yours are only words," he used to say, "words arranged in a pleasing order ; an order that conforms to the views of your time. What I give you are not merely words, but precise references from my book of navigation."

The first time he mentioned his book of navigation, I was very taken with what I thought was a metaphor, and I wanted to know more about it. Everything don Juan said to me, in those days, I took as a metaphor. I found his metaphors extremely poetic and never missed an opportunity to comment on them.

"A book of navigation! What a beautiful metaphor, don Juan," I said to him on that occasion.

"Metaphor, my eye!" he said. "A sorcerer's book of navigation is not like any of your arrangements of words."

"What is it then, don Juan?"

"It is a log. It is a record of all the things sorcerers perceive on their journeys to infinity."

"Is it a record of what all the sorcerers of your lineage perceived, don Juan?"

"Of course! What else can it be?"

"Do you keep it in your memory alone?"

When I asked that question, I was thinking, naturally, about oral history, or the ability of people to keep accounts in the form of stories, especially people who lived in times prior to written language, or people who live on the margins of civilization in modern times. In don Juan's case, I thought that a record of that nature had to be of monumental length.

Don Juan seemed to be aware of my reasoning. He chuckled before he answered me. "It is not an encyclopedia!" he said. "It is a log that is precise and short. I will acquaint you with all its points, and you will see that there is little that you or anyone else could add, if anything at all."

"I cannot conceive how it could be short, don Juan, if it is the accumulation of the knowledge of all your lineage," I insisted.

"In infinity, sorcerers find few essential points. The permutations of those essential points are infinite, but as I hope you will find out someday, those permutations are not important. Energy is extremely precise."

"But how can sorcerers differentiate the permutations from the essential points, don Juan ?"

"Sorcerers don't focus on the permutations. By the time they are ready to travel into infinity, they are also ready to perceive energy as it flows in the universe, and more important than anything else yet, they are capable of reinterpreting the flow of energy without the intervention of the mind."

When don Juan voiced, for the first time, the possibility of interpreting sensory data without the aid of the mind, I found it impossible to conceive. Don Juan was definitely aware of my train of thought.

"You are trying to understand all this in terms of your reason," he said, "and that's an impossible task. Accept the simple premise that perception is perception, void of complexities and contradictions. The book of navigation I am telling you about consists of what sorcerers perceive when they are in a state of total internal silence."

"What sorcerers perceive in a state of total silence is seeing , isn't it ?" I asked.

"No," he said firmly, looking me right in the eyes. "Seeing is perceiving energy as it flows in the universe, and it certainly is the beginning of sorcery, but what sorcerers are concerned with to the point of exhaustion is perceiving. As I have already told you, perceiving, for a sorcerer, is interpreting the direct flow of energy without the influence of the mind. This is why the book of navigation is so sparse."

Don Juan then outlined a complete sorcery scheme, even though I didn't understand a word of it. It took me a lifetime to come around to handling what he said to me at that time :

"When one is free from the mind," he said - something that was more than incomprehensible to me - "the interpretation of sensory data is no longer an affair taken for granted. One's total body contributes to it ; the body as a conglomerate of energy fields. The most important part of this interpretation is the contribution of the energy body, the body's twin in terms of energy ; an energy configuration that is the mirror image of the body as a luminous sphere. The interplay between the two bodies results in interpretation which cannot be good or bad, right or wrong, but an indivisible unit that has value only for those who journey into infinity."

"Why couldn't it have value in our daily life, don Juan ?" I asked.

"Because when the two sides of man, his body and his energy body, are joined together, the miracle of freedom happens. Sorcerers say that at that moment, we realize that for reasons extraneous to us, we have been detained in our journey of awareness. This interrupted journey begins again at that moment of joining.

"An essential premise of the warriors' way is, therefore, that perception ought to be intended in its completeness ; that is to say, the reinterpretation of direct energy as it flows in the universe must be made by man in possession of his two essential parts : body and energy body. This reinterpretation, for sorcerers, is completeness and, as you will understand someday, it must be intended."




[page 4/6]

Queries About the Warriors' Way

What is the point of doing Tensegrity, recapitulating, doing all the things that you propose? What is the gain? I am a middle-aged woman with three children of college age; my marriage is not that stable ; my weight is too high. I don't know what to do.

Again, just as in other cases I have related before, this is not a new question to me. I have voiced my own version of it countless times to don Juan Matus. There were two levels of abstraction to which he referred every time he answered a question like this posed by me or any other of his disciples - I know that all of them asked the same question at one time or another, in the same mood of despair, dejection, and uselessness.

On the first level, the level of practicalities, don Juan would point out that the execution of the magical passes, by itself, led the practitioner to an incomparable state of wellbeing.

"The physical and mental prowess that results from a systematic performance of the magical passes," he used to say, "is so evident that any discussion about their effects is irrelevant. All one needs to do is to practice without stopping to consider the possible gain or uselessness of it all."

I was in no way different than the rest of don Juan's disciples, or the person who posed this question to me. I felt and believed that I was not qualified for the warriors' way because my flaws were exorbitant. When don Juan would ask me what my flaws were, I would find myself mumbling, incapable of describing those flaws that afflicted me so deeply. I settled it all by saying to him that I had a sensation of defeat that seemed to be the mark of my entire life. I saw myself as a champion of performing to perfection idiotic things that never took me anywhere. This feeling was expressed in doubts and tribulations, and in an endless necessity to justify everything I did. I knew that I was weak and undisciplined in areas that don Juan counted as essential. On the other hand, I was very disciplined in areas that held no interest for him. My sense of defeatism was a most natural consequence of this contradiction. When I asserted and reasserted my doubts to him, he pointed out that obsessive thinking about oneself was one of the most tiring things he knew.

"To think only about oneself," he said to me once, "produces a strange fatigue; a most overwhelming, drowning fatigue."

As years went by, I came to understand and fully accept don Juan's assertion. My conclusion, as well as the conclusion of all his disciples, is that the first thing one has to do is to become aware of the obsessive concern with the self. Another of our conclusions has been that the only means to have enough energy to draw away from this concern - something that cannot be attained intellectually - is by practicing the magical passes. Such a practice generates energy, and energy accomplishes wonders.

If the performance of the magical passes is coupled with what sorcerers call the recapitulation, which is the systematic viewing and reviewing of one's life experiences, one's chances of getting out from the underpinnings of self-reflection are increased manyfold.

All this is on the level of practicalities. The other level that don Juan referred to, he called the magical realm : the sorcerers' conviction that we are indeed magical beings ; that the fact that we are going to die makes us powerful and decisive. Sorcerers indeed believe that if we strictly follow the warriors' path, we could use our death as a guiding force in order to become beings that are going to die. It is their belief that beings that are going to die are magical by definition and that they do not die the death brought about by fatigue, and wear and tear, but that they continue on a journey of awareness. The force of the awareness that they are going to die of fatigue and wear and tear if they do not reclaim their magical nature makes them unique and resourceful.

"At a given moment in our lives, if we so desire," don Juan said to me once, "that magical uniqueness and power comes to our lives ever so gently, as if it were shy."

The Blue Scout wrote a poem once that has seemed to me always the most appropriate depiction of recovering our magical aspect:



Angels' Flight

by the Blue Scout


There are angels who are destined

to fly downward into the dark mists.


Often, they get caught there,

and for a time, they lose their wings,

and they are lost,

sometimes for nearly a lifetime.


It doesn't really matter, they are still angels;

angels never die.


They know that the mist will clear someday,

if only for a moment.

And they know that they will be reclaimed then,

at last,

by a golden sky.





[page 5/6]

Tensegrity Log

The Force that Holds Us Together as Fields of Energy

The sorcerers of ancient Mexico, who discovered and developed the magical passes on which Tensegrity is based, maintained, according to what don Juan explained, that the performance of those passes prepares and leads the body to a transcendental realization : the realization that as conglomerates of energy fields, human beings are held together by a vibratory, agglutinating force that joins those individual energy fields into one concise, cohesive unit.

Don Juan Matus, in acquainting me with the propositions of those sorcerers of ancient times, emphasized to no end the fact that the performance of the magical passes was, to the best of his knowledge, the only means to lay the foundation for becoming fully conscious of that vibratory binding force ; something that happens when all the premises of the warriors' way are internalized and put into practice.

It was his ability as a teacher to make those premises a subject for embodiment ; in other words, he handled the premises of the warriors' way in such a fashion that it was feasible for me and his other disciples to transform them into units of our daily lives.

His contention was that this vibratory, agglutinating force that holds together the conglomerate of energy fields that we are is apparently similar to what modern-day astronomers believe must happen at the core of all the galaxies that exist in the cosmos. They believe that there, at their cores, a force of incalculable strength holds the [.…rs or …rs] of galaxies in place. This force, called a black hole, is a theoretical construct which seems to be the most reasonable explanation as to why stars do not fly away, driven by their own rotational speeds.

Modern man has found out, through the research of scientists, that there is a binding force that holds together the component elements of an atom. By the same token, the component elements of cells are held together by a similar force that seems to compel them to combine into concrete and particular tissues and organs. Don Juan said that those sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times knew that human beings, taken as conglomerates of energy fields, are held together not by energetic wrappings or energetic ligaments, but by some sort of vibration that renders everything at once alive and in place ; some energy, some vibratory force, some power that cements those energy fields into one single energetic unit.

Don Juan explained that those sorcerers, by means of their practices and their discipline, became capable of handling that vibratory force, once they were fully conscious of it. Their expertise in dealing with it became so extraordinary that their actions were transformed into legends, mythological events that exist only as fables. For instance, one of the stories that don Juan told about the ancient sorcerers was that they were capable of dissolving their physical mass by merely placing their full consciousness and intent on that force.

Don Juan stated that, although they were capable of actually going through a pinhole if they deemed it necessary, they were never quite satisfied with the result of this maneuver of dissolving their mass. The reason for their discontent was that once their mass was dissolved, so was their capacity to act. They were left with the alternative of only witnessing events in which they were incapable of participating. Their ensuing frustration, the result of being incapacitated to act, turned, according to don Juan, into their damning flaw : their obsession with uncovering the nature of that vibratory force, an obsession driven by their concreteness, which made them want to hold and control that force. Their fervent desire was to strike from the ghostlike condition of masslessness, something which don Juan said cannot ever be accomplished.

Modern-day practitioners, cultural heirs of those sorcerers of antiquity, having found out that it is not possible to be concrete and utilitarian about that vibratory force, have opted for the only rational alternative : to become conscious of that force with no other purpose in sight except the elegance and well-being brought about by knowledge.

The only permissible instance which don Juan gave for the utilization of the power of this vibratory agglutinating force, was its capacity to make sorcerers burn from within, when the time comes for them to leave this world. Don Juan said that it is simplicity itself for sorcerers to place their absolutely total consciousness on the binding force with the intent to burn, and off they go, like a puff of air.




[page 6/6]

ANNOUNCEMENTS

Cleargreen, Incorporated announces a seminar and workshop that will take place in Oakland, California on April 19th, 20th and 21st. The seminar and workshop will be entitled Warriors on the Run : The Intentionality of Magical Passes. This seminar and workshop will consist in the review and refinement of passes taught in previous workshops as well as in a series of new movements pertinent to the theme of the seminar : the idea that warriors in motion do not present a steady target to the onslaughts and the wear and tear of life in general.

Renewal and revitalization by a new deployment of energy already existing within us is the general goal of Tensegrity. To restate this intent in terms of movement is the aim of this seminar and workshop.

Register by calling Cleargreen, Incorporated at (310) 264-6126; 11901 Santa Monica Blvd., Suite 599, Los Angeles, CA 90025

Cleargreen has opened a new Web Page. The address is http://www.webb.com/Castaneda.

On April 19th of this year, Cleargreen will issue its third videocassette on Tensegrity: Energetically Crossing from One Phylum to Another. The movements recorded on this videocassette are complete magical passes which have been altered only minimally from their original form. They are an orderly sample of attempts made by seers of ancient times to catch a glimpse, from a different angle, of the force that binds us together.

All articles in the journal were written by Carlos Castaneda and edited by Nyei Murez. The poem was written by the Blue Scout. Journal design is by Elaby Gaethen.

Published by Cleargreen, Incorporated

© 1996, Laugan Productions, Incorporated. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part of this text cannot be done without permission of the publishers.





1996 - Readers of Infinity: Number 4 - by Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

Carlos Castaneda's
The Warriors' Way | Readers of Infinity
Number 4. Volume 1.

[page 1/12]

by Carlos Castaneda
"READERS OF INFINITY"

Formerly "THE WARRIORS' WAY"


A Journal of Applied Hermeneutics
Number 4, Volume 1
Los Angeles, April, 1996



[page 2/12]

Author's Note

The April issue of Readers of Infinity: A journal of Applied Hermeneutics, is being published at this late date, because it, together with the first three issues, belongs to an original set of four, specifically conceived in harmony with the sorcerers' idea that the number four implies order and permanency.

It was the writer's utmost wish to give this journal a character as distant as possible from temporariness, whatever that character may turn out to be. It seems that in this case, it turned out to be the publication of this journal in book form. So be it. Since the fourth issue was already finished by late March and ready to go to press, it became impossible to pass up the opportunity to publish it as a monthly issue.


A NEW AREA FOR PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY

We have briefly discussed in the previous issues of this journal the idea of Hermeneutics as a method of interpretation, the idea of the Phenomenological Method, and the idea of intentionality. I would like to outline now the possibility of a new area of philosophical inquiry. The elucidation of this topic is hinged on the definition of certain concepts that were developed by sorcerers or shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.

The first of such concepts, which is the cornerstone of sorcerers' activities and beliefs, is called seeing. By seeing, sorcerers mean the capacity that, in their belief, human beings have to perceive energy as it flows in the universe. The claim that sorcerers make, which is substantiated by their practices, is that energy can be perceived directly as it flows in the universe, using our entire organism as a vehicle for perception.

Sorcerers make a distinction between the body as part of the cognition of our everyday life, and the entire organism as an energetic unit which is not part of our cognitive system. This energetic unit includes the unseen parts of the body, such as the internal organs, and the energy that flows through them. They assert that it is with this part that energy can be directly perceived.

Because of the predominance of sight in our habitual way of perceiving the world, sorcerers describe the act of directly apprehending energy as seeing. For sorcerers to perceive energy as it flows in the universe means that energy adopts nonidiosyncratic, specific configurations that repeat themselves consistently, and that can be apprehended in the Same terms by anyone who sees.

The most important example of this consistency of energy in adopting specific configurations is the human body when it is perceived directly as energy. Sorcerers perceive a human being as a conglomerate of energy fields that gives the total impression of a clear-cut sphere of luminosity. Taken in this sense, energy is described by sorcerers as a vibration that agglutinates itself into cohesive units. They describe the entire universe as composed of energy configurations that appear to the seeing sorcerers as filaments, or luminous fibers that are strung in every which way, but without ever being entangled. This is an incomprehensible proposition for the linear mind. It has a built-in contradiction that can't be resolved: how could those fibers extend themselves every which way and yet not be entangled?

Sorcerers, as unstudied practitioners of the phenomenological method, can only describe events. If their terms of description seem inadequate and contradictory, it is because of the limitations of syntax. Yet, their descriptions are as strict as anything can be. The luminous energetic fibers that make up the universe at large do extend themselves to infinity in every which way, and yet, they are not entangled. Each fiber is an individual, concrete configuration; each fiber is infinity itself.

In order to deal with these phenomena more adequately, perhaps it would be proper to construct an entirely different way of describing them. According [actual page 3/12] to sorcerers, this is not at all a far-fetched idea, because perceiving energy directly is something that can be achieved by every human being. Sorcerers argue that this condition accords human beings the potential of reaching, through an evolutionary consensus, an agreement on how to describe the universe.




[page 3/12]

Another sorcerers' concept that deserves close scrutiny in terms of this elucidation is something they call intent. They describe it as a perennial force that permeates the entire universe ; a force that is aware of itself to the point of responding to the beckoning or to the command of sorcerers. The act of using intent they call intending. By means of intending, sorcerers are capable, they say, of unleashing not only all the human possibilities of perceiving, but all the human possibilities of action. They maintain that through intent, the most far-fetched formulations can be realized.

The limit of sorcerers' capability of perceiving is called the band of man, meaning that there is a boundary that marks human capabilities as dictated by the human organism. These boundaries are not merely the traditional boundaries of orderly thought, but the boundaries of the totality of resources locked within the human organism. Sorcerers believe that these resources are never used, but are kept in situ by preconceived ideas about our limitations, limitations that have nothing to do with our actual potential.

The point that sorcerers present is that since perceiving energy as it flows in the universe is not arbitrary or idiosyncratic, seers witness formulations of energy that happen by themselves and are not a product of interpretation on our part. Sorcerers declare that the perception of such formulations is, in itself and by itself, the key that releases the locked-in human potential that never enters into play. Such formulations of energy, since they happen, by definition, independently of man's volition or intervention, are capable of creating a new subjectivity. Being cohesive and homogeneous for all human beings that see, these energy formulations are, for sorcerers, the source of a new intersubjectivity.

According to sorcerers, the subjectivity of everyday life is dictated by the syntax of our language. It necessitates guidelines, and teachers, who, by means of well-placed traditional commands that seem to be the product of our historical growth, begin to direct us, from the instant of our birth, to perceive the world. Sorcerers maintain that the intersubjectivity resulting from this syntax-guided rearing is, naturally, ruled by syntactical description-commands. They give as an example the statement, "I am in love," a feeling which is shared intersubjectively by all of us, and which, they point out, is released upon hearing that description-command.

Sorcerers are convinced that, on the other hand, the subjectivity resulting from perceiving energy directly as it flows in the universe is not guided by syntax. It does not necessitate guidelines and teachers to point out this or that by commentary or command. The resulting intersubjectivity among sorcerers exists by means of something which they call power, which is the sum total of all the intending brought together by an individual. Since such intersubjectivity is not elicited through the aid of syntactical commands or solicitations, sorcerers claim that this subjectivity is a direct byproduct of the total human organism at work, fixed on one single purpose : intending direct communication.

In summation, intentionality or intending, for sorcerers, is the pragmatic utilization of intent, the force that expedites everything. For them, intent is a pragmatic channel for attainment, and intentionality is the means to use it. It is not merely, as it is with the philosophical discourse of the Western man, the intellectual account of the growth of human awareness from basic sensations to complex processes that can produce knowledge. Given that sorcerers are thoroughly pragmatic in their approach to life and living, intentionality is an active affair. It entails a posture on the part of sorcerers that they describe as a stand of power. From this stand, they can actually call intent. In this sense, intentionality becomes the [actual page 4/12] completely conscious act of intending. Sorcerers explain that these phenomena are actualized when the total human organism, in all its potential, is engaged in one single, all-inclusive purpose: intending.




[page 4/12]

Taking sorcerers' capacity to perceive energy directly as a point of departure, it is possible to conceive a new area for philosophical discourse. The impediment to the realization of this possibility has been, so far, the lack of interest on the part of the sorcery practitioners in conceptualizing their knowledge and their practices. Sorcerers claim that after reaching certain thresholds of perception, which are like entrances into other realms of existence, the interest of practitioners is focused solely on the practical aspect of their knowledge.

Because of this bent towards pragmatism, sorcerers can seriously contemplate the transformation of philosophy and philosophical inquiry into a realm of practicalities by incorporating in it a more inclusive view of human potential. They consider that the direct perception of energy is then the usher that would lead us into a new subjectivity, free from syntax. Sorcerers propose that this new subjectivity is the way to reach intent, through the active process of intentionality.



THE WARRIORS' WAY VIEWED AS A PHILOSOPHICAL-PRACTICAL PARADIGM.

THE ENERGY BODY

The fourth unit of the warriors' way is THE ENERGY BODY. Don Juan Matus explained that, since time immemorial, sorcerers have given the name of energy body to a special configuration of energy which belongs to each human being individually. He also called this configuration the dreaming body, or the double or the other. His preference, in accordance with a sorcerers' agreement to emphasize abstract concepts, was to call it the energy body. But he also told me about a secret fun name for the energy body, which was used as a euphemism, a nickname, a term of endearment, a friendly reference to something incomprehensible and veiled : que ni te jodan -- which in English means, "they shouldn't bother you, energy body, or else."

Don Juan formally explained the energy body as a conglomerate of energy fields which are the mirror image of the energy fields that make up the human body when it is seen directly as energy. Don Juan said that for sorcerers, the physical body and the energy body are one single unit. He further explained that sorcerers believe that the physical body involves both the body and the mind as we know them, and that the physical body and the energy body are the only counterbalanced energy configurations in our human realm. Since there is no such thing as a dualism between body and mind, the only possible dualism that exists is between the physical body and the energy body.

The contention of sorcerers is that perceiving is a process of interpreting sensory data, but that every human being has the capacity to perceive energy directly, that is to say, without processing it through an interpretation system. As it has already been stated, when human beings are perceived in this fashion, they have the appearance of a sphere of luminosity. Sorcerers affirm that this sphere of luminosity is a conglomerate of energy fields held together by a mysterious binding force.

"What do you mean by a conglomerate of energy fields?" I asked don Juan when he first told me about this.

"Energy fields compressed together by some strange agglutinating force," he replied. "One of the arts of sorcerers is to beckon the energy body, which is ordinarily very far away from its counterpart, the [actual page 5/12] physical body, and bring it closer so it can begin to preside energetically over everything the physical body does."




[page 5/12]

"if you want to be very exact," don Juan went on, "you can say that when the energy body is very close to the physical body, a sorcerer sees two luminous spheres, almost superimposed on each other. To have our energy twin close by would be our natural state, were it not for the fact that something pushes our energy body away from our physical body, starting at the very moment of our birth."

The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage put an enormous emphasis on the discipline required to bring the energy body closer to the physical body. Don Juan explained that once the energy body is within a certain energetic range, which varies for each individual, its proximity allows sorcerers the opportunity of forging the energy body into the other or the double : another being, solid and three-dimensional, exactly like themselves.

Following the same practices, sorcerers can change their solid, three-dimensional physical bodies into a perfect replica of the energy body ; that is to say, a conglomerate of pure energy fields which are invisible to the normal eye, as all energy is ; an ethereal charge of energy capable of going, for example, through a wall.

"Is it possible to transform the body to such an extent, don Juan? Or are you merely describing a mythical proposition?" I asked, amazed and bewildered when I heard these statements.

"There's nothing mythical about sorcerers," he responded. "Sorcerers are pragmatic beings, and what they describe is always something quite sober and down-to-earth. Our handicap is to be unwilling to stray away from our linearity. This makes us into disbelievers who are killing themselves to believe the damnedest things one can imagine."

"When you talk like this, don Juan, you always mean me," I said. "What am I killing myself to believe ?"

"You are killing yourself to believe, for instance, that anthropology is meaningful or that it exists. Just like a religious man kills himself to believe that God is a man who resides up in heaven and that the devil is a cosmic evildoer who has taken residence down in hell."

It was don Juan's style to make cutting but astoundingly accurate remarks about my person in the world. The more cutting and direct they were, the greater their effect on me and the greater my chagrin upon hearing them. Another of his didactic devices was to give extremely pertinent information about sorcerers' concepts in a mood that was light, but deeply critical of my compulsion to commit him to linear explanations. I asked him once, while discussing the topic of the energy body, one of my convoluted questions:

"Through what processes," I said, "can sorcerers transform their ethereal energy bodies into solid, three-dimensional bodies, and their physical bodies into ethereal energy, capable of going through a wall?"

Don Juan, adopting a professorial seriousness, raised his finger and said : "Through the volitional -- although not always conscious -- yet quite within our capabilities, but not altogether within our immediate ability -- use of the binding force that ties the physical and the energy bodies together, as two conglomerates of energy fields."

Stated in the vein of teasing, his explanation was nonetheless an extremely accurate phenomenological description of processes inconceivable to our linear minds, yet continually accomplished by our hidden energetic resources. Sorcerers maintain that the link between the physical body and the energy body is a mysterious agglutinating force which we use incessantly without ever being aware of it.

It has been stated that when sorcerers perceive the body as a conglomerate of luminous energy fields, they perceive a sphere the size of both arms extended [actual page 6/12] laterally and the height of the arms extended upwardly. They also perceive that in this sphere exists something they call the assemblage point ; a spot of even more intense luminosity, the size of a tennis ball, located towards the back, at the height of the shoulder blades, at an arm's length away from them.




[page 6/12]

Sorcerers consider the assemblage point to be the place where the flow of direct energy is turned into sensory data and interpreted as the world of everyday life. Don Juan said that the assemblage point, aside from doing all this, also has a most important secondary function: it is the linking connection between the physical body and the assemblage point of the energy body. He described such a connection as being analogous to two magnetized circles, each the size of a tennis ball, coming together, attracted by forces of intent.

He also said that when the physical body and the energy body are not joined, the connection between them is an ethereal line, which sometimes is so tenuous that it seems not to exist. Don Juan was certain that the energy body is pushed farther and farther away as one grows older, and that death comes as the result of the severance of that tenuous connection.



QUERIES ABOUT THE WARRIORS' WAY

There has been a series of questions posed by different people on the same topic. This concern could be classified in general terms as, "What's going to happen to me?" People have asked me this question personally, they have written to me about it, or I have heard about this worry through third persons.

The following question was asked in this vein: "I understand that you are trying to gather a mass of people, because your original sorcerers' plan failed. I am hooked by what you do. What do you plan to do with me?"

This is a question that should be addressed to a guru, to a spiritual teacher. I see myself as neither a guru nor a spiritual teacher, but as someone who is trying to fit a definition given by don Juan. He was referring to my role in relation to the rest of his disciples, my cohorts, when he said :

"All you can aspire to be is a counselor. You must point out an error if you see one; you must advise about the proper way to do something, because you will be viewing everything from the vantage point of total silence. Sorcerers call this a sight from the bridge. Sorcerers see the water - life - as it rushes under the bridge. Their eyes are, so to speak, right at the point where the water goes under the bridge. They cannot see ahead. They cannot see behind. They can see only the now."

I have made the utmost effort, and I will continue to do so, to fulfill this role. When a person is interested and says, "I am hooked," I don't dare believe that that person is hooked onto me. To have a personal link with a teacher is a response that all of us have learned and practiced. It stems, no doubt, from, being personally attached to Mother or Father, or both, or to someone else who fulfills that role in the family or in our circle of friends.

If I have given, in my books, the impression that don Juan was personally related to me, it was my own unconscious misinterpretation. He worked incessantly, from the moment I met him, to exterminate this drive in me. He called it neediness and explained that it is developed and sponsored by the social order, and that neediness is the most obscene manner of creating and nourishing a slave's mentality. He said that if I believed that I was "hooked," I was hooked not to him personally, but to the idea of freedom, an idea which sorcerers had spent generations formulating.

With regard to the original plan failing, all I can [actual page 7/12] say is that I have indeed stated that don Juan's lineage terminates with me and don Juan's other three disciples, but this is not the indication of a failure of any plan. It's simply a situation which sorcerers explain by saying: "it is a natural condition of any order to come to an end."




[page 7/12]

The fact that I have said that I would like to reach as many people as possible and create a mass of consensus is a consequence of realizing that we are the end of a most interesting line of thoughts and actions. We do feel that we are the undeserving recipients of a gigantic task : the task of explaining that the sorcerers' world is not an illusion, nor is it wishful thinking.

Another question is: "You had a teacher. How can I advance without one? I worry because I don't have a don Juan."

To worry is a bona fide way of interacting in our social milieu, thus, we worry about everything. To "worry" is a syntactical category, similar to saying, "I don't understand." To worry doesn't mean to be preoccupied with something ; it's simply a way of underlining a topic that has importance to us. To say that you worry because there is not a don Juan available is already a declaration of possible defeat. It is as if that statement opens a way out which remains ready for use at any time.

Don Juan himself told me that all the force he put into guiding me was a mandatory procedure set up by the sorcerers' tradition. He had to prepare me for continuing his lineage. Throughout the years, there have been scores of people who traveled to Mexico to look for don Juan. They took the narration in my books as a description of an open possibility. That is again my fault. It is not that I wasn't careful, but rather, that I had to abstain from making bombastic claims that I was in any way special.

Don Juan was interested in perpetuating his lineage, not in teaching his knowledge. I have already made this point, but it is important that I stress it repeatedly : don Juan was not a teacher at all. He was a sorcerer passing on his knowledge to his disciples, exclusively for the continuation of his lineage.

Since his lineage comes to an end with me and his other three disciples, he himself proposed that I write about his knowledge. And it is precisely because his line comes to an end that his disciples have opened the otherwise closed door to the sorcerers' world, and are now endeavoring to explain what sorcery is and what sorcerers do.

Sorcerers say that the only possible teacher or guide that we can have is the spirit, meaning an abstract, impersonal force that exists in the universe, conscious of itself. Perhaps it could be called by another name, such as awareness, consciousness, cognition, life force. Sorcerers believe that it permeates the total universe, and can guide them, and that all they need to reach this force is inner silence ; thus their assertion that our sole worthwhile link is with this force, and not with a person.

Another question asked quite often is : "How come you never talked about Tensegrity in your books, and why are you talking about it now?"

I had never talked about Tensegrity before because Tensegrity is don Juan's disciples' version of some movements called magical passes, developed by shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times, and who were the initiators of don Juan's lineage. Tensegrity is based on those magical passes, and it stems from an agreement reached by don Juan Matus' four disciples to amalgamate the four different lines of movements taught to each of them individually to fit their physical and mental configurations.

Following don Juan's request, I have abstained throughout all these years from mentioning the magical passes. The highly secretive manner in which they were taught to me entailed an agreement on my part to surround them with the same secrecy. The closest I ever came to mentioning them was when I wrote about the way don Juan "cracked his joints." In a joking manner he suggested that I refer to the magical passes, which he practiced incessantly, as "the way in which he cracked his joints." Every time he [actual page 8/12] executed one of those passes, his joints used to make a cracking sound. He used this as a device to entice my interest and to hide the true significance of what he was doing.




[page 8/12]

When he made me aware of the magical passes by explaining to me what they really were, I had already been trying compulsively to replicate the sound his joints made. By arousing my competitiveness, he "hooked me," so to speak, to learn a series of movements. I never achieved that cracking sound, which was a blessing in disguise because the muscles and tendons of the arms and back should never be stressed to that point. Don Juan was born with a facility to crack the joints of his arms and back, just like some people have the facility to crack their knuckles.

When don Juan and the rest of his companion sorcerers formally taught me the magical passes, and discussed their configurations and effects, they did it in accordance with the strictest procedures ; procedures which demanded utmost concentration and were cushioned in total secrecy and ritualistic behavior. The ritualistic part of those teachings was quickly cast aside by don Juan, but the secretive part was made even more emphatic.

As previously stated, Tensegrity is the amalgamation of four lines of magical passes which had to be transformed from highly specialized movements that fit specific individuals into a generic form that would fit everybody. The reason why Tensegrity, the modern version of the ancient magical passes, is being taught now is because don Juan's four disciples agreed that, since their role is no longer that of perpetuating don Juan's lineage of sorcerers, they had to lighten their burden, and do away with the secrecy about something which has been of incommensurable value to them for their well-being.



TENSEGRITY LOG

HOW TO DO TENSEGRITY

The magical passes were treated by the shamans of ancient Mexico from the start as something unique, and were never used as sets of exercises for developing musculature or agility. Don Juan said that they were viewed as magical passes from the first moment that they were formulated. He described the "magic" of the movements as a subtle change that the practitioners experience on executing them; an ephemeral quality that the movement brings to their physical and mental states, a kind of shine, a light in the eyes. He spoke of this subtle change as a "touch of the spirit" ; as if practitioners, through the movements, reestablish an unused link with the life force that sustains them. He further explained that the movements were called magical passes because by means of practicing them, sorcerers were transported, in terms of perception, to other states of being in which they could sense the world in an indescribable manner.

"Because of this quality, because of this magic," don Juan said to me once, "the passes must be practiced not as exercises, but as a way of beckoning power."

"But can they be taken as physical movements, although they have never been taken as such?" I asked.

I had faithfully practiced all the movements that don Juan had taught me, and 1 felt extraordinarily well. This feeling of wellbeing was sufficient for me.

"You can practice them as you wish," don Juan replied. "The magical passes enhance awareness, regardless of how you take them. The intelligent thing would be to take them as what they are : magical passes that on being practiced lead the practitioners to drop the mask of socialization."




[page 9/12]

"What is the mask of socialization?" I asked.

"The veneer that all of us defend and die for," he said. "The veneer we acquire in the world ; the one that prevents us from reaching all our potential ; the one that makes us believe we are immortal."

Tensegrity, being the modernized version of those magical passes, has been taught so far as a system of movements because that has been the only manner in which this mysterious and vast subject of the magical passes could be faced in a modern setting. The people who now practice Tensegrity are not shaman practitioners ; therefore, the emphasis of the magical passes has to be on their value as movements.

The point of view that has been adopted in this case is that the physical effect of the magical passes is the most important issue for the purpose of establishing a solid base of energy in the practitioners. Since the shamans of ancient Mexico were interested in other effects of the magical passes, they fragmented long series of movements into single units, and practiced each fragment as an individual segment. In Tensegrity, the fragments have been reassembled into their original long forms. In this manner, a system of movements has been obtained, a system in which the movements themselves are emphasized above all.

The execution of the magical passes, as shown in Tensegrity, does require a particular space or prearranged time, but ideally, the movements should be done in solitariness, on the spur of the moment, or as the necessity arises. However, the setting of urban life facilitates the formation of groups, and under these circumstances, the only manner in which Tensegrity can be taught is to groups of practitioners. Practicing in groups is beneficial in many aspects and deleterious in others. It is beneficial because it allows the creation of consensus of movement and the opportunity to learn by examination and comparison. It is deleterious because it fosters the emergence of syntactical commands and solicitations dealing with hierarchy ; and what sorcerers want is to run away from subjectivity derived from syntactical commands. Unfortunately, you cannot have your cake and eat it, too ; so Tensegrity should be practiced in whatever form is easier : either in groups, or alone, or both.

In every other respect, the way Tensegrity has been taught is a faithful reproduction of the way in which don Juan taught the magical passes to his disciples. He bombarded them with a profusion of detail and let their minds be bewildered by the amount and variety of movements, and by the implication that each of them individually was a pathway to infinity.

His disciples spent years overwhelmed, confused, and above all, despondent, because they felt that being bombarded in such a manner was an unfair onslaught on them. Don Juan, following the traditional sorcerers' device of clouding the linear view of practitioners, saturated the kinesthetic memory of his disciples. His contention was that if they kept on practicing the movements, in spite of their confusion, some of them, or all of them, would attain inner silence. He said that in inner silence everything becomes clear to the point that we are able not only to remember, with absolute precision, magical passes already forgotten, but that we know exactly what to do with them, or what to expect from them, without anybody telling us or guiding us.

Don Juan's disciples could hardly believe such statements. However, at one moment, every one of them ceased to be confused and despondent. In a most mysterious way, the magical passes, since they are magical, arranged themselves into extraordinary sequences that cleared up everything. The concern of people practicing Tensegrity nowadays matches exactly the concern of don Juan's disciples. People who have attended the seminars and workshops on Tensegrity feel bewildered by the amount of movements. They are clamoring for a system that would allow them to integrate the movements into categories that could be practiced and taught.

I must emphasize again what I have been emphasizing from the beginning : Tensegrity is not a standard system of movements for developing the body. It indeed develops the body, but only as a byproduct of a more transcendental purpose. The [actual page 10/12] sorcerers of ancient Mexico were convinced that the magical passes conduce the practitioners to a level of awareness in which the parameters of normal, traditional perception are canceled out by the fact that they are enlarged. And the practitioners are thus allowed to enter into unimaginable worlds ; worlds which are as inclusive and total as the one in which we live.




[page 10/12]

"But why would I want to enter into those worlds?" I asked don Juan on one occasion.

"Because you are a traveler, like the rest of us human beings," he said, somewhat annoyed by my question. "Human beings are on a journey of awareness, which has been momentarily interrupted by strenuous forces. Believe me, we are travelers. If we don't have traveling, we have nothing."

His answer didn't satisfy me in the least. He further explained that human beings have decayed morally, physically and intellectually since the moment they ceased to travel, and that they are caught in an eddy, so to speak, and are spinning around, having the impression of moving with the current, and yet remaining stationary.

It took me thirty years of hard discipline to come to a cognitive plateau in which don Juan's statements were recognizable and their validity was established beyond the shadow of a doubt. Human beings are indeed travelers. If we don't have that, we have nothing.

Tensegrity must be practiced with the idea that the benefit of those movements comes by itself. This idea must be stressed at any cost. At the beginner's level, there is no way to direct the effect of the magical passes, and there is no possibility whatsoever that some of them could be beneficial for one organ or another. As we gain in discipline and our intending becomes clearer, the effect of magical passes can be selected by each one of us personally and individually, for specific purposes pertinent to each of us only.

What is of supreme importance at the present is to practice whatever Tensegrity sequence one remembers, or whatever set of movements comes to mind. The saturation that has been carried on will give, in the end, the results sought by the shamans of ancient Mexico : entering into a state of inner silence and deciding from inner silence what the next step will be.

Naturally, when I was told, in more or less the same terms, about the sorcerers' maneuver to saturate the mind into inner silence, my response was the response of any person who is interested in Tensegrity today : "It's not that I don't believe you, but it's something very hard to believe."

The only answer that don Juan had to my more than justified queries and the queries of his other three disciples was to say, "Take my word, because mine are not arbitrary statements. My word is the result of corroborating, for myself, what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico found out : that we human beings are magical beings."

Don Juan's legacy includes something that I have been repeating and I will continue to repeat : human beings are beings unknown to themselves, filled to the brim with incredible resources that are never used.

By saturating his disciples with movement, don Juan accomplished two formidable feats : he brought those hidden resources to the surface, and he gently broke our obsession with our linear mode of interpretation. By forcing his disciples to reach inner silence, he set up the continuation of their interrupted journey of awareness. In this manner, the ideal state of any Tensegrity practitioner, in relation to the Tensegrity movements, is the same as the ideal state of a practitioner of sorcery, in relation to the execution of magical passes. Both are being led by the movements themselves into an unprecedented culmination : inner silence.

From inner silence, the practitioners of Tensegrity will be able to execute, by themselves, for whatever effect they see fit, without any coaching from outside sources, any movement from the bulk of movements with which they have been saturated ; they will be able to execute them with precision and speed, as they walk, or eat, or rest, or do anything.




[page 11/12]

ANNOUNCEMENTS

Cleargreen, Incoeporated is organizing and sponsoring an intensive six-day seminar and workshop on Tensegrity.

It will take place from July 20th to July 25th of this year in Los Angeles. The seminar and workshop will consist of two parts. The first will be a concentrated practice of a group of magical passes entitled "The Westwood Series" ; a series which will be taught in all the seminars and workshops that will be given during the current year. The goal pursued by practicing the same series is to gain an instant of homogeneity of movement. The consensus derived from this homogeneous effort is something of untold value to all the participants.

The second part of the seminar and workshop will consist of an intensive examination of key aspects of the warriors' way, including Recapitulation and Dreaming. The key premises of the warriors' way that will be emphasized will entice or even lead the participants to attain the most coveted state that shamans of ancient Mexico sought: inner silence.

Topics include :

"Optimal Positions for Recapitulating."

"The Implications of the Warriors' Way."

"The Need for Ultimate Pragmatism on the Warriors' Way."

"Reaching the Threshold of Inner Silence."

"The Beginning of Dreaming."

"The Magical Possibilities of Human Beings when Seen as a Conglomerate of Energy Fields."

"Relaxation Techniques Used by Shamans of Ancient Mexico."

"The Sum Total of the Realizable Options Offered by the Warriors' Way."

The persons who will conduct this seminar and workshop are Carlos Castaneda, Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar and the Blue Scout. The Tensegrity movements will be taught and demonstrated by six Energy Trackers.

To register, please call Cleargreen at (310) 264-6126. Fax: (310) 264-6130. For a complete schedule and description of this workshop, please visit our web site (address listed on following page).




[page 12/12]

Cleargreen also announces the release of the third videocassette on Tensegrity called Energetically Crossing from One Phylum to Another.

The movements of the third videocassette were selected because they are a natural sequence of magical passes, which sorcerers use to enhance the scope of their awareness. Sorcerers contend that it is possible for the awareness of man to take a giant leap of perception and actually perceive the world under conditions that defy the imagination. They believe, for example, that it is possible to perceive and interpret the world in the terms of other organisms that belong to different phyla.

According to don Juan Matus, such beliefs were not mere assertions of the intellect. He said that sorcerers were not involved in any way in wishful thinking, but that they were genuine navigators of the unknown. One of the points on their navigation charts, so to speak, was crossing, perception-wise, from one phylum to another. This claim staggers the linear mind. It seems inconceivable that something like this could take place. Don Juan asserted that it was inconceivable merely in the syntax of our languages, because the pragmatic option of crossing from one phylum to another was never selected as a feasible alternative.


--------------------- oOo ----------------------

The purpose of the movements of the second volume on Tensegrity, Redistributing Dispersed Energy, is to redistribute the energy which the wear and tear of daily living drives away from our natural centers of energy : the liver and gallbladder ; the pancreas and spleen ; and the kidneys and adrenals.

The purpose of the movements shown in the first volume, Twelve Basic Movements to Gather Energy and Promote WellBeing, is to condition the muscles and tendons to respond quickly and efficiently to other sequences of movement that require greater concentration and kinesthetic memory.

There is also available an instructional booklet in Spanish that accompanies the first videocassette, Twelve Basic Movements to Gather Energy and Promote Well-Being. It consists of a translation of the explanatory text that goes along with the movements shown on the videocassette.


--------------------- oOo ----------------------

Two new videocassettes on Tensegrity are in production at the present and will be released at the end of the year. One is about movements for women. Most of the movements in this series were taught in the Women's Seminar that took place in March of this year in Los Angeles. The second videocassette is entitled The Oakland Series, and consists of the magical passes which were taught in the Oakland seminar of April of this year.


--------------------- oOo ----------------------

For continuing Information about forthcoming events and other announcements, please visit the Cleargreen web site at http://www.webb.com/Castaneda

Cleargreen's e-mail address is : infinity@webb.com

All articles in the journal were written by Carlos Castaneda and edited by Nyei Murez.

journal design © Elaby Gaethen.

Published by Cleargreen, Incorporated. © 1996, Laugan Productions, Incorporated. All rights reserved.

Reproduction in whole or in part of this text cannot be done without permission of the publishers.


--------------------- oOo ----------------------




1996 - Sun Magazine - Private Meeting with Carlos Castaneda


Version 2011.07.09

The Sun Magazine - Feb 1996

Luck Disguised as Ordinary Life

By Nina Wise

My fortieth birthday was approaching like a tidal wave. I was single, childless, and questioning my life as a performance artist with a cult following but no steady income. I lacked the requisite evidence of adulthood: a couch, a dining-room table, a matched set of dishes, a color television. Although I tried to convince myself that this was because I had recently separated from a lover who owned nearly all of the furniture and electronic devices I had used for seven years, I knew the real problem was that I'd dedicated my life to my work and I wasn't getting famous fast enough. There were no book contracts, no movie deals, no television appearances coming my way. I needed help, a map to guide me through the midlife moonscape of defeat.

One of the great benefits of disappointment is that it drives you to religion- usually not the one you were raised with; if that had worked, you wouldn't be in this condition. It would take an exorcism to stave off the demons who had caught wind of my approaching birthday and were flicking their icy tongues in my ear, chanting a liturgy of symphonic discontent. I decided to learn to meditate, discovered a Vipassana Buddhist teacher in my neighborhood, and began to sit every morning on my purple zafu.

One afternoon, my friend Martina called to tell me the Dalai Lama was coming to Santa Monica to give the Kalachakra Initiation. I'd met Martina when she came backstage after one of my performances. "That sex fantasy with the refrigerator was divine," she'd told me later at one of her Pacific Heights dinner parties, while butlers carrying silver trays of smoked salmon and caviar toasties waded through an effervescent crowd of environmentalists, publishers, writers, and philanthropists. Martina had grown up in Argentina, where it was traditional for the wealthy to create around themselves an international milieu of royalty, intellectuals, and artists. Her warm brown eyes exuded confidence, her cheeks were aphrodisiac, and she wore a silver streak in her brown hair to show that, even though she was holding forth on a white rug arrayed with priceless antiques, she was really a rebel. Over champagne, Martina and I discovered that we were both seekers. We began going to retreats, dharma talks, satsangs, and darshans together.

"Do you want to go to Santa Monica with me and be my roommate?" Martina now asked over the phone.

The Kalachakra Initiation is one of the most esoteric and advanced practices in Tibetan Buddhism. During the ceremony, participants vow to devote their lives to altruism and to become bodhisattvas, enlightened people who, instead of stepping off the wheel of incarnation upon their death, return to earth to serve all living beings. Normally, the initiation is given only to students with years of preliminary practice under their belts, but, because the world was in such an escalated state of environmental devastation, the Dalai Lama had decided to offer the transmission to Anyone who felt moved to participate. Many of my friends were heading to southern California for this event. I accepted Martina's invitation without pause.

When I arrived at the Shangri La, an upscale, art deco hotel on Ocean Boulevard, Martina was spread out on the king-sized bed balancing Mothering magazine on her stomach, which rose like a whale from a calm ocean. She was expecting her fifth child after a twelve-year hiatus, and she needed to get current on parenting. I lay down next to her and pulled out the forty-page text we'd been given for the five-day initiation process:

From this time until enlightenment, I will generate the altruistic intention to become enlightened, Generate the very pure thought, And abandon the conception of I and mine.



I wasn't sure I was following this. "Martina, what's 'the very pure thought'?" I asked, hoping for an in-depth dharma discussion.

"It doesn't matter. We'll get it by osmosis. Do you think I should get a diaper service!"

"Definitely", I said, turning back to the incomprehensible text.

In the morning, we waited in a line that stretched around the block until it was our turn to take three mouthfuls of saffron-blessed water and spit out our mental and emotional toxins into an enormous white plastic bucket.

"I'm going to throw up," Martina groaned, covering her eyes so she didn't have to look at the frothy, urine-colored spittle.

We did three prostrations as we entered the hall-- one for the Buddha, one for the teaching, and one for the community of seekers. As we searched for our places in the crowded auditorium, I tried not to stare at the celebrities.

We settled into velvet seats, pulled out our books, and studied the stage, where monks in one-armed wine-colored robes and buttercup yellow chicken-comb headpieces chanted a multi-octave, deep-throated drone, and the Dalai Lama recited detailed instructions in Tibetan.

"What page are we on?" I asked Martina.

"It doesn't matter," she said, waking from a nap. "Just breathe. Meditate."

"But we're supposed to be visualizing some deity with green arms and a flower on his forehead."

"Relax," she said as she closed her eyes again, stretched out her legs, and leaned her head back against the seat.

But I couldn't relax. This was my opportunity to receive an important transmission. I struggled to follow the text:

Within the great seal of clear light devoid of the elaborations of inherent existence, in the center of an ocean of offering clouds of of Samantabhadra, like five-colored rainbows thoroughly bedecked...

At the break, people dashed to the lobby, where sinuous lines radiated like Medusa's hair from the pay phones. Men in denim jeans and Izod shirts paced outside in the Santa Monica sunshine, portable phones pressed against their ears:

"Did you get directions to Richard Gere's party for the Dalai Lama?"

"Has my agent called?"

"Cancel my 2:30. This is tedious, but I think I'll stick it out. Say I had an emergency or something."

"He said he would sign? Fantastic. Maybe this stuff works."

"I hear there are three parties tonight, and a tea somewhere. Isn't Barbra Streisand involved? Find out."

At the sound of the gong, people rushed back into the auditorium. Steeped in the summer heat, we planted ourselves in the plush seats and prayed to be truthful, kind, compassionate. Two thousand of us vowed together to dedicate our lives to the well-being of others.

On the way back to the hotel, Martina whispered in a conspiratorial tone that her friend Carlos Castaneda was coming to join us for tea. "Don't tell anyone. It's just for us. He's a bit finicky about who he hangs out with."

We had only half an hour to prepare. Like college roommates getting ready for a double date, we took turns in the shower, hovered shoulder to shoulder in front of the bathroom mirror with our blow-dryers and lipstick, and finessed each other's outfits. Our wrists were still moist with Martina's French perfume when we heard a knock. Martina glided across the room with cultivated poise and opened the door. A short, gray-haired man in a wrinkled polyester suit and dusty cowboy boots embraced her in the hallway.

That can't possibly be him, I thought. I had imagined someone tall, with broad shoulders and a swatch of thick dark hair-- an air of Mexican aristocracy steeped in shamanism and desert ravines. In college, I had read all of Castaneda's books, and they had affected me more than anything I'd studied.

Castaneda's accounts of his encounters in Mexico with the Yaqui Indian sorcerer don Juan Matus had informed my entire generation. My friends and I would quote don Juan to each other. "Follow a path with heart," we would say. "Keep death over your left shoulder." We were taking psychedelics and trying to change the world into a place that valued love over materialism and magic over science. Castaneda and don Juan were our guides through a terrain outside the law-- one that our parents were too conservative and too terrified to explore.

Castaneda was our surrogate father, don Juan our spiritual teacher, our prophet.

"Carlos, this is Nina," Martina said, smiling with seamless grace. "Nina, Carlos Castaneda."

Like earth opened by a plow, Carlos's face fell into a wide grin as he shook my hand. His hand was as warm as a chicken's nest. He sat down in a floral-print easy chair and asked for a glass of water. I could hardly believe I was in the same room with this man.

Martina dove right in. "I've been waiting to ask you for ages: what really happened to don Juan? Did he die?"

"No, no," Carlos said with a chuckle, "he didn't die. He disappeared. He went to the other place. I am learning this, too: to become immortal. This is my work now. Most people think that their work is what they do during the day, but the real work happens after dark. Most people waste their lives because they forget they are going to die. It is at night, in dreams, that I practice. When you learn how to die, you learn to live forever.

"After don Juan crossed over, La Gorda became my benefactor," he went on, leaning forward and looking us both directly in the eye. "She was fat and ugly, with coal black hair and dark eyes. I was completely under her spell."

I was completely under his spell by now. His voice, the lilt of his Spanish accent cradling impeccable English, hypnotized me. His eyes glowed with the satisfaction of our capture.

"And anything La Gorda wanted me to do, I had to do it. One day, when I was preparing to leave Mexico and go back to Los Angeles, she told me to go to Tucson instead. She said I should work as a cook in a cafe.

"No," I said to her, "I like my life in Los Angeles. I like my friends. I'm not going to Tucson. I don't know how to cook."

"I got into my truck, and I drove off. Six hours outside of Nayarit, I was thinking, 'My life in Los Angeles isn't that great.' Twelve hours outside of Nayarit, I was thinking, 'My life in Los Angeles has its ups and downs.' Eighteen hours outside of Nayarit, on the border of Arizona, I found myself thinking, 'My life in Los Angeles is completely miserable.' I drove to Tucson, pulled up to the first greasy spoon I laid eyes on, walked in and asked for a job."

At this point in the story, Carlos crossed his arms, puffed up his chest, and deepened his voice.

"Do you know eggs?" the boss said. "You see, hamburgers and fries are easy, but we serve breakfast all day, and you've got to know eggs."

"I didn't know eggs, so I found a studio apartment, and I practiced cooking eggs for two weeks - scrambled, over easy, over hard, soft-boiled, hard-boiled, omelets, poached. Then I went back to the cafe. " 'Do you know eggs?' the boss asked me again.

"Yeah, I know eggs," I said.

"So I got the job. After a month, they promoted me, put me in charge of hiring and firing. One day, this young girl named Linda came in and wanted a job as a waitress. She seemed bright, so I hired her. We got to be friends, and she told me she was a fan of Carlos Castaneda. She gave me a couple of his books to read. I didn't know what to say. I took the books, and a couple of days later I gave them back. I told her I didn't really understand them."

Carlos chuckled, enjoying the story. I sat with my legs pulled up on the pastel hotel couch and studied his face. Critics in the press had recently tried to discredit his claims to have apprenticed with a witch doctor in Mexico.

Sympathetic critics suggested it was poetic license. Harsher ones accused him of fraud. I listened to Carlos's story like a detective, seeking factual flaws. I examined his brown and wrinkled face, his eyes, for evidence of deception. But I was seduced by his enthusiasm, his sunny chuckle, his intelligence, and I fell into the story as if carried away by rushing water.

"One morning," he continued, "Linda came into the cafe and was very jumpy."

"What's going on?" I asked. "Que pasa?"

Carlos sat up straight in his chair, crossed his legs tightly together, and spoke in a high-pitched voice.

"'He's here,' she said. 'Carlos Castaneda. In the alley. There's a tall, dark Mexican man sitting in a white limousine with the windows rolled up, and he's scribbling notes on a yellow pad. I'm sure it's him-- there are rumors that Castaneda is in Tucson. What should I do?'

"I didn't know what to say. I told her to just go out there and introduce herself. She thought she was too fat, and that Castaneda would never fall for a waitress at a greasy spoon. I looked at her standing there in her cap and apron. She looked beautiful to me, radiant. She was young and lively and had a quick mind. 'You're perfect just the way you are,' I told her.

"So she put on lipstick and fixed up her hair and went out to the alley. Two minutes later, she came back with tears streaming down her face.

"'What happened?' I asked. She could hardly talk.

"'I knocked on his window... and he rolled it down... and I said "Hi," and told him my name was Linda... but he just rolled the window up... and wouldn't even talk to me.'

"I felt real bad," said Carlos, sadness darkening his eyes. "Of course I knew it wasn't Castaneda, but I'd thought maybe she'd meet some guy who'd take her out to dinner. I didn't know what to do. I took her in my arms, and I held her." He paused, looking out the window at the silhouettes of palm trees lining the street.

"And I started to cry, too. You see, I'd come to really love this girl. We'd been best friends for nearly a year. I wanted to tell her who I was, but I knew she'd never believe me. She'd think I was making it up to make her feel better. You see, for all this time, she'd known me as Joe Gomez.

"Carlos Castaneda, the man she dreamed of meeting, was holding her in his arms, crying with love for her. But she didn't recognize him. Love slips by with an alias. I'm like Linda, I realized, thinking that what I long for is something other than this life unfolding moment to moment in ways I could never plan or even imagine."

Carlos paused and looked at me. Outside, seagulls cried, and the sun went down, marbling the sky. We sat in the dim pink of sunset. No one moved.

"When I got back to my studio apartment, La Gorda was sitting there, waiting for me. I don't know how she got in, but she always did, always found me. I told her what had happened and asked what I should do."

"'Vamanos,' she said.

"'But I can't just leave,' I told her. 'I have to give two weeks' notice, train a replacement, say goodbye to my friends.'

"'What's the matter?' she said. 'You're afraid no one can cook eggs as good as Carlos Castaneda? Vamanos.' And we got into my truck and drove off."

Carlos got up to go, shook out his suit, and extended his arms. I walked right into his strong hug, and a happiness moved through me like moonlight sweeping the horizon.

Several days later, as the Kalachakra Initiation was drawing to a close, Martina and I sat in our velvet seats in the dark, sweltering Santa Monica auditorium. We tied red blindfolds over our eyes. We cast toothpicks into the air seven times. We visualized ourselves as the four-faced Kalachakra deity with twenty-four arms embracing his four-faced, eight-armed, saffron yellow consort. We licked sweet yogurt out of our right palms. We imagined red dots moving up our spines and mingling with white dots moving down our spines.

The Tibetan monks chanted their polytonal drone, pounded drums, banged gongs, crashed cymbals, and blew seven-foot horns in a symphony that vibrated out bones. We vowed to tell the truth, to be kind, to be generous, to cultivate love, and to dedicate ourselves to the enlightenment of all beings.

On the way back to the hotel, Martina, a mischievous grin on her full lips, told me that Carlos was going to pay us another visit tonight. We put out a plate of crackers and cheese, a bowl of fruit, and bottles of mineral water. As the sun hovered on the horizon, we heard his knock.

Carlos was wearing the same wrinkled suit I'd seen him in several days earlier. He placed his hands on Martina's bulging belly and leaned over. "Hola, chica. Que tal?" he purred to her unborn child. "Tienes una madre muy bonita, muy sympatica, y muy especial." He closed his eyes and stood there silently for a moment, then turned to me and gave me a rugged hug.

Martina propped herself against a mound of pillows on the bed, I sat on the couch, and Carlos took his seat in the easy chair. He asked Martina about her husband, her children, their mutual friends. We talked about the weather; he was theatrical even when discussing smog, switching from precise, lucid language to a stream of amused profanity in an instant. His liveliness warmed the room like an open fire.

"Tell me more about La Gorda," Martina finally ventured, leaning back against the pillows like a child wanting a favorite bedtime story.

Carlos paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on each of ours a second too long, the way you look into the eyes of a potential lover.

"Another time, I was getting ready to leave Nayarit," he said, "and La Gorda gave me these instructions."

Carlos leaned back in his chair, spread his knees apart, pushed his belly out, and spoke in a high voice. I could see La Gorda, fat and dark.

"'Carlos, go to Escondido. Check into a motel room, the kind with olive green carpets stained with coffee and cigarette burns, and cigarette smoke smelling up the furniture.'

"'How long do I have to stay there?' I asked.

"'Until you die,' she said with a smile that made my bones shiver.

"'I'm not doing it,' I told her. 'I like my life in Los Angeles. I like my friends. I like my apartment.'

"I got in my old truck, and I drove off. After a few hours on the Mexican highway, I started thinking my life in Los Angeles wasn't that great. After a few more hours, I started thinking my life in Los Angeles had its unpleasant aspects. As I approached the border at Tijuana, my life in Los Angeles seemed completely miserable. I drove to Escondido, pulled into the first motel I could find, and checked into a room. It had an olive green carpet with coffee stains and cigarette bums, and reeked of stale smoke. I stayed alone in that room for weeks. Maybe months." Carlos sighed.

I had recently completed a performance work about solitude. To develop the piece, I had studied my private gestures: the way I ate meals in front of the television; the way I stood in the light of the open refrigerator, staring at a carton of milk, a bottle of orange juice, tofu floating in a bowl of water; the intonations and language used when I talked to myself, the way my body curled up in bed; the melody of my tears. I was trying to unravel loneliness so I could examine its core. I thought then the pain might disappear, the way particles of matter transform into waves of light upon examination under electron microscopes. The work had received rave reviews, but loneliness still assaulted me. I needed advice.

"What did you do?" I asked Carlos, hardly able to contain my curiosity. "Did you watch television, listen to the radio, read books, talk on the telephone?"

"Nothing," Carlos said quietly, catching my eye for a moment and then letting his gaze fall onto his folded hands. "I did... nothing." He spoke slowly. "I studied the patterns of cigarette burns on the carpet. I stared at the ceiling. I watched motes of dust dance in the light that came through the sliding glass doors. I drank coffee. I ate. Fear would come, and I'd huddle under the bedcovers-- Sometimes the heat of anxiety made me sweat so much I threw the blankets on the floor. At times, the terror was so strong I curled over the edge of the bed and pressed the corner of the mattress against my belly, my solar plexus, just trying to stay alive. I felt for sure I would die. Then one day, finally... I let go."

He paused and looked at me, and I looked back at him, the way you lock eyes with a deer until one of you moves.

"Suddenly, something shifted," he continued. "The fear lifted. And everything I'd ever cared about-- the pain of childhood, the struggles of my career, fame, money, romance, the women who had left me, the ones I still wanted, the past, the future, the 'Do you like me?, Does he like me!, Does she like me?': how we waste our lives... it all fell away. In an instant, I was completely free. And I had never felt so happy in my entire life."

Carlos took a sip of water and gazed out the window. The sky was dark, and the night sounds of traffic invaded the room.

"I called my friends in Los Angeles," he said, smiling.

"'Divide my things,' I told them. 'I'm not coming back.' They thought I was drunk.

"'I'm not drunk,' I assured them. 'I'm perfectly sober. If you don't take my things, the landlady will.'

"The next morning, I checked out of the motel, got in my truck, and drove off. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care. I'd never been happier in my entire life.

"You see," Carlos said, settling back again in his chair, "the difference between me and most people is that most people look at their lives as if they're on a train and they're sitting in the caboose. They watch the tracks sweep out behind them and see that this has happened and that has happened, and they're disappointed. But they adjust. And they know exactly what will happen next because of what's happened before. They believe their future will be just like their past-- the same box of disappointments, the same box of pleasures."

"But me, I look at my life as though I'm sitting in the locomotive. Ahead of me, the landscape disappears into the distance. I don't know where I'm going, and I have no idea what's going to happen next. No matter what went on yesterday, I know that today anything can happen. That's what keeps me happy. That's what keeps me alive."

Carlos sparkled with energy and ease. His well-being was contagious. "You have to listen to the quiet callings of the heart", he said, his voice calm and private. "Ambition: it's the enemy of intuition. You have to be silent. You have to listen to the quiet callings of the heart and know that anything can happen."

I sat quietly, listening. It was as if Carlos's words had devoured the demons of despondency who had made their home on the walls of my chest like mollusks. I have to remember this story, I thought to myself.

"Es muy tarde," Carlos said, standing up and stretching his legs. "Martina, you have to get some sleep. And me, I work at night, so I have to move along."

"Right, immortality practice. Look, do me a favor and don't disappear from this plane before you visit me in San Francisco," Martina said, grinning.

"Don't worry," Carlos reassured her, placing his hand again on her belly. We accompanied Carlos to the door, and he gave me a final hug. He whistled as he walked down the hall. I longed to run after him, to fall to my knees and beg him to take me along. I wanted to enter the dream world and wend my way through the postdeath realms with Carlos as my guide. I wanted to learn how to die without dying.

"Martina' can't we go with him?" I pleaded.

"Are you kidding? I'm exhausted," she groaned, collapsing onto the bed and grabbing the phone. "Let's order hot-fudge sundaes, crawl under the covers, and watch David Letterman."

That did sound like a good idea.

A wave of ordinary-world glee took hold of me. As Martina dialed room service, I walked to the window and sighted Carlos walking at a brisk pace under the arcade of palm trees. No one stopped to stare, or took his picture, or asked him for his autograph. He was completely anonymous. I followed his progress down the sidewalk until he climbed into his old truck and drove off.



Copyright February 1996 Sun Magazine



1997 - Arizona Republic - Carlos Castaneda Interview (1)


Version 2011.07.09

Arizona Republic (1) - Aug 1997

Thirty years later, author's ideas still not easy to label.

Catching up with Castaneda

By Thomas Ropp

The Arizona Republic

August 1, 1997

Sidebar: Castaneda's books

Carlos Castaneda has published nine best-selling books about his apprenticeship to the Yaqui shaman Don Juan Matus. They have been translated into more than 17 languages.

My suggestion is to read them in order because concepts are built upon from one book to the next. Published by Washington Square Press (Simon & Schuster), all nine books are still available at local bookstores:

"The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge" (1968)
"A Separate Reality: Further Conversations With Don Juan" (1971)
"Journey to Ixtlan: The Lessons of Don Juan" (1972)
"Tales of Power" (1974)
"The Second Ring of Power" (1977)
"The Eagle's Gift" (1981)
"The Fire From Within" (1985)
"The Power of Silence: Further Lessons of Don Juan" (1987)
"The Art of Dreaming" (1993)
"Magical Passes: The Practical Wisdom of the Shamans of Ancient Mexico" (to be published by HarperCollins in 1998)
"The Active Side of Infinity" (no publisher or publishing date as of yet)

-Thomas Ropp


In 1960, Carlos Castaneda met an elderly Yaqui Indian, Juan Matus, in Nogales, Ariz. Castaneda was an anthropology student at the University of California- Los Angeles, collecting information for his Ph.D. on the use of hallucinogenic peyote cactus by indigenous peoples. He was told by a mutual friend that Matus was an expert on peyote.

Next year will mark the 30th anniversary of the publication of Castaneda's first book, "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of knowledge."

Unbeknownst to Castaneda, don Juan Matus was also a sorcerer- a descendant of a long line of Mexican seers.

Don Juan is said to have recognized a "peculiar energy alignment" in Castaneda and slowly reeled him into an apprenticeship. In 1961, Castaneda the anthropologist became Castaneda the sorcerer's apprentice. The relationship continued off and on until 1973, when don Juan and his group are said to have completed their destiny by evanescing-- disappearing like mist-- from this world to become navigators into infinity.

Before that, don Juan encouraged Castaneda to write about his world of Mexican shamanism. And for three decades the debate has raged: Are his nine bestsellers fiction or non-fiction?

The books are often found in the New Age section of bookstores, that quasi-reality genre that may or may not be real depending on your current state of perception. The Los Angeles Times once referred to Castaneda as one of the godfathers of tile New Age movement.

But that's not a description Castaneda is fond of. He puts it this way: "For 30 years people have accused Carlos Castaneda of creating a literary character simply because what I report to them does not concur with the anthropological a priori, the ideas established in the lecture halls or in the anthropological fieldwork," Castaneda said.

"The cognitive system of the Western man forces us to rely on preconceived ideas. What is orthodox anthropology? What is a shaman's behavior? To wear feathers on one's head and dance to the spirits?"

It's unfortunate that most people familiar with Castaneda's books are familiar with only the first two: "A Yaqui Way of Knowledge" and "A Separate Reality." Both focus heavily on the use of hallucinogenic plants, which the Yaqui shaman don Juan called upon to help "unstick" Castaneda's rather narrow social scientist's perceptions.

The drugs were only an initial tool of Don Juan. Castaneda's next seven books focused on Don Juan's world of shamanic energy, intent, dreaming and impeccability-- not drug experiences. Nevertheless, Castaneda's writings became synonymous to some with drugs and psychotropic plants like peyote and magic mushrooms.

But readers who have gone beyond the first two books-- particularly those who are interested in Southwestern culture, shamanism and Native American spirituality-- have been rewarded with an enthralling, if romanticized, anthropological adventure.

Understanding Castaneda's world of the old Mexican shamans is a lot like the classic perceptual test of seeing a face in a drawing. At first it's not there, but if you stick with it, concentrating all your attention on a focal point, the face eventually emerges and, from that moment on, every time you look at the picture you see the face within.

As for being instigated by money, as some of his critics contend, Castaneda could have done a lot better in this area if he'd desired.

He smiles big and tells the tale of one venture in particular he rejected. "American Express and my literary agent, wanted in me to do a commercial for them," Castaneda said. "That one where they go, 'Do you know me?' A million dollars for 10 seconds. Only after I declined did my agent begin thinking I really was nuts."



Copyright August 1997 The Arizona Republic



1997 - Arizona Republic - Carlos Castaneda Interview (2)



Version 2011.07.09

Arizona Republic (2) - Aug 1997

Luminous Encounter: Elusive Castaneda remains complex man.

Ordinary 'egg' catches up with literary sorcerer Carlos Castaneda

By Thomas Ropp

The Arizona Republic

August 3, 1997

Los Angeles



I could have asked him anything.

"I am your prisoner," Carlos Castaneda said.

We talked about ravens. I specifically wanted to know how one could tell when a raven wasn't really a raven.

"You look at its energy," Castaneda said. "A raven that's a sorcerer glows amber."

He didn't tell me what color a regular raven glowed. But then, it wouldn't have mattered anyway since I don't see pure energy. Castaneda does-- says he has for many years. He began seeing humans as energy forms, or "luminous eggs," in the cafeteria of UCLA when he was working on his doctorate in anthropology some 30 years ago.

That's how my lunch with Carlos Castaneda began. It was a Thursday, 2 p.m. We met at a Cuban restaurant near West Hollywood. I didn't know till the last moment where I'd be meeting Castaneda. His staff said that's how Castaneda does it. He reads energy to determine meeting locations and most other matters.

"Everything that we know is an interpretation of energy," Castaneda said. For the longest time I feared I'd have to find Castaneda in L.A. without directions as a test of my unbending intent and worthiness to speak to the enigmatic cult legend and author of nine bestsellers, including his classic "The Teachings of don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge."

So there we were, just two luminous eggs having lunch. In my best Spanish I ordered moros y cristianos (what Cubans call white rice and black beans) y tostones (fried plantains). He looked up from his menu and in perfect English ordered: "Number 12." Steak and potatoes.

I felt muy estupido.

The interview came about because of Castaneda's Tensegrity workshop, which is coming to Phoenix next weekend. I was told by his people that I would have to fly to L.A. because Castaneda does not do interviews over the phone. In fact he rarely does interviews at all. Whole decades have passed without a glimpse of Castaneda. Then he'd surface. A lecture here. A lecture there. Only to disappear again.

Having read all nine of his books (several times) and sharing a common interest in cultural anthropology, metaphysics and, especially, Yaqui mysticism, my assemblage point-- a Castaneda term for perception center-- was all aquiver at this rare opportunity.

However, I was told there were ground rules, including no photos and no tape recorder. I was allowed to use a laptop, but opted to just listen and remember (although I did take a few notes blindly under the table on a reporter's notebook).

In retrospect, and in the tradition of shaman synchronicity, I suppose this lunch wasn't really an accident at all, Just two weeks before the interview I had mentioned to someone that I was surprised my path had not yet crossed Carlos Castaneda's.

And then there was this raven.

Several days before I learned of the interview, I was awakened at six in the morning by the booming caw-caw-caw of the largest raven I had ever seen. It was sitting on the top stalk of a soaptree yucca outside my screened patio. Its call was so loud that the echoes reverberated off nearby mountains, creating an effect similar to thunder.

I approached the bird but it was not afraid. It looked at me once then focused its total attention back to filling the air with vocalizations. I took my eye off the bird for only a moment to see how my cats were reacting.

When I looked up the raven had disappeared.

Castaneda was interested in my raven story, but he didn't offer an explanation.

Ravens and crows, as all shape shifters know, are popular forms of travel in the Americas.

Relatively little is known about Castaneda. De-emphasizing self and erasing personal history is the way Castaneda's line of seers has evolved into warriors of true knowledge. It's also why photos and voice imprints are prohibited.

"There is nothing to Carlos Castaneda," he said. "Personality is a pretense. Fame? Success? Who gives a (expletive)? If we weren't so involved in ourselves, we wouldn't do such barbaric things to ourselves."

Yet, there are some records, and Castaneda himself lets slip a personal fillip now and then. Apparently Castaneda was born around 70 years ago in Peru and was reared by a hedonistic grandfather. But he has spent most of his life in Los Angeles. He graduated from Hollywood High School and received his Ph.D. in anthropology from UCLA. For a brief time, he taught cultural anthropology at the University of California-Irvine.

Castaneda does not stand out in a crowd. In fact, you probably wouldn't even see him in a crowd. He's diminutive, not much taller than 5 feet and probably less than 90 pounds. His substantial hair is mostly gray and brushed forward.

He likes to joke about how people have described him as looking like someone's gardener or chauffeur or a Mexican waiter. L.A. writer Bruce Wagner once asked Castaneda how he should describe what he looks like. Castaneda suggested Lee Marvin.

Sitting across from me, dressed in an amber, short-sleeve buttoned shirt and khaki pants, hair mussed, he reminded me of an iconoclastic professor retired, the professor of not doing, doing lunch. Except this professor has the eye of the sorcerer, the left one, that grabs at your awareness with unimaginable force.

But all the descriptions are deceptive and fragile. Castaneda doesn't have one look. He has many. His appearance changes with his moods, which shuffle easily. Like his teachers don Juan and don Genero, he laughs, he curses, he makes unearthly voices and exaggerated smacking sounds with his lips. Then he turns fierce as he cogently and eloquently pours out his thoughts on the nature of things.

Castaneda is complex, I expected that. At times he talks in a different language. I expected that, too. It's impossible for most of us luminous eggs to understand all the ideas. Don Juan said that we understand nothing anyway, and that true knowledge is not accomplished through our intellects.

I didn't expect Castaneda's immense humor. "We must laugh to balance us," he said.

He told stories, that cannot be repeated in this publication. I believe he keeps up on current events. He was especially interested in the story of Virginia fertility specialist Cecil Jacobson, who is now in prison for using his own semen to impregnate up to 70 of his patients.

There was no discussion of peyote or Mescalito or little smoke, but he did illustrate for me on a napkin how to cut off the top of a barrel cactus and recover its juice.

"You drink just a little for rejuvenation," Castaneda said, and smacked his lips approvingly.

Arizona is particularly prominent in the Castaneda saga. He met Don Juan in Nogales, Ariz., and spent much time in our state during his apprenticeship and even later. Castaneda's eyes became moist when he recalled the Arizona years.

"Arizona is a magical place," Castaneda said. "The Sonoran Desert has a specific confluence." He said he could not go back to Arizona because it brings back too many strong and poignant memories.

"A warrior knows whatever he sees he will not see again," Castaneda said. "I would seriously weep. I need all my strength.

We are all alone.

Castaneda didn't like his steak. He said it smelled like excrement. He dismissed it, then plowed on to another thought: "The universe is not predictable no matter what scientists tell you," Castaneda said.

It's a theme he hits hard upon, and that we are truly all alone. "God doesn't love, you, believe me." The problem, Castaneda insists, is that we're so trapped in our own egos, we never see the bigger picture of existence. We are not individuals surrounded by other individuals or houses or shopping malls. We are individuals surrounded by infinity."

Castaneda is vague on how he spends his day, but he still writes. Next year Simon & Schuster will issue a 30th-anniversary edition of "The Teachings of Don Juan A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," with a new foreword by Castaneda. There will also be a new book next year published by HarperCollins, "Magical Passes: The Practical Wisdom of the Shamans of Ancient Mexico." Castaneda has also completed what he calls his "last book" with the working title "The Active Side of Infinity."

"I don't think I can write anymore," Castaneda said. "The universe is predatorial. It produces profound waves of sadness that are homing in on me. This ontological sadness, you see it coming, then you feel it on top of you."

Even the path with heart is no cakewalk. Castaneda may not be with us much longer. He has told his staff as much. "But he won't die a physical death," said Tensegrity instructor or "energy tracker" Kylie Lundahl. "He will disappear the way Don Juan did. He knows there isn't much time left before that happens."

The goal of don Juan's line of Mexican seers has been to complete what they call the "abstract flight," to "evanesce with the totality of their beings" into infinity-- disappear with their boots on, so to speak. Castaneda's teacher don Juan and his party are supposed to have done this in 1973.

But Castaneda may have a problem in this regard. One gets the feeling from reading his later books and from personal conversation that something is wrong, and that Lee Marvin is scared.

Before he left this world don Juan Matus made it clear to Castaneda and his other apprentices that this line of Mexican seers of antiquity would end with Castaneda, the last nagual. Something in the energy configuration of the seers left behind was not propitious to continue the line. So, in essence, Castaneda and his party were left with the task of "closing out" the line.

Is it possible that Castaneda, like E.T., has been stranded in this world? Is there something don Juan neglected to tell him about storing enough personal energy for the abstract flight?

During our lunch, which lasted nearly three hours, I couldn't help but disengage myself occasionally from his left eye and wonder what he saw irradiating from my energy body-- no doubt something nasty and pink from all the years of loading up on diet colas and sugar-free gum.

I also wondered whether he knew more about that raven than he was letting on.

We said our good-byes in the restaurant's parking lot. He said he liked me and enjoyed our conversation. I said: Somos monos extranos. We are strange apes.

He smiled, but didn't answer. He didn't need to. For a moment Castaneda's predatorial universe hooked me with one of its waves of sadness as I remembered what he had said about a warrior knowing whatever he sees he will not see again.

I took a few steps toward my rental car, wondering whether Castaneda would indeed make that connection with his abstract flight. I sincerely hoped so.

When I looked back, Castaneda, like the raven, had vanished.



Sidebar: "This Is The One You Have Been Waiting For!"

Copyright August 1997 The Arizona Republic



1997 - Kindred Spirit - Carlos Castaneda Interview


Version 2011.07.09

Kindred Spirit - Jun 1997

Kindred Spirit Magazine

The Guide to Personal & Planetary Healing

Quarterly, Summer (June - August 1997)

In the early 1960's, Carlos Castaneda made a profound impact on the world when he published his first of nine books, "The Teachings of Don Juan - A Yaqui Way of Knowledge." In this work he related his experiences as a sorcerer's apprentice under the guidance of a Yaqui Indian from Sonora, Mexico. As an anthropology student as UCLA, he encountered don Juan Matus while collecting information for his Ph.D. about the hallucinogenic cactus peyote.

From the moment of the book's publication, Castaneda became a cult figure. Although he rarely gives interviews Castaneda spoke out in February this year, and we thought you'd like to see what he had to say.

Castaneda's works presented a vision of 'the warrior's way', living impeccably, erasing personal history, using death as one's advisor and losing self-importance. Castaneda's interactions with don Juan and his fellow teachers and apprentices are intimately portrayed, revealing a serious Western scholar who becomes the target of jeers and criticisms, then puts aside his social paradigm, and awakens to the mysteries of the unknown.

Besides its pragmatic value, Castaneda's work has an indisputable literary quality. It is filled with poetry, magic and beauty. His nine books have greatly surpassed the best seller category and are translated into all major languages.

Castaneda's companions, Taisha Abelar and Florinda Donner-Grau, have also related their experiences with don Juan in "The Sorcerer's Crossing" and "Being-In-Dreaming." Carol Tiggs, a protagonist in some of Castaneda's books, as yet remains unpublished.


Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity: Magical Passes from the Shamans of ancient Mexico

At present, Carlos Castaneda and his companions Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau and Carol Tiggs are interested in making don Juan's world more accessible. Recently they have come forth with a discipline of physical movements taught to them by don Juan Matus and which they call Tensegrity.

This modernized version of some movements called "magical passes", developed by Indian shamans who lived in Mexico in times prior to the Spanish Conquest, are designed to enhance perception and to physically strengthen the body. Tensegrity borrows a term from architecture to represent the quintessence of tensing and relaxing the muscles and tendons of the body.

When applied to the body, this term describes most appropriately the interplay of tension and integrity that drives the magical passes.

Tensegrity seminars, ranging in length from weekends to week-long workshops, dedicate several hours daily to these movements. Also three videos have been released for the individual learner: Volume 1, Twelve Basic Movements to Gather Energy and Promote Well-Being; Volume 2, Redistributing Dispersed Energy, and Volume 3, Energetically Crossing from One Phylum to Another, all available through Cleargreen, Incorporated, Santa Monica, California or through www.castaneda.com (www.webb.com/Castaneda). Cleargreen will also publish a book on Tensegrity by Carlos Castaneda later this year.

In February this year Castaneda answered the questions presented to him by Daniel Trujillo Rivas for the Chilean and Argentinean magazine Uno Mismo: Facing Carlos Castaneda, this unclassifiable writer surrounded by 30 years of legend and myth, was a terrifying moment for me. He has become one of the most important literary phenomena of the century, revolutionizing ideas about pre-Colombian American culture.

After nine books I still had many of the same questions about Castaneda I had at the beginning, starting with: Who is he really? An anthropologist? A gifted writer? A sorcerer's apprentice? Or an accomplished shaman in his own right? Now being able to speak to him personally I hoped to have some of these questions answered.




Q:
Mr. Castaneda, for years you've remained in absolute anonymity. What drove you to change this condition and talk publicly about the teachings that you and your three companions received from the nagual Juan Matus?


A:
Carlos Castaneda: What compels us to disseminate don Juan Matus' ideas is a need to clarify what he taught us. For us, this is a task that can no longer be postponed. His other three students and I have reached the unanimous conclusion that the world to which don Juan Matus introduced us is within the perceptual possibilities of all human beings.

We've discussed amongst ourselves what would be the appropriate road to take. To remain anonymous the way don Juan proposed to us? This option was not acceptable. The other available road was to disseminate don Juan's ideas: an infinitely more dangerous and exhausting choice, but the only one that, we believe, has the dignity don Juan imbued into all his teachings.


Q:
Considering what you have said about the unpredictability of a warrior's actions, which we have corroborated for three decades, can we expect this public phase you're going through to last for a while? Until when?


A:
There is no way for us to establish a temporal criteria. We live according to the premises proposed by don Juan and we never deviate from them. Don Juan Matus gave us the formidable example of a man who lived according to what he said. And I say it is a formidable example because it is the most difficult thing to emulate; to be monolithic and at the same time have the flexibility to face anything. This was the way don Juan lived his life.

Within these premises, the only thing one can be is an impeccable mediator. One is not the player in this cosmic chess match, one is simply a pawn on the chessboard. What decides everything is a conscious impersonal force that sorcerers call Intent or the Spirit.


Q:
As far as I've been able to corroborate, orthodox anthropology, as well as the alleged defenders of the cultural pre-Colombian cultural heritage of America, undermine the credibility of your work. The belief that your work is merely the product of your literary talent continues to exist today. There are also other sectors that accuse you of having a double standard because, supposedly, your lifestyle and your activities contradict what the majority expect from a shaman.

How can you clear up these suspicions?


A:
The cognitive system of the Western man forces us to rely on preconceived ideas. We base our judgments on something that is always a priori. For example, the idea of what is 'orthodox.' What is orthodox anthropology? The one taught in university lecture halls? What is a shaman's behavior? To wear feathers on one's head and dance to the spirits?

For thirty years, people have accused Carlos Castaneda of creating a literary character simply because what I report to them does not concur with the anthropological 'a priori' - the ideas established in the lecture halls or in the anthropological field work. However, what don Juan presented to me can only apply to a situation that calls for total action and, under such circumstances, very little or almost nothing of the preconceived occurs.

I have never been able to draw conclusions about shamanism because in order to do this one needs to be an active member in the shamans' world. For a social scientist, let's say a sociologist for example, it is very easy to arrive at sociological conclusions over any subject related to the Occidental world, because the sociologist is an active member of the Occidental world.

But how can an anthropologist, who spends at the most two years studying other cultures, arrive at reliable conclusions about them?

One needs a lifetime to be able to acquire membership in a cultural world. I've been working for more than thirty years in the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico and, sincerely, I don't believe I have acquired the membership that would allow me to draw conclusions or to even propose them.

I have discussed this with people from different disciplines and they always seem to understand and agree with the premises I'm presenting. But then they turn around and they forget everything they agreed upon and continue to sustain orthodox academic principles, without caring about the possibility of an absurd error in their conclusions. Our cognitive system seems to be impenetrable.


Q:
Why do you not allow yourself to be photographed, have your voice recorded or make your biographical data known? Could this affect, and if so how, what you've achieved in your spiritual work? Don't you think it would be useful for some sincere seekers of truth to know who you really are, as a way of corroborating that it really is possible to follow the path you proclaim?


A:
With reference to photographs and personal data, I and the other three disciples of don Juan follow his instructions. For a shaman like don Juan, the main idea behind refraining from giving personal data is very simple. It is imperative to leave aside what he called "personal history". To get away from the "me" is something extremely annoying and difficult. What the shamans like don Juan seek is a state of fluidity where the personal "me" does not count.

He believed that an absence of photography and biographical data affects whoever enters into this field of action in a positive, though subliminal, way. We are endlessly accustomed to using photographs, recordings and biographical data, all of which spring from the idea of personal importance.

Don Juan said it was better not to know anything about a shaman; in this way, instead of encountering a person, one encounters an idea that can be sustained. This is the opposite of what happens in the everyday world where we are faced with people with psychological problems and without ideas, all of these people filled to the brim with "me, me, me."


Q:
How should your followers interpret the publicity and the commercial infrastructure-- a side of your literary work-- surrounding the knowledge you and your companions disseminate? What's your real relationship with Cleargreen Incorporated and the other companies such as Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists? I'm talking about a commercial link.


A:
At this point in my work I needed someone able to represent me regarding the dissemination of don Juan Matus' ideas. Cleargreen is a corporation that has great affinity with our work, as do Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists.

The idea of disseminating don Juan's teachings in the modern world implies the use of commercial and artistic media that are not within my individual reach. As corporations having an affinity with don Juan's ideas, Cleargreen Incorporated, Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists are capable of providing the means to disseminate what I want to disseminate.

There is always a tendency for impersonal corporations to dominate and transform everything that is presented to them and to adapt it to their own ideology. If it wasn't for the sincere interest of Cleargreen, Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists, everything don Juan said would have been transformed into something else by now.


Q:
There are a great number of people who, in one way or another, 'cling' to you in order to acquire public notoriety. What's your opinion of the actions of Victor Sanchez, who has interpreted and reorganized your teachings in order to elaborate a personal theory? And what of Ken Eagle Feather's assertions that he has been chosen by don Juan to be his disciple, and that don Juan came back just for him?


A:
There are a number of people who call themselves my students or don Juan's students, people I've never met and whom, I can guarantee, don Juan never met. Don Juan Matus was exclusively interested in the perpetuation of his lineage of shamans. He had four disciples who remain to this day. He had others who left with him.

Don Juan was not interested in teaching his knowledge; he taught it to his disciples in order to continue his lineage. Due to the fact that they cannot continue don Juan's lineage, his four disciples have been forced to disseminate his ideas.

The concept of a teacher who teaches his knowledge is part of our cognitive system but it isn't part of the cognitive system of the shamans of ancient Mexico. To teach was absurd for them. To transmit this knowledge to those who were going to perpetuate their lineage was a different matter.

The fact that there are a number of individuals who insist on using my name or don Juan's name is simply an easy maneuver to benefit themselves without much effort.


Q:
Let's consider the meaning of the word "spirituality" to be a state of consciousness in which human beings are fully capable of controlling the potentials of the species, something achieved by transcending the simple animal condition through a hard psychic, moral and intellectual training. Do you agree with this assertion? How is don Juan's world integrated into this context?


A:
For don Juan Matus, a pragmatic and extremely sober shaman, "spirituality" was an empty ideality, an assertion without basis that we believe to be very beautiful because it is encrusted with literary concepts and poetic expressions, but which never goes beyond that.

Shamans like don Juan are essentially practical. For them there only exists a predatory universe where intelligence or awareness is the product of life and death challenges. He considered himself a navigator of infinity and said that in order to navigate into the unknown like a shaman does, one needs unlimited pragmatism, boundless sobriety and "guts of steel". In view of all this, don Juan believed that 'spirituality' is simply a description of something impossible to achieve within the patterns of the world of everyday life, and it is not a real way of acting.


Q:
Do some of the concepts of your work, such as the assemblage point, the energetic filaments that make up the universe, the world of the inorganic beings, intent, stalking and dreaming, have an equivalent in Western knowledge? For example, there are some people who consider that man seen as a luminous egg is an expression of the aura.


A:
As far as I know, nothing of what don Juan taught us seems to have a counterpart in Western knowledge. Once, when don Juan was still here, I spent a whole year in search of gurus, teachers and wise men to give me an inkling of what they were doing. I wanted to know if there was something in the world of that time similar to what don Juan said and did. My resources were very limited and they only took me to meet the established masters who had millions of followers and, unfortunately, I couldn't find any similarity.


Q:
One can find truly incredible episodes in your literary work. How could someone who's not an initiate verify that all those "separate realities" are real, as you claim?


A:
It can be verified very easily by lending one's whole body instead of only one's intellect. One cannot enter don Juan's world intellectually, like a dilettante seeking fast and fleeting knowledge. Nor, in don Juan's world, can anything be verified absolutely. The only thing we can do is arrive at a state of increased awareness that allows us to perceive the world surrounding us in a more inclusive manner.

In other words, the goal of don Juan's shamanism is to break the parameters of historical and everyday perception and to perceive the unknown. That's why he called himself a navigator of infinity. He asserted that infinity lies beyond the parameters of daily perception.

To break these parameters was the aim of his life. Because he was an extraordinary shaman, he instilled that same desire in all four of us. He forced us to transcend the intellect and to embody the concept of breaking the boundaries of historical perception.


Q:
You have recently presented a physical discipline called Tensegrity. Can you explain what it is exactly? What's its goal? What spiritual benefit can a person who practices it individually get?


A:
According to what don Juan Matus taught us, the shamans who lived in ancient Mexico discovered a series of movements that when executed by the body brought about such physical and mental prowess that they decided to call those movements magical passes.

Don Juan told us that, through their magical passes, those shamans attained an increased level of awareness which allowed them to perform indescribable feats of perception.

Through generations, the magical passes were only taught to practitioners of shamanism. The movements were surrounded with tremendous secrecy and complex rituals. That is the way don Juan learned them and that is the way he taught them to his four disciples.

Our effort has been to extend the teachings of such magical passes to anyone who wants to learn them. We have called them Tensegrity, and we have transformed them from specific movements pertinent only to each of don Juan's four disciples, to general movements suitable for anyone.

Practicing Tensegrity, individually or collectively, promotes health, vitality, youth and a general sense of well-being. Don Juan said that practicing the magical passes helps accumulate the energy necessary to increase awareness and to expand the parameters of perception.


Q:
Besides your three cohorts, the people who attend your seminars have met other people, like the Chacmools, the Energy Trackers, the Elements, the Blue Scout ... Who are they? Are they part of a new generation of seers guided by you? If this is the case, how could one become part of this group of apprentices?


A:
Every one of these persons are defined beings whom don Juan Matus, as director of his lineage, asked us to wait for. He predicted the arrival of each one of them as an integral part of a vision. Since don Juan's lineage could not continue due to the energetic configuration of his four students, their mission was transformed from perpetuating the lineage into closing it, if possible with a golden clasp.

We are in no position to change such instructions. We can neither look for nor accept apprentices or active members of don Juan's vision. The only thing we can do is acquiesce to the designs of Intent.

The fact that the magical passes, guarded with such jealousy for so many generations, are now being taught, is proof that one can, indeed, in an indirect way, become part of this new vision through the practice of Tensegrity and by following the premises of the warrior's way.


Q:
Here's a question that I've often asked myself: does the warriors' path include, like other disciplines do, spiritual work for couples?


A:
The warriors' path includes everything and everyone. There can be a whole family of impeccable warriors. The difficulty lies in the terrible fact that individual relationships are based in emotional investments, and the moment the practitioner really practices what she/he learns the relationship crumbles.

In the everyday world, emotional investments are not normally examined, and we live an entire lifetime waiting to be reciprocated. Don Juan said I was a diehard investor and that my way of living and feeling could be described simply: "I only give what others give me".


Q:
What aspirations of possible advancement should someone have who wishes to work spiritually according to the knowledge disseminated in your books? What would you recommend for those who wish to practice don Juan's teachings by themselves?


A:
There's no way to put a limit on what one may accomplish individually if the intent is an impeccable intent. Don Juan's teachings are not spiritual. I repeat this because the question has come up over and over.

The idea of spirituality doesn't fit with the iron discipline of a warrior. The most important thing for a shaman like don Juan is the idea of pragmatism. When I met him, I believed I was a practical man, a social scientist filled with objectivity and pragmatism. He destroyed my pretensions and made me see that, as a true Western man, I was neither pragmatic nor spiritual. I came to understand that I only repeated the word "spirituality" to contrast it with the mercenary aspect of the world of everyday life. I wanted to get away from the mercantilism of everyday life and the eagerness to do this is what I called 'spirituality'.

I realized don Juan was right when he demanded that I come to a conclusion: to define what I considered spirituality. I didn't know what I was talking about.

What I'm saying might sound presumptuous, but there's no other way to say it. What a shaman like don Juan wants is to increase awareness, that is, to be able to perceive with all the human possibilities of perception; this implies a colossal task and an unbending purpose, which cannot be replaced by the spirituality of the Western world.



Copyright June 1997 Kindred Spirit Magazine



1997 - Mas Alla - Carol Tiggs, Taisha Abelar and Florinda Donner-Grau Interview


Version 2011.07.09

Mas Alla - April 1997

Excerpt from an Interview with
Florinda Donner-Grau, Taisha Abelar and Carol Tiggs.

by Concha Labarta

Translated from Spanish. First appeared in Mas Alla, April 1, 1997, Spain.

All the answers were given by Carol Tiggs, Taisha Abelar and Florinda Donner-Grau.



Question: You were, along with Carlos Castaneda, students of don Juan Matus and his sorcerer cohorts. However, you remained in anonymity for years, and it was not until recently that you decided to speak about your own apprenticeship with don Juan. Why this long silence? And what's the reason for this change?

Answer: First of all, we would like to clarify that each one of us met the man Carlos Castaneda calls the nagual don Juan Matus under a different name: Melchior Yaoquizque, John Michael Abelar and Mariano Aureliano. To avoid confusion, we always call him the old nagual; not old in the sense of old age but in the sense of seniority, and above all, to differentiate him from the new nagual, Carlos Castaneda.

Discussing our apprenticeship with the old nagual wasn't at all part of the task he conceived for us. That's why we remained in absolute anonymity.

The return of Carol Tiggs in 1985 marked a total change in our goals and aspirations. She was traditionally in charge of guiding us through something which, for modern man, could be translated as space and time, but which, for the shamans of ancient Mexico, meant awareness. They conceived a journey through something they called the dark sea of awareness.

Traditionally, Carol Tiggs' role was to guide us to make that crossing. When she returned, she automatically transformed the insular goal of our private journey into something more far-reaching. That's why we decided to end our anonymity and teach the magical passes of the shamans of ancient Mexico.



Q: Was the instruction you received from don Juan similar to that of Carlos Castaneda? If it wasn't, what were the differences? How would each of you describe don Juan and his male and female cohorts?

A: The instruction given to us was not at all similar to that given to Carlos Castaneda for the simple reason that we are women. We have organs that men don't have: the ovaries and the uterus, organs of tremendous importance. The old nagual's instruction for us consisted of pure action. Regarding the description of the old nagual's male and female cohorts, all we can say at this moment in our lives is that they were exceptional beings. To talk about them as people of the everyday world would be inane for us at this time.

The least we can say is that all of them, and they were sixteen including the old nagual, were in a state of exquisite vitality and youth. They were all old and yet at the same time, they weren't. When, out of curiosity and amazement, we asked the old nagual what was the reason for their exorbitant vigor, he told us that what rejuvenated them every step of the way was their link with infinity.



Q: While many modern psychological and sociological trends advocate putting an end to the distance between the masculine and the feminine, we have read in your books that there are notable differences between men and women in the way they each access knowledge. Could you elucidate on this subject? How are you, and your experiences as female sorcerers, different from those of Carlos Castaneda?

A: The difference between male and female sorcerers in the lineage of the old nagual is the simplest thing in the world. Like every other woman in the world, we have a womb. We have different organs from men: the uterus and the ovaries, which, according to sorcerers, make it easy for women to enter into exotic areas of awareness. According to sorcerers, there is a colossal force in the universe; a constant, perennial force which fluctuates but which doesn't change. They call this force awareness or the dark sea of awareness. Sorcerers assert that all living beings are attached to this force. They call this point of union the assemblage point. Sorcerers maintain that, due to the presence of the womb inside the body, women have the facility to displace the assemblage point to a new position.

We would like to emphasize that sorcerers believe that the assemblage point of every human being is located in the same place; three feet behind the shoulder blades. When sorcerers see human beings as energy, they perceive this point as a conglomerate of energy fields in the form of a luminous ball.

Sorcerers say that since the male sexual organs are outside the body, men don't have the same facility. Therefore, it would be absurd for sorcerers to try to erase or cloud these energetic differences. Regarding the behavior of male and female sorcerers in the social order, it is almost the same. The energetic difference makes the practitioners, men and women, behave in different ways. In the case of sorcerers, these differences are complementary. The female sorcerers' great facility to displace the assemblage point serves as a base for male sorcerers' actions, which are characterized by greater endurance and more unyielding purpose.



Q: We also have read in your books that Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar each represent a different category in the world of shamanism. One of you is a dreamer and the other a stalker. These are attractive and exotic terms but many people use them indiscriminately and interpret them in their own way. What's the real significance of such classifications? When it comes to action, what are the implications for Florinda Donner-Grau to be a dreamer and for Taisha Abelar to be a stalker?

A: Once again, as in the preceding question, the difference is very simple because it is dictated by each of our energies.

Florinda Donner-Grau is a dreamer because she has an extraordinary facility to displace the assemblage point. According to sorcerers, when the assemblage point, which is our point of attachment to the dark sea of awareness, is displaced, a new conglomerate of energy fields is assembled, a conglomerate similar to the habitual one, but different enough to guarantee the perception of another world which is not the world of everyday life.

The gift of Taisha Abelar as a stalker is her facility to fix the assemblage point in the new position to which it has been displaced. Without this facility to fix the assemblage point, the perception of another world is too fleeting; something very similar to the effect produced by certain hallucinogenic drugs: a profusion of images without rhyme or reason. Sorcerers believe that the effect of hallucinogenic drugs is to displace the assemblage point, but only in a very chaotic and temporary manner.



Q: In your most recent books, Being-In-Dreaming and The Sorcerers' Crossing, you talk about personal experiences that are difficult to accept. Accessing other worlds, traveling into the unknown, making contact with inorganic beings, are all experiences which challenge reason. The temptation is either not to believe such accounts at all, or to consider you as beings that are beyond good and evil, beings that are not touched by sickness, old age or death. What's the everyday reality for a female sorcerer? And how does living in chronological time fit with living in magical time?

A: Your question, Miss Labarta, is too abstract and farfetched. Please forgive our frankness. We are not intellectual beings and are not in any way capable of taking part in exercises in which the intellect engages words which in reality don't have any meaning. None of us, under any agreement, are beyond good and evil, sickness, or old age.

What happened to us was that we were convinced, by the old nagual, that there are two categories of human beings. The great majority of us are beings which sorcerers call (in a pejorative manner, we would add) "the immortal ones." The other category is the category of beings that are going to die. The old nagual told us that, like immortal beings, we never take death as a point of reference, and we therefore allow ourselves the inconceivable luxury of living our entire lives involved in words, descriptions, polemics, agreements and disagreements.

The other category is the category of sorcerers, of beings that are going to die, who cannot, at any time and or under any circumstances, allow themselves the luxury of making intellectual assertions. If we are anything, we are beings without any importance. And if we have anything, it is our conviction that we are beings that are going to die and that someday, we will have to face infinity. Our preparation is the simplest thing in the world: we prepare ourselves twenty-four hours a day to face this encounter with infinity.

The old nagual succeeded in erasing in us our confounded idea of immortality and our indifference to life, and he convinced us that, as beings that are going to die, we can enlarge our options in life. Sorcerers maintain that human beings are magical beings, capable of stupendous actions and accomplishments once they rid themselves of ideologies that turn them into ordinary human beings.

Our accounts are, in reality, phenomenological descriptions of feats of perception that are available to all of us, especially to women, feats that are bypassed due to our habit of self-reflection. Sorcerers assert that the only thing that exists for us human beings, is Me, ME, and only ME. Under such conditions, the only thing possible is whatever concerns Me. And by definition whatever concerns Me, the personal 'I', can lead only to anger and resentment.



Q: The physical presence of a teacher may not be indispensable but, in any case, it is of great help. You received direct instruction from don Juan and his cohorts to guide you into the world of shamanism. Do you really think that that world is accessible to anyone, even when they don't have a personal teacher?

A: In a way, the insistence on having a teacher is an aberration. The idea of the old nagual was that he was helping us to break away from the dominion of the Me. With his jokes, and his terrifying sense of humor, he succeeded in making us laugh at ourselves. In this sense, we firmly believe that change is possible for anyone, a change similar to ours, for example, by practicing Tensegrity, without the need for a particular and personal teacher.

The old nagual wasn't interested in teaching his knowledge. He was never a teacher or a guru. He couldn't have cared less about being one. The old nagual was interested in perpetuating his lineage. If he guided us personally, it was to inculcate in us all the premises of sorcery that would allow us to continue his lineage. He expected that someday, it would be our turn to do the same.

Circumstances outside of our volition, or his, conspired to prevent the continuation of his lineage. In view of the fact that we cannot carry out the traditional function of continuing a sorceric lineage, we want to make this knowledge available. Since the Tensegrity practitioners are not called upon to perpetuate any shamanistic lineage, they have the possibility of accomplishing what we have accomplished, but via a different path.



Q: The possibility of an alternative form of death is one of the most striking points of don Juan Matus' teachings. According to what you have told us, he and his group attained that alternative death. What is your own interpretation of their disappearance, when they transformed themselves into awareness?

A: This may seem like a simple question, but it is very difficult to answer. We are practitioners of the teachings of the old nagual. It appears to us that, with your question, you are soliciting a psychological justification, an explanation equivalent to the explanations of modern science.

Unfortunately we cannot give you an explanation outside of what we are. The old nagual and his cohorts died an alternative death, which is possible for any one of us, if we have the necessary discipline.

All we can tell you is that the old nagual and his people lived life professionally, meaning that they were responsible for all their acts, even the most minute ones, because they were extremely aware of everything they did. Under such conditions, to die an alternative death is not such a farfetched possibility.



Q: Do you feel ready to face the last jump? What do you expect in that universe, which you regard as impersonal, cold and predatorial?

A: What we expect is an endless fight and the possibility of witnessing infinity, either for a second or for five billion years.



Q: Some readers of Carlos Castaneda's literary works have reproached him for the lack of a bigger spiritual presence in his books, for never having used words like "love." Is the world of a warrior really that cold? Don't you feel human emotions? Or do you perhaps give a different meaning to those emotions?

A: Yes, we give them a different meaning, and we don't use words like "love" or "spirituality" because the old nagual convinced us that they are empty concepts. Not love or spirituality themselves, but the use of these two words. His line of argument was as follows: if we really consider ourselves immortal beings who can afford the luxury of living amongst gigantic contradictions and endless selfishness; if all that counts for us is immediate gratification, how can we make love or spirituality something authentic? For the old nagual these concepts were manqué, lifeless, words that nobody is prepared to back up. He said that every time we are confronted with these contradictions, we solve them by saying that, as human beings, we are weak.

The old nagual told us that, as a general rule, we human beings were never taught to love. We were taught only to feel gratifying emotions, pertinent exclusively to the personal Me. Infinity is sublime and without pity, he said, and there's no room for fallacious concepts, no matter how pleasant they may seem to us.



Q: It seems that the key to expanding our capabilities for perception lies in the amount of energy we have at our disposal, and that the energetic condition of modern man is very meager. What would be the essential premise for storing energy? Is this possible for someone who has to take care of a family, go to work every day, and participate fully in the social world? And what about celibacy as a way of saving energy, one of the most controversial points in your books?

A: Celibacy is recommended, the old nagual told us, for the majority of us. Not for moral reasons, but because we don't have enough energy. He made us see how the majority of us have been conceived in the midst of marital boredom. As a pragmatic sorcerer, the old nagual maintained that conception is something of final importance. He said that if the mother wasn't able to have an orgasm at the moment of conception, the result was something he called "a bored conception." There is no energy under such conditions. The old nagual recommended celibacy for those who have been conceived under such circumstances.

Another thing he recommended as a means of storing energy was the dissolution of patterns of behavior that lead to chaos, such as the incessant preoccupation with romantic courtship; the presentation and defense of the self in everyday life; excessive routines and, above all, the tremendous insistence on the concerns of the self.

If these points are achieved, any one of us can have the necessary energy to use time, space and the social order more intelligently.



Q: The magical passes of Tensegrity, which you consider to be of great importance, are your most recent contribution to those interested in don Juan Matus' world. What can Tensegrity bring to those who practice it? Can this be equated with any other physical discipline, or does it have its own characteristics?

A: What Tensegrity brings to those who practice it is energy. The difference between Tensegrity and any other system of physical exercises is that the intent of Tensegrity is something dictated by the shamans of ancient Mexico. This intent is the liberation of the being that is going to die.



Copyright 1997 - Mas Alla



1997 - New Times - Carlos Castaneda Interview


Version 2011.07.09

New Times Magazine - Jul 1997

The New Times Interview

"TENSEGRITY" AND MAGICAL PASSES

Carlos Castaneda interviewed for The New Times by Clair Baron

More than thirty years ago, as an anthropologist doing fieldwork among the Yaqui Indians in the state of Sonora, Mexico, Carlos Castaneda met a Mexican Indian shaman named don Juan Matus. Don Juan became his anthropological informant, and then his teacher. He introduced Carlos Castaneda into the cognitive world of the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times, and who were the founders of his lineage of shamans.

Carlos Castaneda has written about his apprenticeship with don Juan in nine best-selling books, beginning with The Teachings of don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge in 1968, and most recently, The Art of Dreaming in 1993. All nine books are still in print, and have been translated into more than seventeen languages.

Scheduled to appear in 1998 is a new book from HarperCollins by the author, entitled Magical Passes: The Practical Wisdom of the Shamans of Ancient Mexico. Here, Carlos Castaneda provides the reader with direct instruction on the magical passes, a series of bodily movements taught to him by don Juan Matus.

Tensegrity is the name given to the modern version of these movements, and the name of a series of three videos which have appeared over the last year and a half, drawing enthusiasts to filled-to-capacity workshops on Tensegrity in the U.S., Mexico, South America and Europe.


=========


Clair:
What is Tensegrity?


Carlos:
Among the infinitude of things that don Juan taught me were some bodily movements which were discovered and used by the shamans of ancient Mexico to foster states of profound physical and mental well-being. He said that those movements were called magical passes by the shamans who discovered them, because their effect on the practitioners was so astounding. Through practicing these movements, those shamans were able to achieve a superb physical and mental balance.

I have labored for ten years to make a synthesis of those movements. The result has been something I have called Tensegrity: the modern version of the magical passes. The word Tensegrity is a combination of tension and integrity, the two driving forces of the magical passes.


Clair:
You say that those movements were "discovered"...


Carlos: Don Juan explained to me that in specific states of heightened awareness called dreaming, those men and women were able to reach levels of optimum physical balance. They were also able to discover-- in dreaming-- the exact movements that allowed them to replicate, in their hours of vigil, those same levels of optimum physical balance.


Clair:
Why weren't these movements mentioned in your earlier books?


Carlos:
The magical passes became the most prized possession for the shamans of Mexican antiquity who discovered them. They surrounded them with rituals and mystery and taught them only to their initiates in the midst of tremendous secrecy. This was the manner in which don Juan Matus taught them to his students: Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs and myself. I never touched on the subject of the magical passes because they were taught to me in secrecy and to aid me in my personal need; that is to say that the passes that I learned were designed for me alone, to fit my physical constitution.

Each of his other students has a set of magical passes taught exclusively to them, exclusively geared to each of their energetic configurations-- to their personalities. The four of us, being the last link of his lineage, came to the unanimous conclusion that any further secrecy about the magical passes was counter to the interest that we had in making don Juan's world available to our fellow men and women.

We decided, therefore, after a lifetime of silence, to join forces to deal with the magical passes and to rescue them from their obscure state. After years of effort, we succeeded in merging our four highly individualistic lines of magical passes into modified units of movements applicable to any physical constitution, and all of us together arrived at composites that fulfilled our innermost expectations.

We call these composites Tensegrity.


Clair:
What is the difference between the magical passes of Tensegrity and other forms of exercise like aerobics or calisthenics?


Carlos:
The difference between the magical passes and aerobics or calisthenics is that the latter are designed to exercise the surface muscles of the body, while the magical passes are the interplay of relaxation and tension at a deep bodily level. The magical passes go beyond the musculature to the glandular system: the base of energy in the body.

Don Juan said that the movements were viewed as magical passes from the first moment that they were formulated. He described the "magic" of the movements as a subtle change that the practitioners experience on executing them; an ephemeral quality that the movement brings to their physical and mental states, a kind of shine, a light in the eyes.

He spoke of this subtle change as a "touch of the spirit"; as if practitioners, through the movements, reestablish an unused link with the life force that sustains them. He further explained that the movements were called magical passes because by means of practicing them, shamans were transported, in terms of perception, to other states of being in which they could sense the world in an indescribable manner.


Clair:
What would you say to those who have never done the movements? When can one expect "results"?


Carlos:
The positive results are almost immediate, if one practices meticulously and daily-- increased energy generates calmness, efficiency and purpose. We all want instant enlightenment, instant expertise; that's the flaw.

Don Juan used to say the collective malady of our day is our total lack of purpose. He repeated to us endlessly that without sufficient energy there is no way of conceiving any kind of genuine purpose in our lives. The magical passes, by helping us store energy, help us to grasp the idea of purposefulness in our thoughts and actions.




Next year marks the thirtieth anniversary of the publication of The Teachings of don Juan; Simon and Schuster will publish a special thirtieth-year edition of the book, complete with a new preface from the author.

Copyright July 1997 The New Times Magazine



1997 - Sun Magazine - Carlos Castanada Interview


Version 2011.07.09

The Sun Magazine - Sep 1997



Of Sorcery and Dreams: An Encounter With Carlos Castaneda

By Michael Brenan

Published in "The Sun", September 1997

Dreaming was once an extraordinary affair for me. When I was thirteen, I had frequent conscious dreams and out-of-body experiences. Typically, just prior to sleep, when my body was completely relaxed, I would shift without warning into a remarkable state of alertness. My physical body would feel numb and heavy, yet I would be entirely awake. Somehow I knew that it was then possible for me to leave my body.

Nearly every night over the next three years, I would drift toward sleep, only to wake up and venture into dream worlds of breathtaking clarity and beauty. I was fully conscious, and tremendously curious about everything I encountered. I experimented endlessly with my senses, and with my ability to manipulate these strange environments. But I could never determine whether the worlds I entered were objectively real, or merely projections.

At age sixteen, I took part in a pioneering research study headed by Stephen LaBerge. Using laboratory equipment and a series of prearranged signals, LaBerge demonstrated that humans had the ability to be conscious within a physical state of sleep. He called the phenomenon "lucid dreaming."

Yet even this scientific validation did not entirely dispel my uncertainty, because it didn't explain, for example, how I could sometimes be simultaneously aware within both my physical body and this "other" body. In the end, I decided my questions were unanswerable for the moment, and the answers didn't matter much anyway. The sense of exhilaration, freedom, and joy I encountered in those inner worlds was the true value of the experience.

Before long, that same heightened state of awareness began to carry over into my ordinary day-to-day existence, imbuing it with richness and magic. Life became a waking dream. As this sensibility grew, it came into conflict with everything I was being taught.

The priests who schooled me seemed to believe that the age of miracles had ended two thousand years before. Science suggested that everything could be reduced to base mechanics. And contemporary society counseled a safe and bloodless course of birth, school, work, and death, interspersed with vapid consumerism.

By the time I was seventeen, I had begun to feel that there was something wrong with me. I was beset by the usual adolescent insecurities, but on top of that, my perception of the world did not match up with that of my peers. My fears overwhelmed the spirit of beauty that I longed to articulate.

To compensate for my perceived cowardice, I embarked on a roguish course, taking up with a bad crowd and acting out the turmoil inside me. In so doing I betrayed everything that was sacred to me, and my anguish was enormous. Over the next fifteen years, I suffered extended bouts of addiction, homelessness, and incarceration in jails and asylums. My dreams had deserted me, only to be replaced by a waking nightmare. I was committing slow-motion suicide, a process that reached its conclusion seven years ago, when I shared bloody needles with two fellow addicts in a Lower East Side tenement in New York City.

Since then, my junkie companions on that occasion have both died of AIDS.

Now, sitting on the cusp of death myself, I find an empty space within me.

Oddly, this emptiness carries with it a certain abandon and a delicious sense of anticipation-- I have nothing to lose. My imminent mortality seems to offer a slim chance of recouping what I've lost: my experience of the world as a waking dream of great beauty and mystery.

It is in this state of mind that I receive an invitation to attend an Oakland workshop given by associates of Carlos Castaneda, and to write about it as a journalist. The purpose of the workshop is to teach a magical discipline Castaneda purportedly learned from the Yaqui seer don Juan Matus. According to Castaneda, the seers of ancient Mexico experienced states of enhanced awareness while dreaming. They learned to recreate these states white awake using a collection of precise movements called "sorcery passes."

Shrouded in secrecy, this discipline was passed down through twenty-seven generations of sorcerers, of which don Juan Matus was the last. Now Castaneda and a few of his cohorts claim to be the contemporary stewards of this ancient sorcerers' art, which Castaneda has named "tensegrity," after an architectural term for opposing forces in balance.

Another perspective, offered by Castaneda's critics, is that he is the inventor of this discipline, and of the myth of don Juan Matus. According to them, Castaneda's myth has its origins not in the preconquest world of the Toltecs, but in the summer of 1961, when the then thirty-seven-year-old UCLA anthropology student ventured into the Sonoran desert in search of his Ph.D. There, beneath the broiling Mexican sun, Castaneda presumably cooked up his engaging tales of sorcery.

Despite high praise for Castaneda from respectable academic, scientific, and literary quarters, skeptics remain troubled by chronological inconsistencies in his books, by his refusal to bring forth don Juan for public scrutiny, and by the author's own inaccessibility. In the end, don Juan Matus seems destined to haunt us like a phantom glimpsed at the edge of our vision, quickening our hearts with the possibility that sorcery still exists.

Six years ago, a new dimension to the controversy arose when two women-- Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar-- wrote elegant, dreamlike books describing their own encounters with don Juan. Donner-Grau and Abelar revealed themselves to be colleagues of Castaneda.

A third colleague, Carol Tiggs, was mentioned in Castaneda's latest book, The Art of Dreaming, in which he described how, while "dreaming together" with him in a Mexican hotel room, Tiggs disappeared from this world, borne on the wings of "intent." The "gales of infinity" blew her back to this dimension ten years later, when Castaneda discovered her wandering in a daze in Santa Monica's Phoenix Bookstore. Her improbable return had "ripped a hole in the fabric of the universe."

Castaneda, Donner-Grau, and Abelar were thoroughly disconcerted by the implications of this event. In the end, Tiggs persuaded her fellow travelers to adopt a radical new approach to their work: for the first time, they would present the teachings of don Juan openly, offering seekers the opportunity to explore in detail the legendary seer's fantastic practices.

They arrived at this unprecedented decision, they say, because they are the last of their lineage and will soon "ignite the fire from within and complete the somersault into the inconceivable." More, they are opening up their discipline out of gratitude to their teachers and benefactors, so that their ancient knowledge may live on.

Like many readers, I have been greatly moved and inspired by Castaneda's books- especially (for obvious reasons) his writings about the magical possibilities of dreams. At the same time, I have maintained a journalist's skepticism about the whole affair.

But now the creatures molded by the myth of don Juan Matus have emerged from the fog of their inaccessibility and rustle through my awareness like windblown leaves. I go to hear their message bearing questions, doubts, anticipation, and a longing for magic to refute the soulless dreams of contemporary society.

The six female instructors, called "energy trackers," are standing in pairs atop three raised platforms in the Oakland Convention Center. They are dressed martial arts style, in loose-fitting pants and shirts, their hair cut short, all of them exuding an attractive strength and athleticism. They range in age from eleven to thirty-six, and come from Europe and America. Their manner is simultaneously friendly and no-nonsense. They are here to teach, and the three-hundred odd individuals surrounding them are here to learn.

Over the next two days the energy trackers demonstrate an elaborate series of movements-- the "sorcery passes" Castaneda has written about. The movements have evocative names: Cracking a Nugget of Energy, Stepping over a Root of Energy, Shaking Off the Mud of Energy. I have years of hatha yoga practice, and can confirm some parallels between the two disciplines. Many movements also have a fierce, martial mood reminiscent of aikido and karate.

But there are some unusual elements to the tensegrity system that I cannot place in any familiar context.

Among participants, there is an enormous mix of occupations-- physicists, teachers, engineers, artists, laborers, biologists-- and nationalities: Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, American, French. I speak to a variety of people, searching for testimony to the movements' effectiveness, and what I hear slowly begins to shake my doubts.

One man, who in his youth practiced karate for six years, says he finds the tensegrity movements uniquely powerful. "The more I'm exposed to tensegrity," he tells me, "the more I think that nobody could just make these movements up. There are too many of them, they're too sophisticated and systematic, and the results are just too powerful."

Mario, a Tarahumara Indian raised in northern Mexico who now lives in Los Angeles, says he and a group of Mexican and Indian friends have long gathered informally to practice strategies gleaned from Castaneda's books. Now, due to this more formal presentation of the teachings, they have increased their efforts. When Mario describes some of his dreaming adventures, I am struck by their evident similarity to the conscious dreams of my childhood.

"Recently, I found myself awake within a dream," Mario says. "I was beneath a tree on a hilltop; I am not sure where. My brother Joss, who lives in Oaxaca, was with me. He asked me what I had learned in the workshop I had attended. I told him, and we exchanged more information about our personal lives. I was fully conscious during the dream, but when I awoke I had forgotten something: Joss had told me something at the very end of the dream, and I could not recollect it.

"A week later, he called me from Mexico. Before I could speak he began describing the dream to me: the same hill, the same tree, the same conversation. I felt a chill, and a sense of awe. Then he asked if I remembered what he had told me at the end of our dream, Before he could say anything more, my ears began ringing loudly, and the forgotten scene replayed itself in a flash. He had thanked me for bringing him to this path."

Over the course of the weekend we hear from all three of Castaneda's fellow teachers. Speaking first, Florinda Donner-Grau looks out over the audience and smiles like a Cheshire cat. Her brush-cut blond hair and elegant cheekbones look strongly Teutonic, and she speaks with precise diction, as if each word were a delectable morsel:

"Don Juan Matus presented four faces to his four disciples. To Carlos Castaneda he was a fierce and fearsome presence of terrible import and beauty. To Taisha Abelar he was an enigmatic yet intensely familiar figure. For myself he was an abrupt intrusion into my world, at once unsettling and soothing. For Carol Tiggs he was a gentle, fatherly figure capable of tremendous affection."

She goes on to tell us that, in the world of sorcerers, women are gifted creatures by virtue of their affinity with the feminine nature of the universe. Using their womb, they are able to access universal energy and accomplish stupendous feats of transformation. But at the same time, women must contend with the immensely stupefying effects of their socialization. In short, they are trained from birth to be bimbos, and only by unyielding effort can they escape that fate.

"Don Juan asked me," Donner-Grau says, "in a very matter-of-fact tone, whether I wanted to be a stupid cunt for the rest of my life... You must understand, I come from a very proper Spanish-German family. No one especially not a man-- had ever used that word in my presence. I was horrified and insulted."

Given the delight with which she recounts the episode, I can only conclude that at some point she got over her mortification.

For me, the defining moment of her talk comes when she speaks of death:

"Death is your truest friend, and your most reliable advisor. If you have doubts about the course of your life, you have only to consult your death for the proper direction. Death will never lie to you.

Taisha Abelar is elegant yet energetic. I cannot place her accent, but her overall speech and appearance bring to mind a sixtyish Katharine Hepburn. I am intrigued by the differences between her dream experiences and mine.

"I was on the roof of a building," Abelar says, "in the middle of a strange city. Suddenly, from above I heard a terrible racket, and I saw a black shape descending toward me out of the sky. I moved immediately, and as I did saw that the black shape was actually a helicopter, and the horrible noise was the sound of its blades slicing the air. If I had stayed another second on that roof, I would have been mincemeat."

At first I am puzzled by this, because in my conscious dreams I could manipulate the environment in extraordinary ways. I wonder why Abelar did not will the helicopter away, or make it burst into flames. Then it dawns on me: she's talking about transporting her physical body into those worlds.

For the next hour, she recounts wild tales that make me think her either insane or an accomplished liar. But everything in her manner suggests sobriety and sincerity, and I am forced to recognize a third, nearly inconceivable alternative: that she is faithfully reporting her experiences.

For her part, Carol Tiggs describes dreaming adventures every bit as bizarre and otherworldly as Abelar's, but most of her tales involve dreaming together with Carlos Castaneda. Like Castaneda, Tiggs identifies herself as a nagual, a Toltec term meaning "teacher" or "leader." The affinity that links a nagual woman and a nagual man and allows them to dream together is described in several of Castaneda's books. It is neither a romantic nor a sexual bond, but something much more profound.

Toward the end of her talk, Tiggs answers a question from the audience about Castaneda's health (word is that he's ill), and I sense the fierce affection between them. She grows still. Drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, she smiles as if through tears and says, "Our brother Carlos could not join us because he is battling an infection. We do not know the nature of his illness. A sorcerer cannot avail himself of traditional medicine; he must rely on the spirit, and on his own resources.

"Before a sorcerer reaches the threshold where his body no longer functions, he will choose, if he can, to kindle the awareness of his entire being, in order to leave this world intact and whole. And our brother Carlos has made a promise to include us in that final act. But we do not know if this is the time of his leaving."

She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is hushed with wonder. "We are here together, in a bubble outside of time, dreaming the dream of the ancient Toltecs. By your efforts, you have helped us to expand and accelerate into the unknown. We thank you, " she concludes softly, spreading her arms to the audience, "and we embrace you in the dream."

As I drive back to Portland Sunday night, I look for changes in myself and find instead that the discontent and emptiness that have plagued me for half my life have intensified tenfold. I remain outside the great mysteries, endlessly writing, endlessly doubting.

On top of this, my body erupts: my left testicle swells to twice its normal size, and chickenpox afflicts me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. I go to a traditional Chinese doctor whose wisdom is derived from a long historical lineage. He takes my pulses and examines my tongue, then sits back and nods his head repeatedly, like a thirsty crane dipping for water, all the while murmuring in Chinese. He prepares a complex concoction of herbs, which I consume, summoning what gratitude I can for the plants that have given their lives for mine.

A few weeks pass, and I regain my equilibrium, but my doubts about Carlos Castaneda, which have never really left me, become more insistent. I vacillate between my memories of the practical results reported by the tensegrity practitioners, and knowledge of our ability to interpret myths in the fashion most befitting our needs.

Everything comes down to the authenticity of don Juan and his Toltec predecessors. Was don Juan Matus a myth invented by Carlos Castaneda, or was he a flesh-and-blood sorcerer of mythic proportion? I am aware that only one person can answer that question for me.

Then the seemingly impossible happens: my silent wish is granted, and I receive an unexpected invitation to meet with and interview Carlos Castaneda. Given my shortcomings-- I have led a life of indulgence, have written no grand epics, barely graduated high school, and know nothing of science or anthropology-- I should be enormously intimidated.

But instead, from the moment the invitation is extended, I experience a profound and soothing sense of surety. If Castaneda is merely an inventive rogue, then I will have lost nothing but my illusions. But if he is a bona fide heir to the legacy of Toltec seers, then I will have gained a gift of incalculable value-- the possibility of restoring magic to the remainder of my life.

A lovely quietude comes over me in the wake of this realization, bringing with it a tremulous sense of anticipation and- most remarkable for me-- an overwhelming ease and confidence. Everything has come full circle. There seems nothing left to do but greet the unknown.

I look up from the four single-spaced pages of questions I have prepared and glimpse a party of three weaving their way toward me through the Santa Monica restaurant. The woman who arranged the interview for me is in front. She introduces me to one of the energy trackers from the workshop, and then to the little man behind her-- Carlos Castaneda. The ease of the last few days does not abandon me, and I greet Castaneda with a relaxed mixture of respect, affection, and professional skepticism.

He is gracious and unpretentious, and rolls up the sleeves of his rumpled white shirt with Old World courtliness as we settle into our seats. I fuss with my notes and study him with covert glances. From my research I know that he is Peruvian-born and at least seventy-one years old. He appears, however, to be in his early sixties. He is perhaps five-foot-two, with skin the color of burnished copper, a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, and an elfin frame. His face is handsome and weathered, a symphony of angles and furrows that suggest classic Spanish features. His eyes are sharp and lucid, his expression by turns thoughtful, friendly, and playful.

He offers me some bottled water, and this small gesture seems to embody generosity. I feel as if I am among friends.

For the next three hours I ask sporadic questions from my lengthy list, but mostly I am absorbed in listening and taking notes.

"This discipline is an internal affair," Castaneda says at one point. "There are techniques, but they must be fortified by a decision, and by a feeling from within. You need to arrive at that decision and feeling yourself. For me, it is a matter of daily renewal."

Talk of discipline prompts me to ask about something he once said: that quitting smoking could be a revolutionary act.

"You don't smoke, do you?" he inquires, frankly curious.

"In honor of this occasion," I reply, "I have left my smokes at home."

He seems unperturbed by my admission, and by the banality of my problems.

"I started smoking when I was eight," he says. "I wanted to be like these older Argentinian guys. You should have seen them; they were the coolest guys in the world." With an absurdly suave pantomime he mimics the coolest guys in the world, squinting his left eye and tilting his head to blow an invisible cloud of smoke into the air. "One day, don Juan told me to stop smoking. I replied that I liked smoking and would stop when I was ready.

"Then I tried to quit and couldn't; not the first time, or the second time. Even all these years later, I still find myself patting my breast pocket for the cigarettes that are no longer there. These routines are difficult, but not impossible, to break," he concludes. "You merely have to jump the---"

His last word is lost to the lilt of his accent. I let it pass and listen as he describes a woman friend of his who was dying in a hospital. (I have said nothing of my own illness at this point, nor does my appearance give any clue.) "I loved this woman dearly," he says. "She was a tremendous friend. I asked don Juan what I could do for her.

"He described a strategy to me, and I passed it on to her. I told her she must push her illness away with her hand, with her intent, repeatedly, for as long as it took. She replied that she was too weak to lift her arm. 'Then use your foot!' I cried. 'Use your heart; use your mind! Intend it out of you!' But she no longer had the energy to do so."

Without prompting on my part, he begins talking about his recent illness, which he describes as "a vicious viral infection." I am spooked by the parallel to my own life, and momentarily stop taking notes in order to observe him. He matter-of-factly describes a bout with a deadly infection, and how his discipline compelled him to refuse the conventional treatments offered by a doctor.

The upshot-- that his apparently life-threatening condition resolved itself-- is obvious from the fact that he now sits across from me, a bundle of energy.

"I have been reading a book by the ex-wife of Carl Sagan," he continues. "She has this theory about the viral nature of the body. She theorizes that, physically, we are simply sacks of viruses. We live in a predatory universe, and nothing is more predatory than viruses.

"We are creatures who will die," he adds, almost as a non sequitur, and it is too much for me. I have come here under the guise of a journalist, but in fact I've known all along that I am seeking a healing of the heart before I leave this earth. My time seems short, and before I can stop myself, I rudely interrupt him.

"I have a personal question," I begin.

"Please, please," he says kindly, beckoning with his hands. "Ask anything you like."

"Well," I say, "I hate melodrama. So I will just say that I have a health condition. There is a lot of leeway with it, but the conventional wisdom is that..." I look away, loath to appear manipulative or needy.

"Perhaps a few more seasons," I murmur. "A few more blows to my system, and..."

I flick my wrist as if sweeping dust from the table: poof, swish, gone.

What I have done seems terribly unprofessional to me; yet, I think childishly, he started it, with his books, with his straightforward assertions that in this day and age we are still capable of experiencing the world as magic.

I feel a sense of displaced anger and longing, as well as the anguish that I have carried since I first turned my back on all that was sacred to me.

Holding my gaze intently yet dispassionately, Castaneda launches into another lengthy tale, this one about an alcoholic friend of his. He regards me from beneath slightly lowered lids, as if squinting into the sun. His eyes are keen and bright, like slivers of obsidian, yet their effect is neither hypnotic nor overpowering. Rather, they seem to hold a kind of open challenge.

"So," he concludes, like a professor summarizing his wisdom, "I would move. I would jump the---."

Again, I lose his last word, and my anxiety must be apparent, because he repeats slowly, "I would jump the groove."

He pauses to lift an invisible needle from a turntable, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I would change the groove," he says. "I would move."

My adolescent journals are full of this same metaphor. At that time, the one-track groove that the stylus followed on a record symbolized for me the habitual nature of my mind. Changing the groove meant changing those habits that robbed me of my ability to experience ordinary life as full of beauty and wonder.

The three routines I most sought to change were my habit of picking my nose, my adolescent temper. and-- hardest of all my endless capacity for rehashing old events in my mind instead of simply letting go.

Now, at age thirty-six, I find it is only my temper that has mellowed. I still pick my nose, and I am still capable of endlessly justifying, defending, and excusing my past actions. To these insipid routines I have added, over the past seven years, the habitual momentum of dying.

I have known from the moment I shared that needle that a part of me was conspiring in my own death. In the interim, that same part has come to view AIDS as a fitting punishment for my sins, or perhaps as the articulation of my spiritual barrenness.

Yet, throughout it all, something resilient within me has refused to die. I prefer to call that inviolate something "spirit," and it is that same spirit that is aroused in me now as I listen to Castaneda's prescription for change. Death is the one inexorable fact in our transitory lives. Perhaps I will die a doddering old fool; perhaps I will die before the sun sets tonight. But I will die- that much is certain.

In the meantime, what remains within my control is the groove of my life, the track upon which I choose to walk between the exclamation of my coming and the ellipsis of my going. At its purest, this track is trackless, like a path covered by freshly fallen snow.

And trodding such virgin paths is the most enduring image of my adolescent dreams. By speaking directly to that memory, Castaneda has reawakened it within my heart. Given the perilously low ebb I have reached in life, I can only describe this feat as a genuine act of sorcery.

Ah, but what of don Juan Matus, the mythic Yaqui seer whose bones I have come to exhume? Does he sit before me now, a trickster-teacher weaving deceptive tales of wisdom, folly, and truth? I do not know, and cannot say.

Three hours have passed, and Castaneda is gently signaling the end of our meeting by unrolling the sleeves of his weathered cotton shirt. There is still time for that final and most compelling journalistic question, but something within me lets it pass.

And then, unexpectedly, the silence is broken once more by Castaneda's lovely accent. His gaze is fixed in the distance, and he speaks softly, his words like those of a man confronting an insoluble mystery. Again, I study him for evidence of deception and come away empty-handed.

"If I could ask don Juan one final question," he begins slowly, "I would ask, How did he move me so? How did he touch my spirit so that every beat of my heart is filled with the feeling of this path?"

"Every beat of my heart," he repeats quietly, and for a brief moment his words seem to hang in the air like fog. Then his whispered phrase is touched by time, and disappears into the mystery that surrounds us.



Copyright September 1997 The Sun



1997 - Uno Mismo - Carlos Castaneda Inerview by Daniel Trujillo Rivas


Version 2011.07.09

Uno Mismo - Feb 1997

Navigating Into the Unknown

An Interview with Carlos Castaneda for the magazine Uno Mismo, Chile and Argentina, February, 1997 by Daniel Trujillo Rivas



Question:
Mr. Castaneda, for years you've remained in absolute anonymity. What drove you to change this condition and talk publicly about the teachings that you and your three companions received from the nagual Juan Matus?


Answer:
What compels us to disseminate don Juan Matus's ideas is a need to clarify what he taught us. For us, this is a task that can no longer be postponed. His other three students and I have reached the unanimous conclusion that the world to which Don Juan Matus introduced us is within the perceptual possibilities of all human beings.

We've discussed among us what would be the appropriate road to take. To remain anonymous the way don Juan proposed to us? This option was not acceptable. The other road available was to disseminate don Juan's ideas: an infinitely more dangerous and exhausting choice, but the only one that, we believe, has the dignity don Juan imbued all his teachings with.


Q:
Considering what you have said about the unpredictability of a warrior's actions, which we have corroborated for three decades, can we expect this public phase you're going through to last for a while? Until when?


A:
There is no way for us to establish a temporal criteria. We live according to the premises proposed by don Juan and we never deviate from them. Don Juan Matus gave us the formidable example of a man who lived according to what he said. And I say it is a formidable example because it is the most difficult thing to emulate; to be monolithic and at the same time have the flexibility to face anything.

This was the way don Juan lived his life. Within these premises, the only thing one can be is an impeccable mediator. One is not the player in this cosmic match of chess, one is simply a pawn on the chessboard. What decides everything is a conscious impersonal energy that sorcerers call intent or the Spirit.


Q:
As far as I've been able to corroborate, orthodox anthropology, as well as the alleged defenders of the pre-Colombian cultural heritage of America, undermine the credibility of your work. The belief that your work is merely the product of your literary talent, which, by the way, is exceptional, continues to exist today. There are also other sectors that accuse you of having a double standard because, supposedly, your lifestyle and your activities contradict what the majority expect from a shaman. How can you clear up these suspicions?


A:
The cognitive system of the Western man forces us to rely on preconceived ideas. We base our judgments on something that is always "a priori," for example the idea of what is "orthodox." What is orthodox anthropology? The one taught at university lecture halls? What is a shaman's behavior? To wear feathers on one's head and dance to the spirits?

For thirty years, people have accused Carlos Castaneda of creating a literary character simply because what I report to them does not concur with the anthropological "a priori," the ideas established in the lecture halls or in the anthropological field work.

However, what don Juan presented to me can only apply to a situation that calls for total action and, under such circumstances, very little or almost nothing of the preconceived occurs. I have never been able to draw conclusions about shamanism because in order to do this one needs to be an active member in the shamans' world.

For a social scientist, let's say for example a sociologist, it is very easy to arrive at sociological conclusions over any subject related to the Occidental world, because the sociologist is an active member of the Occidental world. But how can an anthropologist, who spends at the most two years studying other cultures, arrive at reliable conclusions about them? One needs a lifetime to be able to acquire membership in a cultural world. I've been working for more than thirty years in the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico and, sincerely, I don't believe I have acquired the membership that would allow me to draw conclusions or to even propose them.

I have discussed this with people from different disciplines and they always seem to understand and agree with the premises I'm presenting. But then they turn around and they forget everything they agreed upon and continue to sustain "orthodox" academic principles, without caring about the possibility of an absurd error in their conclusions. Our cognitive system seems to be impenetrable.


Q:
What's the aim of you not allowing yourself to be photographed, having your voice recorded or making your biographical data known? Could this affect what you've achieved in your spiritual work, and if so how? Don't you think it would be useful for some sincere seekers of truth to know who you really are, as a way of corroborating that it is really possible to follow the path you proclaim?


A:
With reference to photographs and personal data, the other three disciples of don Juan and myself follow his instructions. For a shaman like don Juan, the main idea behind refraining from giving personal data is very simple. It is imperative to leave aside what he called "personal history". To get away from the "me" is something extremely annoying and difficult. What shamans like don Juan seek is a state of fluidity where the personal "me" does not count.

He believed that an absence of photographs and biographical data affects whomever enters into this field of action in a positive, though subliminal way. We are endlessly accustomed to using photographs, recordings and biographical data, all of which spring from the idea of personal importance.

Don Juan said it was better not to know anything about a shaman; in this way, instead of encountering a person, one encounters an idea that can be sustained; the opposite of what happens in the everyday world where we are faced only with people who have numerous psychological problems but no ideas, all of these people filled to the brim with "me, me, me."


Q:
How should your followers interpret the publicity and the commercial infrastructure a side of your literary work surrounding the knowledge you and your companions disseminate? What's your real relationship with Cleargreen Incorporated and the other companies (Laugan Productions, Toltec Artists)? I'm talking about a commercial link.


A:
At this point in my work I needed someone able to represent me regarding the dissemination of don Juan Matus's ideas. Cleargreen is a corporation that has great affinity with our work, as are Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists. The idea of disseminating don Juan's teachings in the modern world implies the use of commercial and artistic media that are not within my individual reach. As corporations having an affinity with don Juan's ideas, Cleargreen Incorporated, Laugan Productions and Toltec Artists are capable of providing the means to disseminate what I want to disseminate.

There is always a tendency for impersonal corporations to dominate and transform everything that is presented to them and to adapt it to their own ideology. If it weren't for Cleargreen's, Laugan Productions' and Toltec Artists' sincere interest, everything don Juan said would have been transformed into something else by now.


Q:
There are a great number of people who, in one way or another, "cling" to you in order to acquire public notoriety. What's your opinion on the actions of Victor Sanchez, who has interpreted and reorganized your teachings in order to elaborate a personal theory? And of Ken Eagle Feather's assertions that he has been chosen by don Juan to be his disciple, and that don Juan came back just for him?


A:
Indeed there are a number of people who call themselves my students or don Juan's students, people I've never met and whom, I can guarantee, don Juan never met. Don Juan Matus was exclusively interested in the perpetuation of his lineage of shamans. He had four disciples who remain to this day. He had others who left with him. Don Juan was not interested in teaching his knowledge; he taught it to his disciples in order to continue his lineage.

Due to the fact that they cannot continue don Juan's lineage, his four disciples have been forced to disseminate his ideas. The concept of a teacher who teaches his knowledge is part of our cognitive system but it isn't part of the cognitive system of the shamans of ancient Mexico. To teach was absurd for them. To transmit his knowledge to those who were going to perpetuate their lineage was a different matter. The fact that there are a number of individuals who insist in using my name or don Juan's name is simply an easy maneuver to benefit themselves without much effort.


Q:
Let's consider the meaning of the word "spirituality" to be a state of consciousness in which human beings are fully capable of controlling the potentials of the species, something achieved by transcending the simple animal condition through a hard psychic, moral and intellectual training. Do you agree with this assertion? How is don Juan's world integrated into this context?


A:
For don Juan Matus, a pragmatic and extremely sober shaman, "spirituality" was an empty ideality, an assertion without basis that we believe to be very beautiful because it is encrusted with literary concepts and poetic expressions, but which never goes beyond that.

Shamans like don Juan are essentially practical. For them there only exists a predatory universe in which intelligence or awareness is the product of life and death challenges. He considered himself a navigator of infinity and said that in order to navigate into the unknown like a shaman does, one needs unlimited pragmatism, boundless sobriety and guts of steel. In view of all this, don Juan believed that "spirituality" is simply a description of something impossible to achieve within the patterns of the world of everyday life, and it is not a real way of acting.


Q:
You have pointed out that your literary activity, as well as Taisha Abelar's and Florinda Donner-Grau's, is the result of don Juan's instructions. What is the objective of this?


A:
The objective of writing those books was given by don Juan. He asserted that even if one is not a writer one still can write, but writing is transformed from a literary action into a shamanistic action. What decides the subject and the development of a book is not the mind of the writer but rather a force that the shamans consider the basis of the universe, and which they call intent.

It is intent which decides a shaman's production, whether it be literary or of any other kind. According to don Juan, a practitioner of shamanism has the duty and the obligation of saturating himself with all the information available. The work of shamans is to inform themselves thoroughly about everything that could possibly be related to their topic of interest. The shamanistic act consists of abandoning all interest in directing the course the information takes.

Don Juan used to say, "The one who arranges the ideas that spring from such a well of information is not the shaman, it is intent. The shaman is simply an impeccable conduit." For don Juan writing was a shamanistic challenge, not a literary task.


Q:
If you allow me to assert the following, your literary work presents concepts that are closely related with Oriental philosophical teachings, but it contradicts what is commonly known about the Mexican indigenous culture. What are the similarities and the differences between one and the other?


A:
I don't have the slightest idea. I'm not learned in either one of them. My work is a phenomenological report of the cognitive world to which don Juan Matus introduced me. From the point of view of phenomenology as a philosophical method, it is impossible to make assertions that are related to the phenomenon under scrutiny. Don Juan Matus' world is so vast, so mysterious and contradictory, that it isn't suitable for an exercise in linear exposition; the most one can do is describe it, and that alone is a supreme effort.


Q:
Assuming that don Juan's teachings have become part of occult literature, what's your opinion about other teachings in this category, for example Masonic philosophy, Rosicrucianism, Hermeticism and disciplines such as the Cabala, the Tarot and Astrology when we compare them to nagualism? Have you ever had any contact with or maintain any contact with any of these or with their devotees?


A:
Once again, I don't have the slightest idea of what the premises are, or the points of view and subjects of such disciplines. Don Juan presented us with the problem of navigating into the unknown, and this takes all of our available effort.


Q:
Do some of the concepts of your work, such as the assemblage point, the energetic filaments that make up the universe, the world of the inorganic beings, intent, stalking and dreaming, have an equivalent in Western knowledge? For example, there are some people who consider that man seen as a luminous egg is an expression of the aura


A:
As far as I know, nothing of what don Juan taught us seems to have a counterpart in Western knowledge. Once, when don Juan was still here, I spent a whole year in search of gurus, teachers and wise men to give me an inkling of what they were doing. I wanted to know if there was something in the world of that time similar to what don Juan said and did. My resources were very limited and they only took me to meet the established masters who had millions of followers and, unfortunately, I couldn't find any similarity.


Q:
Concentrating specifically on your literary work, your readers find different Carlos Castanedas. We first find a somewhat incompetent Western scholar, permanently baffled at the power of old Indians like don Juan and don Genaro (mainly in The Teachings Of Don Juan, A Separate Reality, A Journey To Ixtlan, Tales Of Power, and The Second Ring Of Power.) Later we find an apprentice versed in shamanism (in The Eagle's Gift, The Fire from Within, The Power of Silence and, particularly, The Art Of Dreaming.)

If you agree with this assessment, when and how did you cease to be one to become the other?


A:
I don't consider myself a shaman, or a teacher, or an advanced student of shamanism; nor do I consider myself an anthropologist or a social scientist of the Western world. My presentations have all been descriptions of a phenomenon which is impossible to discern under the conditions of the linear knowledge of the Western world.

I could never explain what don Juan was teaching me in terms of cause and effect. There was no way to foretell what he was going to say or what was going to happen. Under such circumstances, the passage from one state to another is subjective and not something elaborated, or premeditated, or a product of wisdom.


Q:
One can find episodes in your literary work that are truly incredible for the Western mind. How could someone who's not an initiate verify that all those "separate realities" are real, as you claim?


A:
It can be verified very easily by lending one's whole body instead of only one's intellect. One cannot enter don Juan's world intellectually, like a dilettante seeking fast and fleeting knowledge. Nor, in don Juan's world, can anything be verified absolutely.

The only thing we can do is arrive at a state of increased awareness that allows us to perceive the world around us in a more inclusive manner. In other words, the goal of don Juan's shamanism is to break the parameters of historical and daily perception and to perceive the unknown. That's why he called himself a navigator of infinity.

He asserted that infinity lies beyond the parameters of daily perception. To break these parameters was the aim of his life. Because he was an extraordinary shaman, he instilled that same desire in all four of us. He forced us to transcend the intellect and to embody the concept of breaking the boundaries of historical perception.


Q:
You assert that the basic characteristic of human beings is to be "perceivers of energy." You refer to the movement of the assemblage point as something imperative to perceiving energy directly. How can this be useful to a man of the 21st century? According to the concept previously defined, how can the attainment of this goal help one's spiritual improvement?


A:
Shamans like don Juan assert that all human beings have the capacity to see energy directly as it flows in the universe. They believe that the assemblage point, as they call it, is a point that exists in man's total sphere of energy. In other words, when a shaman perceives a man as energy that flows in the universe, he sees a luminous ball.

In that luminous ball, the shaman can see a point of greater brilliance located at the height of the shoulder blades, approximately an arm's length behind them. Shamans maintain that perception is assembled at this point; that the energy that flows in the universe is transformed here into sensory data, and that the sensory data is later interpreted, giving as a result the world of everyday life.

Shamans assert that we are taught to interpret, and therefore we are taught to perceive.

The pragmatic value of perceiving energy directly as it flows in the universe for a man of the 21st century or a man of the 1st century is the same. It allows him to enlarge the limits of his perception and to use this enhancement within his realm. Don Juan said that to see directly the wonder of the order and the chaos of the universe would be extraordinary.


Q:
You have recently presented a physical discipline called Tensegrity. Can you explain what is it exactly? What is its goal? What spiritual benefit can a person who practices it individually get?


A:
According to what don Juan Matus taught us, the shamans who lived in ancient Mexico discovered a series of movements that when executed by the body brought about such physical and mental prowess that they decided to call those movements magical passes. Don Juan told us that, through their magical passes, those shamans attained an increased level of consciousness which allowed them to perform indescribable feats of perception.

Through generations, the magical passes were only taught to practitioners of shamanism. The movements were surrounded with tremendous secrecy and complex rituals. That is the way don Juan learned them and that is the way he taught them to his four disciples.

Our effort has been to extend the teachings of such magical passes to anyone who wants to learn them. We have called them Tensegrity, and we have transformed them from specific movements pertinent only to each of don Juan's four disciples, to general movements suitable to anyone.

Practicing Tensegrity, individually or in groups, promotes health, vitality, youth and a general sense of well-being. Don Juan said that practicing the magical passes helps accumulate the energy necessary to increase awareness and to expand the parameters of perception.


Q:
Besides your three cohorts, the people who attend your seminars have met other people, like the Chacmools, the Energy Trackers, the Elements, the Blue Scout... Who are they? Are they part of a new generation of seers guided by you? If this is the case, how could one become part of this group of apprentices?


A:
Every one of these persons are defined beings who don Juan Matus, as director of his lineage, asked us to wait for. He predicted the arrival of each one of them as an integral part of a vision. Since don Juan's lineage could not continue, due to the energetic configuration of his four students, their mission was transformed from perpetuating the lineage into closing it, if possible, with a golden clasp.

We are in no position to change such instructions. We can neither look for nor accept apprentices or active members of don Juan's vision. The only thing we can do is acquiesce to the designs of intent.

The fact that the magical passes, guarded with such jealousy for so many generations, are now being taught, is proof that one can, indeed, in an indirect way, become part of this new vision through the practice of Tensegrity and by following the premises of the warriors' way.


Q:
In Readers of Infinity, you've utilized the term "navigating" to define what sorcerers do. Are you going to hoist the sail to begin the definitive journey soon? Will the lineage of Toltec warriors, the keepers of this knowledge, end with you?


A:
Yes, that is correct, don Juan's lineage ends with us.


Q:
Here's a question that I've often asked myself: Does the warriors' path include, like other disciplines do, spiritual work for couples?


A:
The warriors' path includes everything and everyone. There can be a whole family of impeccable warriors. The difficulty lies in the terrible fact that individual relationships are based in emotional investments, and the moment the practitioner really practices what she or he learns, the relationship crumbles.

In the everyday world, emotional investments are not normally examined, and we live an entire lifetime waiting to be reciprocated. Don Juan said I was a diehard investor and that my way of living and feeling could be described simply: "I only give what others give me."


Q:
What aspirations of possible advancement should someone have who wishes to work spiritually according to the knowledge disseminated in your books? What would you recommend for those who wish to practice don Juan's teachings by themselves?


A:
There's no way to put a limit on what one may accomplish individually if the intent is an impeccable intent. Don Juan's teachings are not spiritual. I repeat this because the question has come to the surface over and over. The idea of spirituality doesn't fit with the iron discipline of a warrior.

The most important thing for a shaman like don Juan is the idea of pragmatism. When I met him, I believed I was a practical man, a social scientist filled with objectivity and pragmatism. He destroyed my pretensions and made me see that, as a true Western man, I was neither pragmatic nor spiritual.

I came to understand that I only repeated the word "spirituality" to contrast it with the mercenary aspect of the world of everyday life. I wanted to get away from the mercantilism of everyday life and the eagerness to do this is what I called spirituality. I realized don Juan was right when he demanded that I come to a conclusion; to define what I considered spirituality. I didn't know what I was talking about. What I'm saying might sound presumptuous, but there's no other way to say it.

What a shaman like don Juan wants is to increase awareness, that is, to be able to perceive with all the human possibilities of perception; this implies a colossal task and an unbending purpose, which can not be replaced by the spirituality of the Western world.


Q:
Is there anything you would like to explain to the South American people, especially to the Chileans? Would you like to make any other statement besides your answers to our questions?


A:
I don't have anything to add. All human beings are at the same level. At the beginning of my apprenticeship with don Juan Matus, he tried to make me see how common man's situation is. I, as a South American, was very involved, intellectually, with the idea of social reform.

One day I asked don Juan what I thought was a deadly question: How can you remain unmoved by the horrendous situation of your fellow men, the Yaqui Indians of Sonora? I knew that a certain percentage of the Yaqui population suffered from tuberculosis and that, due to their economic situation, they couldn't be cured.

"Yes," don Juan said, "It's a very sad thing but, you see, your situation is also very sad, and if you believe that you are in better condition than the Yaqui Indians you are mistaken. In general the human condition is in a horrifying state of chaos. No one is better off than another. We are all beings that are going to die and, unless we acknowledge this, there is no remedy for us."

This is another point of the shaman's pragmatism: to become aware that we are beings that are going to die. They say that when we do this, everything acquires a transcendental order and measure.



Translated from Spanish. Reprinted here with permission from Uno Mismo.

Copyright 1997 Laugan Productions.



1998 - AP Wire Story - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

AP News Service, Friday June 19th, 1998 08:23:10 PDT


LOS ANGELES (AP) -- Carlos Castaneda, a godfather of the New Age movement whose best-selling books claimed to relate the ancient mystical secrets of a shaman named Don Juan, has died. He was believed to be 72. Castaneda died of liver cancer April 27 at his home in Westwood, said entertainment lawyer Deborah Drooz, a friend and executor of his estate. "He didn't like attention," Drooz said in Friday editions of the Los Angeles Times. "He always made sure people did not take his picture or record his voice. He didn't like the spotlight. Knowing that, I didn't take it upon myself to issue a press release."

For more than 30 years, Castaneda claimed to have been the apprentice of a Yaqui Indian sorcerer named Don Juan Matus. He had millions of followers around the world, and his 10 books continue to sell in 17 languages.

Castaneda, who held a 1973 Ph.D. in anthropology from the University of California, Los Angeles, said he met Don Juan in Arizona in the early 1960s while researching medicinal plants, and followed when the shaman moved to Sonora, Mexico.

His first book, "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," was a best seller when it appeared in 1968, as were several sequels that purported to track Castaneda's 12-year apprenticeship.

In the works, Castaneda described supernatural, peyote-fueled journeys with a sorcerer who could bend time and space. The books were critically praised-- respected author Joyce Carol Oates called them "remarkable works of art."

Castaneda argued that reality is simply a shared way of looking at the universe that can be transcended through discipline, ritual and concentration. The sorcerer, he said, can see and use the energy that comprises everything but the path to that knowledge is hard and dangerous.

Don Juan said "that in order to navigate into the unknown like a shaman does, one needs unlimited pragmatism, boundless sobriety and guts of steel," Castaneda said in a 1997 interview.

While his books sold millions of copies worldwide, critics doubted that Don Juan existed.

Castaneda always maintained that all his experiences were real.

"This is not a work of fiction," Castaneda said in the prologue to his 1981 book, "The Eagle's Gift." "What I am describing is alien to us; therefore, it seems unreal."

Castaneda himself rarely made appearances and never allowed himself to be photographed or tape-recorded.

"A recording is a way of fixing you in time," he said. "The only thing a sorcerer will not do is be stagnant."

While Castaneda contended that Don Juan did not die but rather "burned from within," he had no doubt about his own mortality.

"Since I'm a moron, I'm sure I'll die," he told the Times. "I wish I would have the integrity to leave the way he did, but there is no assurance."

Castaneda was obscure even on such matters as his birth. Immigration records indicated he was born Dec. 25, 1925 in Cajamarca, Peru, while a volume of "Contemporary Authors" placed it on Dec. 25, 1931 in Sao Paulo, Brazil. No funeral service was held and his cremated remains were taken to Mexico.

* * * * * * * * * *

WASHINGTON, June 19 (Reuters) - Carlos Castaneda, the best-selling author whose tales of drug-induced mental adventures with a Yaqui Indian shaman once fascinated the world, apparently died two months ago, the Los Angeles Times said on Friday.

Castaneda, believed to be 72, died April 27 at his home in Westwood, California, according to entertainment lawyer Deborah Drooz, the Times said.

The cause of death was liver cancer. Castanada wrote 10 books. He once appeared on a Time Magazine cover as a leader of America's spiritual renaissance, but he died without public notice.

He immigrated to the United States in 1951. He was born in Sao Paolo, Brazil, or Cajamarca, Peru, depending on which version of his autobiographical accounts can be believed. His ex-wife, Margaret Runyan Castaneda, wrote in a 1997 memoir: "Much of the Castaneda mystique is based on the fact that even his closest friends aren't sure who he is."

"He didn't like attention," Drooz told the Times. "He always made sure people did not take his picture or record his voice. He didn't like the spotlight. Knowing that, I didn't take it upon myself to issue a press release."

No funeral was held and no public service of any kind took place. The body was cremated and his ashes were taken to Mexico, Drooz said.



1998 - Arizona Republic - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

Saturday, June 20, 1998, Copyright The Arizona Republic



Carlos Castaneda a mystery in life, death.

By Thomas Ropp

The Arizona Republic

Carlos Castaneda died April 27. Or did he?

The Los Angeles Times reported Friday that the bestselling author and self proclaimed "sorcerer" -- died at his home in Los Angeles of liver cancer, that he was cremated immediately and that his ashes were spirited away to Mexico, according to the Culver City, California, mortuary that handled his remains. But a spokesman in the office of Castaneda's Los Angeles literary agent, Tracy Kramer, said it is Kramer's opinion and the opinion of others who worked closely with Castaneda that the author evanesced disappeared like mist from this world in much the same way Castaneda believed his teacher Don Juan and his group did in 1973.

"He had to officially die in order for his will to be executed," the spokesman said.

"We expect a statement on Dr. Castaneda's Cleargreen Web page stating that Carlos Castaneda left this world in the tradition of the Mexican sorcerers of antiquity in his lineage." The Web address is http://www.castaneda.org. Cleargreen is a Los Angeles company set up by Castaneda to market and handle publicity for his books, seminars and workshops.

If Castaneda didn't vanish into thin air, he may as well have. It's doubtful there's ever been a cult personage shrouded in more mystery.

He did not allow himself to be photographed, have his voice recorded or grant many interviews.

No one knows when he was born, where, or even his real name.

One of his autobiographical accounts reports that Carlos Ce'sar Arana Castaneda immigrated to the United States in 1951. He reportedly was born Christmas Day 1925, in Sao Paolo, Brazil.

"Much of the Castaneda mystique is based on the fact that even his closest friends aren't sure who he is," wrote his ex-wife, Margaret Runyan Castaneda, in a 1997 memoir that Castaneda tried to keep from being published.

Castaneda denied being married. Whoever he was or in whatever manner he "moved on," there's no denying Castaneda's legacy.

His 10 bestselling books on the teachings of Yaqui shaman Don Juan's worlds of non-ordinary reality galvanized a generation in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Many viewed him as America's godfather of the New Age movement.

His books were subsequently translated into 17 languages, adding millions more to his fan base. While his popularity has waned in this country, his works are just now being discovered and revered in places such as Germany and Italy. Castaneda's adventures began in 1960, when he met Don Juan Matus in Nogales, Arizona. He was an anthropology student at UCLA, collecting information for a doctorate on the use of hallucinogenic peyote cactus by indigenous peoples. He was told by a mutual friend that Matus was an expert on peyote. Castaneda thought he was studying the elderly Yaqui Indian, but Juan Matus was studying him. Castaneda became his apprentice. Encouraged by Don Juan, Castaneda wrote about his indoctrination and participation in the world of seers, witches and beings from "unfathomable" worlds. Castaneda's thesis, published in 1968 by the University of California Press, became an international bestseller, "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge."

He continued publishing over the next 30 years. "The Wheel of Time: The Shamans of Ancient Mexico, Their Thoughts about Life, Death and the Universe" is scheduled to be released in two weeks.

A spokeswoman for Castaneda's Cleargreen Corp. said that his works will continue to be published and that there are "things written down that have not yet come out." She regards Castaneda's company as the carrier of his legacy... "We believe that if people want to reach infinity, the tools are available," the spokeswoman said.

I met Carlos Castaneda last summer in a Cuban restaurant near West Hollywood. The interview came about because of a workshop sponsored by Castaneda that was coming to Phoenix. He did not notice me when I first walked in. He was looking down at his table, elbows propped, head between his palms like a sleepy kid in study hall. He did not look well then. He was very thin.

But when he looked up, my eyes met the eyes of the most famous sorcerer in the world. These were sober eyes, steady eyes that reeled in my awareness and held it with unbending intent. As if reading my mind, he said: "There is nothing to Carlos Castaneda. Personality is a pretense. Fame? Success? Who gives a (expletive)? If we weren't so involved in ourselves, we wouldn't do such barbaric things to ourselves." He then smiled mischievously, and I joined him for a long, pleasant lunch.

As for who Carlos Castaneda really was, you'll have to decide for yourself. For me, he was the real thing.

Copyright 1998 by The Arizona Republic



1998 - Austin Chronicle - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

Austin Chronicle - July 1998

Homage to a Sorcerer

by Michael Ventura



A sorcerer died two or three months ago. Liver cancer, they said, but the details are vague. Also vague is why it took so long for word to get out. There are strange rumors. No matter. All this is as it should be for a sorcerer. Strangest of all, in a way, were the obituaries of the media heavies, a blurry photo in The New York Times, tributes that were respectful in a distant and baffled sort of way. It's doubtful The New York Times ever before felt compelled to pay homage to a sorcerer. But that was Carlos Castaneda's mojo. Many who professed not to take him seriously nevertheless read him, remembered, and were haunted. Let them wonder whether he was born in 1931, as he said, or in 1925, as some immigration records said. Let them wonder whether he was Peruvian or Mexican. Wonder, even in such minor matters, will be good for them.

Carlos Castaneda has died. There aren't many to bear witness to or for him, because he didn't allow many witnesses. One met him by invitation, usually, and even that was more fluke than not. Those invited were of all sorts. I happened to be one, for reasons that weren't clear (to me) and probably aren't important. Perhaps I was called to be a witness?

About 12 years ago a friend who worked in a bookstore in Santa Monica called:

Carlos Castaneda was giving a talk in the cellar of the store (it would be in the cellar!), by invitation only, would I like to come? Who knew it was really him, I said? My caller, whom I had reason to trust, said, "It's Carlos, alright."

He was a small man. Impossible to tell his age. Didn't look much over 40, but his eyes were older, smiling eyes but deepened by a vague sense of grief. He laughed readily, didn't insist that we take him seriously, stood before us in an attitude of welcome. He wanted us to ask him questions. He said there was something he'd forgotten, and that sometimes he came out of his seclusion and talked to strangers hoping that a question would spark the memory of this forgotten thing. He didn't say this sadly. He was frank and matter-of-fact. That night nobody asked the question he was seeking, but every question brought forth a story of Don Juan, and every story had laughter in it. As in his books, when Castaneda spoke of Don Juan the old Yaqui wizard was near and dangerous, inviting us to adventure. It was Castaneda's laughter, more than his skills as a storyteller, that convinced me of his sincerity and authenticity. He talked for free, had nothing to gain from us, spoke without artifice. People rarely laugh when they lie. At least, in my experience, they don't laugh sweetly. And there was an irresistible sweetness to this man.

He described the most fantastic experiences as though they were almost jokes, but the joke was on him. I had the impression of a desperate man, but a man who knew how to live with desperation in ways that made it something else. He'd transformed his desperation, as a sorcerer must, into a search. (Was I seeing in him the man I would like to be, who, though fated to desperation, could be desperate in a wise and engaging and gentle way? Perhaps.) He was, at the same time, vulnerable and invulnerable: vulnerable in that he seemed a little lost; invulnerable in that he was on his path, a path of heart. If he was lost it was because that path had led him to unknown and unexpected territory. It would have been easier for him to face physical danger than to face that there was something important about Don Juan he'd forgotten. But he was facing it, and in public. More than magic tricks and the Sorcerer's Way, Don Juan had taught him to be brave.

When he finished speaking, and the 20 or so people in that cellar milled around, he greeted a couple of old friends. I didn't want to intrude, didn't introduce myself, wouldn't have known what to say anyway. So, in effect, I met him but he didn't meet me.

Then, about three years ago, another friend called. Would I like to go to lunch with Carlos Castaneda? Why I received this invitation I was never told. It turned out that there were four of us and Carlos. We met at the Pacific Dining Car, one of the best (and most expensive) steakhouses on the West Coast. (Carlos picked up the check.) He had changed, and so had I. We had both lived a lot further into our very different desperations, and carried them with more assurance. He was much thinner, older - obviously ill. Whereas in the bookstore's cellar he had dressed casually, this day he was decked out in an elegant suit. But for all his fragility he seemed much livelier, happier, and even funnier. The food was very fine, but really we lunched on laughter. Even his saddest stories of Don Juan were, again, like jokes; but this time the joke wasn't on Carlos, wasn't on us - the joke was between the wizard and God, and a splendid joke it was.

I won't repeat those stories. I wasn't there to record them. They were his to tell or not. Best that anything he chose not to write should die with him. But two moments caused not laughter but silence. A woman at the table said she loved her job, her husband, and her child, but still she felt a lack - it was that she had no spiritual life. How could she achieve a spiritual life?

Answering this woman, Carlos didn't change the lightness or generosity of his manner; yet a steely thing came into his voice, a tone that made his words pierce all of us. He said that when she got home at night she should sit in her chair and remember that her child, her husband, everyone she loved, and she herself, were going to die - and they would die in no particular order, unpredictably. "Remember this every night, and you'll soon have a spiritual life."

Notice that he didn't tell her what sort of spiritual life to have, much less whether it should agree with his. He didn't suggest she read his books more carefully, or attend the movement classes he'd begun to teach. He gave her a practical instruction, something she could accomplish within the parameters of her life as it was, and then assured her that this would set her on her own spiritual path, whatever that might turn out to be. This is the mark of a true Teacher.

Later in the conversation this woman asked how she could discipline herself to follow his advice, deeply follow it, so that it wouldn't be just an exercise. Carlos said: "You give yourself a command."

On the page there's no duplicating how he said it. He spoke quietly, but it was as though he'd suddenly jammed a knife into the tabletop.

"What's that mean?" one of us asked.

"It means you give yourself a command." And that was that.

A command is not a promise. A command is not "trying." A command is something that must be obeyed. His tone invoked something deeper than the idea of mere will. His was a call to action. He wasn't talking about mulling or meditating or analyzing or wishing. To step on the path you step on the path.

There is no substitute for that.

After a nine-months-pregnant pause, the conversation took flight again. He told of a party at which a very tall and handsome Native American was saying, with great solemnity, that he was Carlos Castaneda, and revealing all sorts of Don Juan's "secrets." Did Carlos disabuse him of that fantasy?

"No!" he laughed. "He looked the way people expect Carlos Castaneda to look! Not some little round-faced brown man. And he was having such a good time! Why ruin it? Let him be Carlos for an evening!"

About a year later the woman who'd asked those questions at our lunch sent me a pamphlet that Carlos had printed privately. He'd requested she send it on to me. One passage goes:

"Sorcerers understand discipline as the capacity to face with serenity odds that are not included in our expectations. For them, discipline is a volitional act that enables them to intake anything that comes their way without regrets or expectations. For sorcerers, discipline is an art: the art of facing infinity without flinching, not because they are filled with toughness, but because they are filled with awe. ... Discipline is the art of feeling awe."

Any manifestation of the universe, any way in which it behaves toward us, isn't merely about us, isn't merely psychological, but is a movement of the universe, and as such what happens to us, no matter what it is, connects us to everything, and in that connection what can be felt but awe? "A live world," he wrote, "is in constant flux. It moves; it changes; it reverses itself." We try to defend ourselves against that, but we cannot. The only freeing response is awe.

When I saw him years ago in that cellar, an unhappier man than the dying man at lunch, I wrote: His presence was an admission that every truth is fragile, that every knowledge must be learned over and over again, every night, that we grow not in a straight line but in ascending and descending and tilting circles, and that what gives us power one year robs us of power the next, for nothing is settled, ever, for anyone.

Now I would add: What makes this bearable is awe.

Go well, Don Carlos.



Copyright Austin Chronicle, July 1998



1998 - Chicago Tribune - Carlos Castaneda's Legacy in Dispute


Version 2011.07.09

Chicago Tribune - Sep 1998

Carlos Castaneda's legacy is in dispute

By Peter Applebome

September 2, 1998

After he began publishing his best-selling accounts of his purported adventures with a Mexican shaman 30 years ago, Carlos Castaneda's life and work played out in a wispy blur of sly illusion and artful deceit.

Now, four months after he died and two months after the death was made public, a probate court in Los Angeles is sifting through competing claims on the estate of the author whose works helped define the 1960s and usher in the New Age movement.

His followers say he left the Earth with the same elegant, willful mystery that characterized his life. The man he used to call his son says Castaneda died while a virtual prisoner of cultlike followers who controlled his last days and his estate.

Given that Castaneda's literary credibility, marital history, place of birth, circumstances of death and almost everything else about his life are in dispute, the competing claims -- including questions about the authenticity of his will and his competence to sign it -- are not surprising. But they are providing a nasty coda to the life of a man whose books, which sold 8 million copies in 17 languages, are viewed variously as fact, metaphor or hoax.

Admirers say the areas of dispute, most famously whether Don Juan Matus, the purported shaman and brujo (witch), ever existed, are peripheral to the real issues Castaneda explored in his books.

"Carlos knew exactly what was true and what was not true," said Angela Panaro, of Cleargreen Inc., the group that marketed Castaneda's teachings and seminars near the end of his life. "But the thing that's missing when people talk about Carlos is not whether Don Juan lived or not, or who lived in what house. It's about becoming a voyager of awareness, about the 600 locations in the luminous egg of man where the assemblage point can shift, about the process of depersonalization he taught."

The luminous egg, assemblage point and processes of depersonalization are all part of the practice of Tensegrity, a blend of meditation and movement exercises that Castaneda taught in his final years as a way for people to break through the limitations of ordinary consciousness. Skeptics say they sum up a career characterized, in the end, by literate New Age mumbo jumbo and artful deception.

Even Margaret Runyan Castaneda, who had been married to him, while admiring Castaneda and his work, says she doubts Don Juan ever existed and thinks his name came from Mateus, the bubbly Portuguese wine the couple used to drink.

Carlos Castaneda rocketed from obscure anthropology graduate student at the University of California at Los Angeles to instant, if elusive, celebrity in 1968 with the publication of "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," a vivid account of the spiritual and pharmacological adventures he had with a white-haired Yaqui Indian nagual or shaman, Don Juan Matus. In that book, its sequel, "A Separate Reality" and eight others, he described his apprenticeship to Don Juan and a spiritual journey in which he saw giant insects, learned to fly and grew a beak as part of a process of breaking the hold of ordinary perception.

Admirers saw his work as a gripping spiritual quest in the tradition of Aldous Huxley's "Doors of Perception." Skeptics wondered how much was true.

In recent years, he surfaced with a new vision, the teaching of Tensegrity, which is described on the Cleargreen Web site as "the modernized version of some movements called magical passes developed by Indian shamans who lived in Mexico in times prior to the Spanish conquest." He even made public appearances and spoke at seminars promoting the work.

Tensegrity, its organizers say, allows followers to perceive pure energy, "zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments" and break the chains of normal cognition.

Unknown to customers who turned out for the seminars -- which cost $600 and more, where they could buy Castaneda's books, $29.95 videos and Tensegrity T-shirts reading, "The magic is in the movement" -- Castaneda was dying of cancer while describing his route to vibrant good health.

Indeed, although only his inner circle knew about it for two months, he died on April 27 at his home, surrounded by high hedges in Westwood, a well-to-do section of Los Angeles, where he lived for many years with some of the self-described witches, stalkers, dreamers and spiritual seekers who shared his work.

At a brief hearing in probate court in Los Angeles recently, the man whom Castaneda for many years called his son challenged the will Castaneda apparently signed four days before his death. The judge set a hearing date of Oct. 15 for the case.

C.J. Castaneda, also known as Adrian Vashon-- whose birth certificate cites Carlos Castaneda as his father, although another man was actually his father-- says Cleargreen became a cultlike group that came to control Castaneda's life. "Those people latched onto him, stuck their claws in him and rode him for all he was worth," said C.J.. Castaneda, who operates two small coffee shops in suburban Atlanta and calls himself a powerful brujo. "I don't believe the will has my father's signature, and I don't believe he was competent to sign it three days before he died."

Deborah Drooz, Carlos Castaneda's lawyer and executor of his estate, said she witnessed the signing along with another lawyer and a notary public. She said that Carlos Castaneda was completely lucid when he signed the will, and that C.J. Castaneda had no claims to the estate. She denied that Carlos Castaneda's followers were anything akin to a cult and said C.J.. Castaneda's claim did not constitute a serious legal challenge.

"No one, none, of Dr. Castaneda's followers participated in the writing of the will," she said.

By conventional standards, Castaneda's death was highly unusual.

Invariably described as an impeccable person who kept his affairs in perfect order, Castaneda apparently signed the will on April 23, and then died at 3 a.m. on April 27 of what his death certificate said was metabolic encephalopathy, a neurological breakdown that followed two weeks of liver failure and 10 months of cancer. The signature is partly obscured, and C.J. Castaneda and his mother, Mrs. Castaneda, say it does not look like Castaneda's signature.

He was cremated within hours of his death. His death was kept secret for more than two months until word leaked out and was confirmed by his representatives, who said the death was kept quiet in keeping with Castaneda's lifelong pursuit of privacy.

His will cited assets worth just over $1 million, a modest figure for an author who sold so well and apparently lived simply. All his assets were given to the Eagle's Trust, set up at the same time as the will. It is not clear how much in additional assets had already been placed in the trust, but a London newspaper recently estimated his estate at $20 million.

To C.J. Castaneda and his mother, the circumstances of Castaneda's death are so suspicious as to suggest that his life was being controlled by others. As to Don Juan's authenticity, many people believe Don Juan was at best a composite of things Castaneda read and experienced.

"I really think there was no Don Juan," Mrs. Castaneda said. "I think Don Juan was anyone with whom he had a conversation, like the Dialogues of Plato. I told him Plato probably never had anyone to talk with, but the Dialogues were his way of conveying both sides of things. I think that's what Carlos did."



Copyright 1998 Chicago Tribune Company



1998 - Electronic Telegraph - Carlos Castaneda Dies



Version 2011.07.09

Electronic Telegraph - Aug 1998

Life & Times Electronic Telegraph - Saturday 1, August 1998

Issue 1163

Shaman or sham?

Carlos Castaneda's spiritual guidebooks made him a cult figure of the psychedelic age but both his life and his recent death have been shrouded in mystery. Mick Brown reports

In February of this year I received a curious and completely unexpected invitation... Would I like to interview Carlos Castaneda? To the uninitiated, the invitation will mean nothing. But those who came of age in the Sixties counter-culture will recognise that it was like being invited to peruse the Cretan Minotaur.

Carlos Castaneda stands alongside Timothy Leary as one of the great avatars- and one of the great enigmas - of the psychedelic age. In 1968, Castaneda published The Teachings of Don Juan, describing his apprenticeship in the deserts of Mexico to an Indian shaman, and his induction through mind-altering substances into 'the Yaqui way of knowledge'.

Like Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf and Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception, The Teachings of Don Juan, and its sequels, became essential reading for a legion of seekers after truth - guidebooks into a fantastic and exotic world beyond the dull grind of materialism. And long after the first generation of fans had moved on to more pragmatic concerns - mortgages, families, tax returns - the books continued to sell. Since 1968, the works of Carlos Castaneda have sold more than eight million copies in 17 different languages, totally unhindered by the fierce debate about whether don Juan really existed or was simply a figure of Castaneda's imagination. No less a mystery was Castaneda himself. 'The art of the hunter,' don Juan had taught, 'is to become inaccessible,' and it was a maxim which Castaneda had observed with an almost religious dedication for 30 years, forsaking public appearances, refusing almost all interviews, leading the life of a recluse.

But now, I was told, there had been a mysterious and dramatic change of heart. After years of inaccessibility, Castaneda had emerged into the public eye, bringing with him for the first time what he claimed was the most important facet of don Juan's teachings - a system of physical movements known as 'magical passes'. He was prepared to lift the shroud of secrecy and talk to the world.

A date was provisionally set for me to meet him in Los Angeles. I was told that he would countenance no photographs, no tape-recording equipment. I would be allowed only to take notes, as he had taken notes during his years of tutelage at the feet of don Juan. 'A recording,' Castaneda had told the Los Angeles Times in 1995 in a rare conversation, 'is a way of fixing you in time.

The only thing a sorcerer will not do is be stagnant. The stagnant world, the stagnant picture, those are the antitheses of the sorcerer.'

Then the date was changed. And changed again. Castaneda, I was told, was 'on retreat' in the Mexican desert. When - if - he returned, I would be notified. In late March, I left for California on other business. But the call never came. There was a simple reason. At the time that I was in sitting in a hotel room in Los Angeles, Castaneda was not in Mexico at all. He was three miles away from me in his Westwood home, dying of liver cancer.

Carlos Castaneda died, at the age of 72, on April 27. But, peculiarly, it was to be another two months before the news of his death became public.

There was no announcement, no press report, no funeral or service of any kind. According to the Culver City mortuary that handled his remains, his body was cremated at once, his ashes spirited away to the Mexican desert.

In death, as in life, Castaneda remained inscrutable. When, eventually, the news of his death leaked out to the press, two British newspapers ran obituaries, alongside photographs of a man who was not Carlos Castaneda. His friends drew a veil of silence over the death, refusing to comment. In a statement to the press, his agents, Toltec Artists, would say only that, 'In the tradition of the shamans of his lineage, Carlos Castaneda left this world in full awareness.'

Castaneda, this suggested, was a spiritual teacher of the highest order, who had left behind a body of work to enrich mankind. In reality, he left behind a more tangled legacy. Rather than dying 'the immaculate death' of the sorcerer, it is suggested that the sorcerer's apprentice actually died a frail, paranoid and angry old man, lashing out at the world with lawsuits - including one against his 73-year-old former wife, Margaret - and conjuring up the spirit of don Juan in a last, desperate attempt to exploit it for all it was worth.

A key aspect of the teachings of don Juan, as recounted by Carlos Castaneda, was the necessity of the 'self' to die. 'It is imperative to leave aside what [don Juan] called "personal history",' Castaneda told the Chilean magazine Uno Mismo in 1997. 'To get away from "me" is something extremely annoying and difficult. What the shamans like don Juan seek is a state of fluidity where the personal "me" does not count.' For Castaneda, 'the personal me' was a subject of constant fluctuation and revision.

By his own account, Castaneda was born on December 25, 1935, in Sao Paolo, Brazil. His mother died when he was seven and he was raised by his father, a professor of literature whom Castaneda supposedly regarded with a mixture of fondness and contempt - a shadow of the man he would subsequently meet in don Juan. 'I am my father,' Castaneda told Time magazine in his first- and last- major interview, in 1973. 'Before I met don Juan I would spend years sharpening my pencils and then getting a headache every time I sat down to write. Don Juan taught me that's stupid. If you want to do something, do it impeccably, and that's all that matters.' He claimed to have been educated in Buenos Aires, and sent to America in 1951. He travelled to Milan, where he studied sculpture, before returning to America and enrolling at UCLA to study anthropology.

In fact, American immigration records indicate that Castaneda was born not in 1935, but in 1925 - not in Brazil, but in Cajamarca, Peru. His father was not a university professor but a goldsmith. His mother died when he was 24. And while it was true that he had studied painting and sculpture, this was not in Milan but at the National Fine Art school of Peru. Arriving in America in 1951, he studied creative writing at Los Angeles City College before enrolling on an anthropology course at UCLA in 1959.

The following year, he travelled to the Mexico-Arizona desert, intending to study the medicinal use of certain plants among local Indians. At a bus station in the town of Nogales in Arizona, he would later write, he met the man he called don Juan. For the psychedelic generation it was the equivalent of Stanley stumbling into a jungle clearing and discovering Livingstone, the young John Lennon bumping into Paul McCartney at a church fete in Woolton.

According to Castaneda, don Juan Matus was a Yaqui Indian nagual, or leader of a party of sorcerers - the last in a line stretching back to the times of the Toltecs, the pre-Hispanic Indians who inhabited the central and northern regions of Mexico a thousand years ago. Under the guidance of the Yaqui sage, Castaneda was introduced to the psychotropic substances of peyote, jimson weed and 'the little smoke', a preparation made from Psilocybe mushrooms that had been dried and aged for a year. Under the influence of these drugs the bemused anthropologist underwent a series of bizarre encounters, with columns of singing light, a bilingual coyote and a 100-foot tall gnat - 'the guardian of the other world' - manifestations of the 'powers', or impersonal forces, that a man of knowledge must learn to use.

The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge was first published in 1968 as an anthropological thesis by the University of California Press. A year later - repackaged in a psychedelic bookjacket - it was published by a mainstream company. It became an immediate counter-culture hit, prompting an exodus of would-be apprentice sorcerers to the deserts of Mexico in search of don Juan - or at least good drugs.

A Separate Reality, published in 1971, was more of the same - a giant gnat circles around Castaneda, and he sees don Juan's face transformed into a ball of glowing light - as the old Indian inducted Castaneda into the so-called second cycle of apprenticeship. These experiences were not just psychedelic magical mystery tours. The use of drugs, Castaneda explained, was don Juan's way of leading his pupil to 'see' the world outside the cultural and linguistic constraints of Western rationalism, unencumbered by conditioned preconceptions or the taint of personal history.

Drugs were not in themselves the destination, he explained in Journey to Ixtlan, which was published in 1973; they were merely one route to the destination, to be discarded once this fundamental shift in perception had been achieved. Journey to Ixtlan won Castaneda his PhD from UCLA. It also made him a millionaire.

By now, doubts about the authenticity of Castaneda's accounts had begun to multiply. It was one thing for him to refuse to divulge the identity and whereabouts of the Yaqui sage (don Juan, he always made clear, was a pseudonym which he used to protect his teacher's privacy), but quite another for him to refuse to let his field notes be examined by other anthropologists. But whatever the doubts about the books' provenance, even the most sceptical critics agreed that they were powerful parables about the search for personal enlightenment, 'remarkable works of art' as the author Joyce Carol Oates described them.

In 1976, a teacher of psychology named Richard de Mille (the son of Cecil B.) published the first comprehensive critique of the don Juan books, Castaneda's Journey: The Power and the Allegory, detailing myriad inconsistencies in the chronology of Castaneda's accounts and the character of don Juan. Don Juan, de Mille concluded, was a work of fiction, but Castaneda 'wasn't a common con-man, he lied to bring us the truth. . . This is a sham-man bearing gifts.' But de Mille's book vanished without trace while Castaneda's continued to sell.

An anthropologist named Jay Courtney Fikes provided yet another twist on the don Juan stories in his book, Carlos Castaneda, Academic Opportunism and the Psychedelic Sixties, published in 1993. In this, Fikes suggested that rather than being one individual, don Juan was actually an amalgam of two or possibly three authentic Indian shamans, including a well-respected Mazatec healer called Maria Sabina, who had also collaborated with the anthropologist Gordon Wasson on his study of psychedelic mushrooms in the Fifties.

'I would see Castaneda as an anthropologist-lite, as it were, or a travel writer,' Fikes now says. 'There is a residue of authenticity there. I think he did make trips to Mexico, and he had some interesting experiences, and he then fictionalised them and called them non-fiction.

'I don't think he set out in 1960 to create a massive hoax. The first book took off, it was bestseller; there were very few people who publicly expressed scepticism at that point, so he just kept going.'

Castaneda's response to the criticisms was always the same. He was writing about states of mind and perception outside the normal conventions of academia, so the normal terms of reference did not apply. Sorcerers, he said, have only one point of reference: 'infinity'. He would continue repeating the same mantra to the very end. 'I invented nothing.'

Castaneda maintained that don Juan 'left the world' in 1973, dying 'the immaculate death' of the warrior. His departure did nothing to stem the flow of Castaneda books. Throughout the Seventies and Eighties, a stream of books appeared expounding further on don Juan's teachings. Diligent readers noted that the anthropological references seemed to grow fewer and that the books increasingly bore the traces of other influences; the study of phenomenology; Eastern mysticism; existentialism.

Something weird started happening to don Juan's voice. One minute he was intoning sonorous desert utterances, the next joshing in American slang, and the next assuming the stilted, jargon-heavy circumlocutions of a professor of philosophy. (In Castaneda's last book, The Active Side of Infinity, which is due to be published next year, don Juan is quoted as saying, 'The effect of the force that is descending on you, which is disintegrating the foreign installation, is that it pulls sorcerers out of their syntax' - a mouthful for a professor of linguistics, let alone a Yaqui Indian.)

Critics talked of 'the grim sound of barrels being scraped', and noted an increasingly messianic tone in Castaneda's pronouncements. With don Juan having 'left the world', Castaneda himself had become the heir to the lineage, the nagual. No longer a mere disciple, he had become the prophet, and as befits a prophet he began to gather around him a coterie of disciples. Foremost among these were three women- Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar- who, according to Castaneda, had also been students of don Juan. Abelar and Donner-Grau, like Castaneda a former UCLA anthropology student, even wrote their own books recounting their experiences with don Juan.

'The four disciples of don Juan', as Castaneda styled them, lived in close, but apparently celibate, proximity to each other. Castaneda once said that he eschewed relationships of 'a sexual order', for shamanic reasons. More prosaically, rumours suggested that Castaneda was incapacitated by 'a groin injury', said to have been sustained when he was young.

For years, the group remained largely reclusive, apparently following don Juan's dictum that the sorcerer's way was to 'touch the world sparingly'. But in 1993, Castaneda suddenly emerged into the public eye, propagating what he claimed to be the culmination of the sorcerer's arts - a system of bodily movements which he called 'magical passes'. These movements, Castaneda claimed, had been taught to initiates over 27 generations in conditions of the utmost secrecy, and passed on by don Juan to Castaneda and his three other disciples before his death.

Through these 'magical passes', Castaneda claimed, the Toltec sorcerers had attained an increased level of awareness which allowed them to perform 'indescribable feats of perception' and experience 'unequalled states of physical prowess and well-being'. The 'magical passes' even had a brand name - 'Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity' (an architectural term meaning a combination of tension and integrity) - and an organisation called Cleargreen, set up by Castaneda to promote seminars and workshops.

Castaneda himself would appear at these seminars, alongside his three women companions, talking about his experiences with don Juan, before introducing a team of demonstrators, dressed in black work-out uniforms and known as 'the chacmools', to demonstrate the movements.

Even the most credulous students of his writings were puzzled. In all of the don Juan books there had been no mention of Tensegrity or 'magical passes'. If these movements were so important, why had Castaneda never mentioned them before? And why was he breaking the habit of a lifetime by appearing in public to talk about them?

Castaneda's explanation was typically mind-boggling. It was true that don Juan had always maintained that the 'magical passes' should be kept secret, but an extraordinary event had dictated they should now be made public. While following don Juan's techniques in mastering 'the art of dreaming', Carol Tiggs had apparently 'disappeared into a dream' in a hotel room in Mexico City sometime in the Seventies. She had vanished, Castaneda said, in order to act as a beacon from the other side, guiding initiates through 'the dark sea of awareness'. In 1985, however, Tiggs made a surprising reappearance in a California bookshop where Castaneda was giving a talk. Her reappearance had convinced Castaneda that the 'message of freedom' enshrined in the 'magical passes' should now be passed on to the world.

More puzzling still was the fact that there is no tradition of such bodily movements among pre-Hispanic Indians and that Castaneda's 'magical passes' bore a suspiciously close resemblance to such Asiatic disciplines as kung fu and t'ai chi.

In fact, it seemed that for inspiration Castaneda had travelled no further than the Los Angeles suburb of Santa Monica, to the classes of a kung fu teacher and 'energy master' named Howard Lee. Lee confirms that Castaneda studied with him between 1974 and 1989. 'I didn't even know who he was for many years,' Lee says. Castaneda subsequently provided an endorsement for Lee's brochure, describing him as 'a most respected and admired practitioner of the art of dealing with energy', but he never credited Lee with being the inspiration behind Tensegrity.

There were allegations that Castaneda paid a substantial sum of money 'and the phallus of a puma' in order to deter Lee from taking legal action. Lee denies this ('A what of a puma?') and says he has never seen the 'magical passes' in action. 'Some people have said they're similar to what I teach, but I don't know.

I've never seen them and I'm not interested.'

Whatever their origins, the courses in Tensegrity proved extremely profitable. To a generation who had grown up on the books of don Juan, the chance to meet and shake hands with their reclusive author was irresistible. Workshops and seminars, costing from $200 to $1,000, attracted hundreds of participants, stimulating a brisk business in Tensegrity T-shirts ('The magic is in the movement') and videos, on sale for $29.95.

In its marketing techniques, its promises of well-being, its promotion of Castaneda as the guru, sceptics could see in Tensegrity the seeds of a New Age religion. 'Castaneda had built himself up as a prophet through the don Juan books,' says Jay Fikes. 'The bible, so to speak, was written; but there was no ritual, so it was necessary to invent one.'

And like every religion, it was suggested, this one had a bottom line. 'Another sorcerer once remarked that if don Juan wanted to demonstrate his power as a sorcerer, he would do some energetic manoeuvre that might impress you,' says one insider. 'But if Carlos Castaneda wanted to demonstrate his power, he would show you the size of his bank balance.

'That's using the understanding that money is just another type of energy. But certainly Castaneda had power; he had the power to create an enormous amount of energy in the form of money.'

Whether Castaneda's books were wholly true, partly true, or wholly fiction, even his sternest critics acknowledged that their success opened the door to a tradition of authentic Indian shamanic teachings which had hitherto been unavailable to the world at large. In the years following the publication of the don Juan books, a number of teachers emerged in America, claiming to be in the same Toltec tradition as don Juan, even to have been taught personally by him or his contemporaries.

The Toltec tradition has even penetrated Britain. The Sacred Trust, an educational organisation based in Bath and dedicated to 'the preservation of indigenous and shamanic traditions', offers workshops by such visiting Toltec teachers as Victor Sanchez and Ken Eagle Feather on such themes as 'The Double Nature of the Luminous Being' and 'The Transformation of the Other Self'.

Among the most prominent of these teachers is an American, Merilyn Tunneshende - 'The Nagual Woman' - who says that she met the man Castaneda had called don Juan on a railway station in Yuma, Arizona, near the border with Mexico, in 1978, five years after Castaneda claimed he had 'left the world'. According to Tunneshende, don Juan was a Yuma, not a Yaqui Indian.

She says she studied with him from 1978 until his death in 1991. At don Juan's instigation, she met Castaneda in Los Angeles in 1979, remaining in intermittent contact with him until his death.

Tunneshende became the most vocal critic of Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity, writing a series of articles in the American magazine Magical Blend - a forum for such matters - alleging that Castaneda had actually been expelled from the sorcerer's circle in 1980. 'Carlos was a very insecure man in a lot of ways,' Tunneshende now says. 'With Tensegrity, he never felt as though he could reveal at any point that this was something he'd developed himself. It was as if he needed the name of don Juan to lend whatever he was doing some authority.'

According to Michael Peter Langevin, the publisher of Magical Blend, Castaneda's lawyers attempted to block publication of Tunneshende's criticisms- leading to the bemusing spectacle of rival sorcerers claiming to be the authentic students of a man who many people believed had never existed in the first place.

Castaneda, according to one observer, had begun to behave 'like the Toltec pope'. In 1995 he filed suit against another Toltec teacher- and an old friend- Victor Sanchez, claiming that the jacket of Sanchez's book, The Teachings of Don Carlos, infringed Castaneda's copyright. And in 1997 he launched a lawsuit against his ex-wife, Margaret Runyon Castaneda, over the publication of her book, A Magical Journey with Carlos Castaneda.

In his determination to obliterate any traces of personal biography, Castaneda had never made any reference to a wife. According to Margaret, however, she and Castaneda were married in Tijuana in 1960, and while they lived together for only six months, their divorce did not become absolute until 1973. Furthermore, she claims, Castaneda insisted that she sign documents with the California Department of Public Health making him the legal father of her son, Carlton Jeremy, or CJ, by another relationship.

The book is a gossipy and affectionate account of her life with a man she describes as 'looking like a Cuban bellhop'. (Castaneda never looked the part of the New Age mystic - 5ft 5in tall, he favoured neat haircuts and three-button suits.) It casts an interesting light on the possible origins of the don Juan books. Long before encountering don Juan, she suggests, Castaneda had read extensively on the use of psychotropic drugs among Indians, eastern mysticism, and the literature of Aldous Huxley. She recounts a Thanksgiving dinner with friends in 1959- a year before Castaneda's supposed meeting with don Juan- when the conversation turned to how the great religious scriptures were never written by the teachers themselves but by their disciples. 'It seemed to make a big impression on him,' Margaret Castaneda writes.

Which is not to say that don Juan did not exist. Margaret confirms that her husband made frequent field trips to Mexico in the time he was supposedly apprenticed to the Yaqui sage. But by and large, Castaneda seems to have been as much a mystery to his wife as he was to everyone else.

One of his more marked idiosyncracies, she writes, was to suggest that he had a double. She tells the story of meeting him in New York, having not seen him for some years, having dinner and passing the night in a hotel room, conversing about CJ. A few months later, she writes, Castaneda denied having been with her at all.

Margaret's conviction that her former husband continued to be 'part of me. There's no separation. He still feels that', was brought up short soon after the book's publication in America when Castaneda filed the lawsuit against her and her publisher, Millenia Press, claiming damage to reputation and infringement of privacy, and seeking $100,000 punitive damages and a ban on the distribution of the book.

'It was the behaviour of an embittered old man,' says David Christie, who owns Millenia Press. The lawsuit was subsequently dropped after Castaneda's death, but Christie is pressing ahead with the publication of his 300-page legal defence against the suit under the title David vs New Age Goliath.

For Castaneda, there was a tragic irony in his emergence into the public spotlight. For by 1996, at the time when he was promoting courses promising 'unequalled states of physical prowess and well-being', his own health was said to be in a state of steady decline. Castaneda's lawyer, Deborah Drooz, maintains that the author was ill for 'some 10 to 12 months' before his death in April 1998. Other sources close to Castaneda, however, claim that he was aware that he had cancer at least two years before he died.

In February 1997, Castaneda made his last appearance at a Tensegrity seminar, in Long Beach, California. A spokesman for his agents, Toltec Artists, says Castaneda 'felt that the seminars were taking their own course and he did not need to be present. It did not mean he couldn't be present. He was behind each and every seminar.' But other sources say that Castaneda had become too ill to attend. 'He was taking medication, losing weight,' said one. 'People were becoming suspicious. If this stuff is supposed to lead to health and well-being, why doesn't he look so good?'

Sometimes Castaneda would be seen at his favourite restaurant near his home. But his direct communication with anyone outside his immediate circle began to dry up. 'For the last 18 months he was all but unavailable to anyone,' says Michael Peter Langevin. 'It was the people around him that seemed to do everything and control everything.'

Castaneda's condition, however, did nothing to hamper the work of his organisation, Cleargreen. The seminars continued without him, and with none of the paying participants any the wiser about his deteriorating health. And work proceeded on the publication of a new book, Magical Passes, describing the Tensegrity philosophy and movements. The contract with HarperCollins for the UK rights was signed by Castaneda himself in July 1997. The publisher was given a verbal agreement by Castaneda's agents that they would do 'everything in their power' to ensure that, for the first time in years, he would collaborate on publicity. According to a source at HarperCollins, this assurance was 'a major selling factor' in contractual negotiations. At no time was HarperCollins told of Castaneda's declining health. By the time I was offered the opportunity to interview him in February, he was already dying.

Shortly before Castaneda's death, his agent delivered to his publisher the manuscript of his last book, The Active Side of Infinity. Read in the light of his death, the book has a distinctly valedictory air. Reappraising his encounters with don Juan, Castaneda reiterates that 'the total goal' of shamanic knowledge is preparation for facing the 'definitive journey - the journey that every human being has to take at the end of his life' to the region that shamans called 'the active side of infinity'. ' "We are beings on our way to dying," [don Juan] said.

"We are not immortal, but we behave as if we were. This is the flaw that brings us down as individuals and will bring us down as a species someday."

The Active Side of Infinity carries more than a whiff of paranoia, not least in its description of a predatory universe populated by shadowy entities called 'the flyers', preying on man's 'glowing coat of awareness'. Only by practising 'magical passes', Castaneda suggests, could these dark forces be repelled.

Students of the Toltec shamanic tradition have pointed out this apocalyptic view is somewhat at odds with the customary teachings about cultivating harmony with the 'unseen energies' of the world. But it is, perhaps, consistent with the state of mind of a man dying of cancer.

It has been alleged that Castaneda was too ill to write the book alone, and that it must have been largely written by associates. Toltec Artists say this allegation is 'absurd', and that both Magical Passes and The Active Side of Infinity 'were specifically and only written by Carlos Castaneda'.

According to Castaneda, the enlightened sorcerer - the nagual - does not die a normal death but is consumed by 'the fire from within' in a sort of spontaneous combustion, gathering his mortal energy and carrying the body into the next realm.

In The Active Side of Infinity, he describes don Juan's departure from the world in purple prose: 'I saw then how don Juan Matus, the nagual, led the 15 other seers who were his companions. . . one by one to disappear in the haze of that mesa, towards the north. I saw how every one of them turned into a blob of luminosity, and together they ascended and floated above the mesa, like phantom lights in the sky. They circled above the mountain once, as don Juan had said they would do; their last survey, the one for their eyes only; their last look at this marvellous earth. And then they vanished.' This, says Castaneda, is how don Juan left the world; and - the implication is clear - as a nagual himself, this is how Carlos Castaneda would leave the world, too.

Merilyn Tunneshende has another version of the death of the man she knew as don Juan. She says he died in 1994 at the age of 101, walking from his home to a mesquite tree where he liked to sit. 'His death was immaculate. He literally walked out of his body.'

He did not, however, take his body with him, she says. And nor, for that matter, did Castaneda. 'Carlos was preaching [to his followers] that they were going to self-cremate,' says Tunneshende, 'that at the moment of death their energy was going to ignite itself and they were going to disappear from the world completely, taking their physical bodies with them. But you cannot defeat death. The body belongs to the earth.'

There are any number of theories about exactly why it took two months to announce Castaneda's death. Cynics point to the unfortunate coincidence of his death with the publication of Magical Passes: it is hardly an advertisement for a book promoting a system fostering 'health, vitality, youth and a general sense of well-being' for its author to die of liver cancer. However, Deborah Drooz says there was never any intention that his death should be made public at all. 'Dr Castaneda spent his lifetime avoiding press attention and keeping the details of his personal life extremely private. He wanted to be known only through his work.'

Castaneda, she says, was 'lucid until the very end. If he had wanted a press release to be issued, he would have directed it, but he didn't. Those of us who were his friends and his advisers didn't feel it appropriate to take it upon ourselves.' Had it not been for the matter of Castaneda's will, it is possible that his death would have gone unremarked for years.

The news leaked out when Margaret Runyon Castaneda's son, CJ, who now goes by the name of Adrian Vashon, received a court letter indicating he was mentioned in Castaneda's will. According to Drooz, Castaneda asserted 'time and time again' that Vashon was not his son. Drooz says that Vashon is not named as a beneficiary. He is now contesting the will, and it is likely to be some months before the matter is resolved. Castaneda's estate is believed to be worth some $20 million.

Cleargreen would make no comment when I contacted them to talk about the author's life and death. Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Tiggs and Taisha Abelar, I was told, were 'unavailable'. But the courses in Tensegrity go on. (This weekend in Ontario, California: 'The Wheel of Time'. Cost: $600.) More books are planned, along with an anthology of the aphorisms of don Juan. The organisation made its first, and to date only, statement about Castaneda's death on June 22, in a notice posted on their Internet website. This stated that he had 'left the world' in the same way as don Juan, 'with full awareness'. 'The cognition of our everyday life,' the statement went on, 'does not provide for a description of a phenomenon such as this. So in keeping with the terms of legalities and record keeping that the world of everyday life requires, Carlos Castaneda was declared to have died.'

It is a statement ripe with ambiguity, acknowledging the legal fact of Castaneda's death, yet leaving open the tantalising suggestion, for those inclined to believe it ('a phenomenon such as this. . .') that in his final moments Castaneda had somehow achieved the nagual's ultimate accomplishment of burning in 'the fire from within'.

So Carlos Castaneda is dead, but then again perhaps he's not really dead at all. Already the Internet is buzzing with accounts from people whom he has supposedly visited in their dreams. It will not be long before psychics in South Carolina and Virginia begin 'channelling' communications with Castaneda from the other side; or, perhaps, before another young anthropology student walks out of the Mexican desert, bringing with him the teachings of a sage who looks like a Cuban bellhop: a sham-man's way of knowledge.



Copyright 1998 Telegraph Group Limited



1998 - Los Angeles Times - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

Cover Story From the Los Angeles Times, June 19th, 1998


- by Celeste Fremon

A Hushed Death for Mystic Author Carlos Castaneda Culture: Best-selling chronicler of shaman Don Juan 'left this world' two months ago in Westwood, agent says.

By J.R. MOEHRINGER, Times Staff Writer



Carlos Castaneda, the self-proclaimed "sorcerer" and best-selling author whose tales of drug-induced mental adventures with a Yaqui Indian shaman named Don Juan once fascinated the world, apparently died two months ago in the same way that he lived: quietly, secretly, mysteriously. He was believed to be 72.

Castaneda died April 27 at his home in Westwood, according to entertainment lawyer Deborah Drooz, a friend of Castaneda and the executor of his estate. The cause of death was liver cancer. Though he had millions of followers around the world, and though his 10 books continue to sell in 17 different languages, and though he once appeared on the cover of Time magazine as a leader of America's spiritual renaissance, he died without public notice, without the briefest mention in a newspaper or on TV. As befitting his mystical image, he seemingly vanished into thin air.

"He didn't like attention," Drooz said. "He always made sure people did not take his picture or record his voice. He didn't like the spotlight. Knowing that, I didn't take it upon myself to issue a press release."

No funeral was held; no public service of any kind took place. The author was cremated at once and his ashes were spirited away to Mexico, according to the Culver City mortuary that handled his remains.

He leaves behind a will, due to be probated in Los Angeles next month, and a death certificate fraught with dubious information. The few people who may benefit from his rich copyrights were told of the death, Drooz said, but none chose to alert the media. The doctor who attended him in his final days, Angelica Duenas, would not discuss her secretive patient.

Even those who counted Castaneda a good friend were unaware of his death and wouldn't comment when told, choosing to honor his disdain for publicity, no matter what realm of reality he now inhabits.

"I've made it a lifetime practice never to discuss Carlos Castaneda with anyone in the newspaper business," said author Michael Korda, who was once Castaneda's editor at Simon & Schuster Inc.

Castaneda's literary agent in Los Angeles, Tracy Kramer, would not return phone calls about the Thomas Pynchon-esque author's death but issued this statement: "In the tradition of the shamans of his lineage, Carlos Castaneda left this world in full awareness." Carlos Ce'sar Arana Castaneda immigrated to the U.S. in 1951. He was born Christmas Day 1925 in Sao Paolo, Brazil, or Cajamarca, Peru, depending on which version of his autobiographical accounts can be believed. He was an inveterate and unrepentant liar about the statistical details of his life, from his birthplace to his birth date, and even his given name remains in some doubt.

"Much of the Castaneda mystique is based on the fact that even his closest friends aren't sure who he is," wrote his ex-wife, Margaret Runyan Castaneda, in a 1997 memoir that Castaneda tried to keep from being published.

Whoever he was, whatever his background, Castaneda galvanized the world 30 years ago. As an anthropology graduate student at UCLA, he wrote his master's thesis about a remarkable journey he made to the Arizona-Mexico desert.

Hoping to study the effects of certain medicinal plants, Castaneda said he stopped in an Arizona border town and there, in a Greyhound bus depot, met an old Yaqui Indian from Sonora, Mexico, named Juan Matus, a brujo, or sorcerer, or shaman, who used powerful hallucinogens to initiate the student into an occult world with origins dating back more than 2,000 years.

Under Don Juan's strenuous tutelage, which lasted several years, Castaneda experimented with peyote, jimson weed and dried mushrooms, undergoing moments of supreme ecstasy and stark panic, all in an effort to achieve varying "states of nonordinary reality." Wandering through the desert, with Don Juan as his psychological and pharmacological guide, Castaneda said he saw giant insects, learned to fly, grew a beak, became a crow and ultimately reached a plateau of higher consciousness, a hard-won wisdom that made him a "man of knowledge" like Don Juan. The thesis, published in 1968 by the University of California Press, became an international bestseller, striking just the right note at the peak of the psychedelic 1960s. A strange alchemy of anthropology, allegory, parapsychology, ethnography, Buddhism and perhaps great fiction, "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge" made Don Juan a household name and Castaneda a cultural icon.

Many still consider him the godfather of America's New Age movement. In one of the few profiles with which Castaneda cooperated, Time magazine wrote: "To tens of thousands of readers, young and old, the first meeting of Castaneda with Juan Matus . . . is a better-known literary event than the encounter of Dante and Beatrice beside the Arno."

After his stunning debut, Castaneda followed with a string of bestsellers, including "A Separate Reality" and "Journey to Ixtlan." Soon, readers were flocking to Mexico, hoping to become apprentices at Don Juan's feet.

But the old Indian could not be found, which set off widespread speculation that Castaneda was the author of an elaborate, if ingenious, hoax.

"Is it possible that these books are nonfiction?" author Joyce Carol Oates asked in 1972. "I realize that everyone accepts them as anthropological studies, but they seem to me remarkable works of art, on the Hesse-like theme of a young man's initiation into 'another way' of reality. They are beautifully constructed. The dialogue is faultless. The character of Don Juan is unforgettable. There is a novelistic momentum."

Such concerns have all but discredited Castaneda in academia. "At the moment, [his books] have no presence in anthropology," said Clifford Geertz, an influential anthropologist.

But Castaneda's penchant for lying and the disputed existence of Don Juan never dampened the enthusiasm of his admirers. "It isn't necessary to believe to get swept up in Castaneda's otherworldly narrative," wrote Joshua Gilder in the Saturday Review. "Like myth, it works a strange and beautiful magic beyond the realm of belief. ... Sometimes, admittedly, one gets the impression of a con artist simply glorifying in the game. Even so, it is a con touched by genius."

Drooz agreed, saying it was an honor to represent a man with Castaneda's high moral purpose and impish charm. "I'm a very cynical, skeptical, atheistic lawyer, and I was deeply, deeply touched by Castaneda," she said.

To the end, Castaneda stubbornly insisted that the events he described in his books were not only real but meticulously documented.

"I invented nothing," he told 400 people attending a 1995 seminar that he conducted in Anaheim. "I'm not insane, you know. Well, maybe a little insane."

Even his death certificate, apparently, is not free of misinformation. His occupation is listed as teacher, his employer the Beverly Hills School District. But school district records don't show Castaneda teaching there.

Also, though he was said to have no family, the death certificate lists a niece, Talia Bey, who is president of Cleargreen Inc., a company that organizes Castaneda seminars on "Tensegrity," a modern version of ancient shaman practices, part yoga, part ergonomic exercises. Bey was unavailable for comment. Further, the death certificate lists Castaneda as "Nev. Married," though he was married from 1960 to 1973 to Margaret Runyan Castaneda, of Charleston, W.Va., who said Castaneda once lied in court, swearing he was the father of her infant son by another man, then helped her raise the boy.

The son, now 36 and living in suburban Atlanta, also claims to have a birth certificate listing Castaneda as his father. "I haven't been notified" of Castaneda's death, said Margaret Runyan Castaneda, 76, audibly upset. "I had no idea." When he wasn't writing about how to better experience this life, Castaneda was preoccupied by death. In 1995, he told the Anaheim seminar: "We are all going to face infinity, whether we like it or not. Why do we do it when we are weakest, when we are broken, at the moment of dying? Why not when we are strong? Why not now?" But when interviewed by Time in 1973, he was more succinct about the end, directing the reporter to a favorite piece of graffiti in Los Angeles that summed up his view: "Death is the greatest kick of all. That's why they save it for last."



Times researcher Edith Stanley and staff writers Patrick Kerkstra and Scott Glover contributed to this story.



1998 - Los Angeles Times - Carlos Castaneda's Will Contested


Version 2011.07.09

The L.A. Times - Aug 1998

Seeking New End to Story of Castaneda

By: Ann W. O'Neill

A Georgia man who says he is the only son of Carlos Castaneda is contesting the reclusive writer's will, alleging in court papers that it was drafted by the executor and that the signature is a forgery.

"It's just madness," responded the executor, Los Angeles entertainment attorney Deborah Drooz. She denied doing anything improper and said Adrian Vashon is not the writer's son.

Vashon, a.k.a. Carlton J. Castaneda, charges that in the final days of his life, the author was "surrounded by a group of individuals who, in essence, built a wall" around him. Vashon says those people controlled who could speak with or see the elder Castaneda.

Vashon also says the writer was not in his right mind and may have signed the will under duress. He is asking a Superior Court judge to deny Drooz's appointment as executor of the $1-million-plus estate and to appoint him instead. A hearing is set for Oct. 15.

"All you have to do is look at him" to determine that Vashon is not Castaneda's son, Drooz said. The mystic writer, she said, was small and wiry. Vashon, on the other hand, is tall and ample-bodied.

Castaneda wrote the best-seller "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," the tale of his peyote-laced adventures with an Indian shaman. The author died of liver cancer April 27 at his home in Westwood. The will leaves nothing to Vashon or his mother, Margaret Runyan Castaneda, the writer's former wife.

"Although I once treated him as if he were my son, Adrian Vashon, also known as C.J. Castaneda, is not my son," the will states.

Runyan Castaneda's 1996 book, "A Magical Journey With Carlos Castaneda," identifies Vashon's birth father as Adrian Gerritsen, a man with whom the book says she had an affair while married to Castaneda.



Copyright 1998 Los Angeles Times



1998 - New York Times - Carlos Castaneda Dies



Version 2011.07.09

New York Times, June 19th, 1998



Carlos Castaneda, Mystical Writer, Dies at 72

By Peter Applebome



Carlos Castaneda, whose best-selling explorations of mystical and pharmacological frontiers helped to define the psychological landscape of the 1960s, died two months ago just as privately and secretly as he had lived, associates revealed this week. Befitting a man who made an aesthetic out of mystery, even his age is uncertain, but he was believed to be 72.

He died of liver cancer on April 27 at his home in Los Angeles, said Deborah Drooz, an entertainment lawyer, friend of Castaneda and executor of his estate. She said he had suffered from the illness for at least 10 months. After his death, his body was cremated and the remains were sent to Mexico, she added.

In books like "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," Castaneda spun extraordinarily rich, hallucinogenic evocations of ancient paths to knowledge based on what he described as an extended apprenticeship with a Yaqui Indian shaman named Don Juan Matus.

His 10 books, etched in layer upon layer of psychological nuance and intrigue, became international best sellers translated into 17 languages and were credited with helping to usher in the New Age sensibility and reviving interest in Indian and Southwestern cultures.

Over the years, scholars and critics have debated whether Don Juan existed and whether the books were anthropology or fantasy, fact or fiction, distinctions which no doubt amused Castaneda.

Rather than respond, he lived in almost total anonymity, refusing to make public appearances, or to be photographed or tape-recorded. He continued to write up to his death and wanted his death to remain as private as his life, Ms. Drooz said.

The Los Angeles Times reported his death on Thursday after it was revealed by an Atlanta man who said he was Castaneda's son. He said he heard about the death when he learned of probate proceedings.

"Carlos Castaneda was a very impeccable man," Ms. Drooz said. "Everything he wanted done he made clear to the very end, and to the very end he never remotely suggested he wanted an epitaph or a eulogy or a press release about this death. He spend his life eschewing media coverage and those around him respected that and allowed him to pass peacefully without attention. It was no secret. It just didn't seem appropriate to make a fuss."

But C.J. Castaneda, 36, who owns a coffee shop in suburban Atlanta, and his mother, Castaneda's former wife, Margaret Runyan Castaneda, both say they are skeptical of that account and question why Castaneda's death certificate said he was never married and why news of his death was kept from them. Mrs. Castaneda, who said they were married from 1960 to 1973, said Castaneda was not her son's biological father but he had the boy's birth certificate changed legally to say that he was the boy's father. Ms. Drooz said Carlos Castaneda was estranged from C.J. Castaneda, and the younger man was not his son.

The death certificate lists a niece, Talia Bey, who is president of Cleargreen Inc., which organizes seminars based on Castaneda's teachings. A hearing on Castaneda's estate, which benefits from enormous worldwide sales of his books, is to be held on July 2 in Los Angeles.

If confusion follows in the wake of Castaneda's death, it would be consistent with the story of his life.

Castaneda had said that he was born on Dec. 25, 1931, in Sao Paulo, Brazil, and that Castaneda was an adopted surname. Immigration records indicate that he was born on Dec. 25, 1925, in Cajamarca, Peru, and Castaneda was his given name.

He came to the United States in 1951 and was an obscure graduate student in anthropology when he sent off a manuscript in 1967 to the University of California Press in Los Angeles. The book was released as "The Teachings of Don Juan" in 1968.

After its paperback rights were resold, it became an international best seller. In the book, in encounters at once fanciful and intellectually and psychologically challenging, Don Juan instructs his disciple about becoming a "man of knowledge" in ways that "clash disconcertingly with our prevailing scientific conception of reality," as Theodore Roszak put it in a review in The Nation. As the book begins, Don Juan instructs his pupil through the use of hallucinogenic drugs but as the book goes on, drugs are less a part of the learning process.

His second book, "A Separate Reality: Further Conversations with Don Juan," continues the education process, this time focusing on the nature of sorcery. The third volume of the Don Juan books, "Journey to Ixtlan: The Lessons of Don Juan," is the most personal of the three, focusing on what Castaneda has learned. A review in Book World called it "one of the most important statements of our time."

The books made Castaneda an international celebrity, featured on the cover of Time. But many of his later books received cooler reviews. In The New York Times Book Review, Margot Adler described "The Power of Silence: Further Lessons of Don Juan" as "an unnecessarily cloudy pathway to the world of dreams and altered states."

And his career was clouded almost from the beginning by the controversy over whether Don Juan even existed or whether Castaneda was, as one critic put it, "one of the great intellectual hoaxers" of all time.

Castaneda insisted that Don Juan was real. But others have said that, real or not, the books stand on their own both as windows onto the spiritual currents of the '60s and as part of a long tradition of vivid intellectual and spiritual quests. "The most important question we can ask is not, 'Can Juan Matus be located in 1977 in Sonora, Mexico?' wrote Sam Keen in Psychology Today. "It is rather: "What does Don Juan tell us about ourselves, about the millions in this country and abroad, who have read his words in 11 languages?' As an archetypical hero, Don Juan may reveal to us something about the contours of the collective unconscious and the longings of our time."



Copyright 1998 The New York Times Company



1998 - New York Times - Carlos Castaneda's Life


Version 2011.07.09

New York Times - August 19, 1998

Carlos Castaneda: Mystery Man's Death Can't End the Mystery

By Peter Applebome
August 19, 1998

Once he began publishing his best-selling accounts of his purported adventures with a Mexican shaman 30 years ago, Carlos Castaneda's life and work played out in a wispy blur of sly illusion and artful deceit.

[Picture]
Richard Oden/Psychology Today A portrait of the writer Carlos Castaneda, drawn by Richard Oden, and partially erased by Castaneda.

Now, four months after he died and two months after the death was made public, a probate court in Los Angeles is sifting through competing claims on the estate of the author whose works helped define the 1960's and usher in the New Age movement.

His followers say he left the earth with the same elegant, willful mystery that characterized his life. The man he used to call his son says Castaneda died while a virtual prisoner of cultlike followers who controlled his last days and his estate.

Given that Castaneda's literary credibility, marital history, place of birth, circumstances of death and almost everything else are in dispute, the competing claims -- including questions about the authenticity of his will and his competence to sign it -- are not surprising. But they are providing a nasty coda to the life of a man whose books, which sold 8 million copies in 17 languages, are alternately viewed as fact, metaphor or hoax.

Admirers say the areas of dispute, most famously whether the purported shaman and brujo (witch) Don Juan Matus ever existed, are peripheral to the real issues Castaneda explored in his books.

"Carlos knew exactly what was true and what was not true," said Angela Panaro, of Cleargreen Inc., the group that marketed Castaneda's teachings and seminars near the end of his life. "But the thing that's missing when people talk about Carlos is not whether Don Juan lived or not, or who lived in what house. It's about becoming a voyager of awareness, about the 600 locations in the luminous egg of man where the assemblage point can shift, about the process of depersonalization he taught."

The luminous egg, assemblage point and processes of depersonalization are all part of the practice of Tensegrity, a blend of meditation and movement exercises that Castaneda taught in his final years as a way for people to break through the limitations of ordinary consciousness. Skeptics say they sum up a career characterized, in the end, by literate New Age mumbo jumbo and artful deception.

Even Margaret Runyan Castaneda, who had been married to him, while admiring Castaneda and his work, says she doubts Don Juan ever existed and believes his name came from Mateus, the bubbly Portuguese wine the couple used to drink.

Carlos Castaneda rocketed from obscure anthropology graduate student at the University of California at Los Angeles to instant, if elusive, celebrity in 1968 with the publication of "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," a vivid account of the spiritual and pharmacological adventures he had with a white-haired Yaqui Indian nagual or shaman, Don Juan Matus. He said he met Don Juan at a Greyhound bus station in Nogales, Ariz., in the summer of 1960 when Castaneda was doing research on medicinal plants used by Indians of the Southwest.

In that book; its sequel, "A Separate Reality," and eight others, he described his apprenticeship to Don Juan and a spiritual journey in which he saw giant insects, learned to fly and grew a beak as part of a process of breaking the hold of ordinary perception. Admirers saw his work as a gripping spiritual quest in the tradition of Aldous Huxley's "Doors of Perception." Skeptics wondered how much was true.

But despite Castaneda's obsessive pursuit of total anonymity -- he refused to be photographed or tape recorded and almost never gave interviews -- he became a figure of international notoriety, and the books continued to sell well after his vogue passed.

'The Magic Is In the Movement'

In recent years he surfaced with a new vision, the teaching of Ten segrity, which is described on the Cleargreen Web site as "the modernized version of some movements called magical passes developed by Indian shamans who lived in Mexico in times prior to the Spanish conquest." He even made public appearances and spoke at seminars promoting the work.

Tensegrity, its organizers say, allows followers to perceive pure energy, "zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments" and break the chains of normal cognition.

Unknown to customers who turned out for the seminars -- which cost $600 and more, where they could buy Mr. Castaneda's books, $29.95 videos and Tensegrity T-shirts reading, "The magic is in the movement" -- Castaneda was dying of cancer while describing his route to vibrant good health.

Indeed, although only his inner circle knew about it for two months, he died on April 27 at his home, surrounded by high hedges in Westwood, a well-to-do section of Los Angeles, where he lived for many years with some of the self-described witches, stalkers, dreamers and spiritual seekers who shared his work.

At a brief hearing in probate court in Los Angeles last week, the man whom Castaneda for many years called his son challenged the will Castaneda apparently signed four days before his death. The judge, John B. McIlroy, set a hearing date of Oct. 15 for the case.

C.J. Castaneda, also known as Adrian Vashon -- whose birth certificate cites Carlos Castaneda as his father, although another man was actually his father -- says Cleargreen became a cultlike group that came to control Castaneda's life.

"Those people latched onto him, stuck their claws in him and rode him for all he was worth," said C.J. Castaneda, 37, who operates two small

coffee shops in suburban Atlanta and calls himself a powerful brujo. "I don't believe the will has my father's signature, and I don't believe he was competent to sign it three days before he died."

Deborah Drooz, Carlos Castaneda's lawyer, who was named executor of his estate, said she witnessed the signing along with another lawyer and a notary public. She said that Carlos Castaneda was completely lucid when he signed the will, and that C.J. Castaneda had no claims to the estate. She denied that Carlos Castaneda's followers were anything akin to a cult and said C.J. Castaneda's claim did not constitute a serious legal challenge.

"No one, none, of Dr. Castaneda's followers participated in the writing of the will," she said. "And one thing that was very clear for years was that Dr. Castaneda had not had a relationship with C.J. Castaneda or Adrian Vashon for years, and he was very clear he should not benefit from Dr. Castaneda's death."

Questioning A Signature

By conventional standards, Mr. Castaneda's death was highly unusual. Invariably described as an impeccable person who kept his affairs in perfect order, Castaneda apparently signed the will on April 23, and then died at 3 A.M. on April 27 of what his death certificate said was metabolic encephalopathy, a neurological breakdown that followed 2 weeks of liver failure and 10 months of cancer. The signature is partly ob scured, and C.J. Castaneda and his mother, Mrs. Castaneda, say it does not look like his signature.

The death certificate is as much fiction as fact. It said he was never married, when he was married at least once and perhaps twice; that he was born in Brazil, when he was apparently born in Peru, and that he was employed as a teacher by the Beverly Hills School District, which has no record of his employment.

He was cremated within hours of his death.

His death was kept secret for more than two months until word leaked out and was confirmed by his representatives, who said the deathwas kept quiet in keeping with Castaneda's lifelong pursuit of privacy.

His will cited assets worth just over $1 million, a modest figure for an author who sold so well and apparently lived simply. All his assets were given to a trust, called the Eagle's Trust, set up at the same time as the will. It is not clear how much in additional assets had already been placed in the trust, but a London newspaper recently estimated his estate at $20 million.

To C.J. Castaneda and his mother, the circumstances of Mr. Castaneda's death are so suspicious as to suggest that his life was being controlled by others.

But given that the the unusual was the routine for Carlos Castaneda, extending to his own familial relationships, it is difficult to know how to evaluate the discrepancies.

C.J. Castaneda's parents were Mrs. Castaneda, who wrote about her life in a book, "A Magical Journey with Carlos Castaneda" (Millenia Press, 1996), and a businessman named Adrian Gerritsen, a friend of Carlos Castaneda.

Mrs. Castaneda said she and Mr. Gerritsen conceived the child after she and Carlos Castaneda received a Mexican divorce she took to be official but turned out not to be valid. Carlos Castaneda put his own name on the boy's birth certificate, helped raise him for several years, paid for his schooling and continued to express affection in letters for many years, although the two seldom saw each other in recent years.

C.J. Castaneda said Carlos Castaneda's followers kept his father away from him. Ms. Drooz said the author made it clear he did not want to see him.

Richard de Mille, who published two books questioning Carlos Castaneda's veracity, said Castaneda filed legal papers marrying a Peruvian girl with whom he conceived a child in the 1950's, making her his only legal wife. The two never divorced, he said.

Carlos Castaneda originally said he was born on Dec. 25, 1935, in Sao Paolo, Brazil, the son of a university professor and a woman who died when he was 7. American immigration records indicated he was born in 1923 in Cajmarca, Peru, the son of a goldsmith, and that his mother died when he was 24.

Aside from his dubious biography and shamanlike tales of having doubles, pulverizing glass or powering cars with his spirit is the question of what to make of his books.

Few academics regard them as serious scholarship. Dr. Louis J. West, a psychology professor at the U.C.L.A., who knew Castaneda when he was completing his doctorate there, said the works were at least in part "science fiction." But that does not take away from their virtues of conveying mysterious places and alternative realities, he said.

"Carlos wrote beguilingly and well, and told very colorful tales that hold the interest and give descriptions of people and places and activities that are illuminating," he said.

Mr. de Mille is less forgiving.
"I wouldn't call him a fraud, because any sensible person would see through it," he said. "He could be charming and playful, but that doesn't make him honest or defensible or anything like that."

Even admirers tend to be skeptical of the Tensegrity seminars. Many find it hard to believe that Castaneda would spend almost three decades conveying and refining Don Juan's teachings, only to start marketing a whole new version of it at the end.

"It really seemed to me that the Carlos Castaneda that I met and who was giving these workshops was not even the same person who had written the truly fine books on the teachings of Don Juan," said Barry Klein, a Castaneda admirer who tried the Tensegrity seminars briefly.

A Composite Of Experiences

As to Don Juan's authenticity, many people believe Don Juan was at best a composite of things Mr. Castaneda read and experienced.

"I really think there was no Don Juan," Mrs. Castaneda said. "I think Don Juan was anyone with whom he had a conversation, like the Dialogues of Plato. I told him Plato probably never had anyone to talk with, but the Dialogues were his way of conveying both sides of things. I think that's what Carlos did."

Still, she's pretty sure that Castaneda is doing fine wherever he is.

"I did the numerology of the day he died," she said. "He ascended to a 22, and that's the highest you can get. He was very highly evolved, and I'm sure he won't come back to this world. I like the pseudo-sciences. They help me find my way and understand."

Copyright 1998 The New York Times Company



1998 - New York Times - Carlos Castaneda's Ongoing Mystery


Version 2011.07.09

New York Times - Aug 1998

Carlos Castaneda: Mystery Man's Death Can't End the Mystery

By Peter Applebome

August 19, 1998

Once he began publishing his best-selling accounts of his purported adventures with a Mexican shaman 30 years ago, Carlos Castaneda's life and work played out in a wispy blur of sly illusion and artful deceit.

Richard Oden/Psychology Today A portrait of the writer Carlos Castaneda, drawn by Richard Oden, and partially erased by Castaneda.

Now, four months after he died and two months after the death was made public, a probate court in Los Angeles is sifting through competing claims on the estate of the author whose works helped define the 1960's and usher in the New Age movement.

His followers say he left the earth with the same elegant, willful mystery that characterized his life. The man he used to call his son says Castaneda died while a virtual prisoner of cultlike followers who controlled his last days and his estate.

Given that Castaneda's literary credibility, marital history, place of birth, circumstances of death and almost everything else are in dispute, the competing claims -- including questions about the authenticity of his will and his competence to sign it -- are not surprising. But they are providing a nasty coda to the life of a man whose books, which sold 8 million copies in 17 languages, are alternately viewed as fact, metaphor or hoax.

Admirers say the areas of dispute, most famously whether the purported shaman and brujo (witch) Don Juan Matus ever existed, are peripheral to the real issues Castaneda explored in his books.

"Carlos knew exactly what was true and what was not true," said Angela Panaro, of Cleargreen Inc., the group that marketed Castaneda's teachings and seminars near the end of his life. "But the thing that's missing when people talk about Carlos is not whether Don Juan lived or not, or who lived in what house.

It's about becoming a voyager of awareness, about the 600 locations in the luminous egg of man where the assemblage point can shift, about the process of depersonalization he taught."

The luminous egg, assemblage point and processes of depersonalization are all part of the practice of Tensegrity, a blend of meditation and movement exercises that Castaneda taught in his final years as a way for people to break through the limitations of ordinary consciousness. Skeptics say they sum up a career characterized, in the end, by literate New Age mumbo jumbo and artful deception.

Even Margaret Runyan Castaneda, who had been married to him, while admiring Castaneda and his work, says she doubts Don Juan ever existed and believes his name came from Mateus, the bubbly Portuguese wine the couple used to drink.

Carlos Castaneda rocketed from obscure anthropology graduate student at the University of California at Los Angeles to instant, if elusive, celebrity in 1968 with the publication of "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge," a vivid account of the spiritual and pharmacological adventures he had with a white-haired Yaqui Indian nagual or shaman, Don Juan Matus. He said he met Don Juan at a Greyhound bus station in Nogales, Ariz., in the summer of 1960 when Castaneda was doing research on medicinal plants used by Indians of the Southwest.

In that book; its sequel, "A Separate Reality," and eight others, he described his apprenticeship to Don Juan and a spiritual journey in which he saw giant insects, learned to fly and grew a beak as part of a process of breaking the hold of ordinary perception. Admirers saw his work as a gripping spiritual quest in the tradition of Aldous Huxley's "Doors of Perception." Skeptics wondered how much was true.

But despite Castaneda's obsessive pursuit of total anonymity -- he refused to be photographed or tape recorded and almost never gave interviews -- he became a figure of international notoriety, and the books continued to sell well after his vogue passed.



'The Magic Is In the Movement'

In recent years he surfaced with a new vision, the teaching of Ten segrity, which is described on the Cleargreen Web site as "the modernized version of some movements called magical passes developed by Indian shamans who lived in Mexico in times prior to the Spanish conquest." He even made public appearances and spoke at seminars promoting the work.

Tensegrity, its organizers say, allows followers to perceive pure energy, "zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments" and break the chains of normal cognition.

Unknown to customers who turned out for the seminars -- which cost $600 and more, where they could buy Mr. Castaneda's books, $29.95 videos and Tensegrity T-shirts reading, "The magic is in the movement" -- Castaneda was dying of cancer while describing his route to vibrant good health. Indeed, although only his inner circle knew about it for two months, he died on April 27 at his home, surrounded by high hedges in Westwood, a well-to-do section of Los Angeles, where he lived for many years with some of the self-described witches, stalkers, dreamers and spiritual seekers who shared his work.

At a brief hearing in probate court in Los Angeles last week, the man whom Castaneda for many years called his son challenged the will Castaneda apparently signed four days before his death. The judge, John B. McIlroy, set a hearing date of Oct. 15 for the case.

C.J. Castaneda, also known as Adrian Vashon-- whose birth certificate cites Carlos Castaneda as his father, although another man was actually his father-- says Cleargreen became a cultlike group that came to control Castaneda's life. "Those people latched onto him, stuck their claws in him and rode him for all he was worth," said C.J. Castaneda, 37, who operates two small coffee shops in suburban Atlanta and calls himself a powerful brujo. "I don't believe the will has my father's signature, and I don't believe he was competent to sign it three days before he died."

Deborah Drooz, Carlos Castaneda's lawyer, who was named executor of his estate, said she witnessed the signing along with another lawyer and a notary public. She said that Carlos Castaneda was completely lucid when he signed the will, and that C.J. Castaneda had no claims to the estate. She denied that Carlos Castaneda's followers were anything akin to a cult and said C.J. Castaneda's claim did not constitute a serious legal challenge.

"No one, none, of Dr. Castaneda's followers participated in the writing of the will," she said. "And one thing that was very clear for years was that Dr. Castaneda had not had a relationship with C.J. Castaneda or Adrian Vashon for years, and he was very clear he should not benefit from Dr. Castaneda's death."



Questioning A Signature

By conventional standards, Mr. Castaneda's death was highly unusual.

Invariably described as an impeccable person who kept his affairs in perfect order, Castaneda apparently signed the will on April 23, and then died at 3 A.M. on April 27 of what his death certificate said was metabolic encephalopathy, a neurological breakdown that followed 2 weeks of liver failure and 10 months of cancer. The signature is partly ob scured, and C.J. Castaneda and his mother, Mrs. Castaneda, say it does not look like his signature.

The death certificate is as much fiction as fact. It said he was never married, when he was married at least once and perhaps twice; that he was born in Brazil, when he was apparently born in Peru, and that he was employed as a teacher by the Beverly Hills School District, which has no record of his employment.

He was cremated within hours of his death.

His death was kept secret for more than two months until word leaked out and was confirmed by his representatives, who said the deathwas kept quiet in keeping with Castaneda's lifelong pursuit of privacy.

His will cited assets worth just over $1 million, a modest figure for an author who sold so well and apparently lived simply. All his assets were given to a trust, called the Eagle's Trust, set up at the same time as the will. It is not clear how much in additional assets had already been placed in the trust, but a London newspaper recently estimated his estate at $20 million.

To C.J. Castaneda and his mother, the circumstances of Mr. Castaneda's death are so suspicious as to suggest that his life was being controlled by others. But given that the the unusual was the routine for Carlos Castaneda, extending to his own familial relationships, it is difficult to know how to evaluate the discrepancies.

C.J. Castaneda's parents were Mrs. Castaneda, who wrote about her life in a book, "A Magical Journey with Carlos Castaneda" (Millenia Press, 1996), and a businessman named Adrian Gerritsen, a friend of Carlos Castaneda.

Mrs. Castaneda said she and Mr. Gerritsen conceived the child after she and Carlos Castaneda received a Mexican divorce she took to be official but turned out not to be valid. Carlos Castaneda put his own name on the boy's birth certificate, helped raise him for several years, paid for his schooling and continued to express affection in letters for many years, although the two seldom saw each other in recent years.

C.J. Castaneda said Carlos Castaneda's followers kept his father away from him. Ms. Drooz said the author made it clear he did not want to see him. Richard de Mille, who published two books questioning Carlos Castaneda's veracity, said Castaneda filed legal papers marrying a Peruvian girl with whom he conceived a child in the 1950's, making her his only legal wife. The two never divorced, he said.

Carlos Castaneda originally said he was born on Dec. 25, 1935, in Sao Paolo, Brazil, the son of a university professor and a woman who died when he was 7. American immigration records indicated he was born in 1923 in Cajmarca, Peru, the son of a goldsmith, and that his mother died when he was 24. Aside from his dubious biography and shamanlike tales of having doubles, pulverizing glass or powering cars with his spirit is the question of what to make of his books.

Few academics regard them as serious scholarship. Dr. Louis J. West, a psychology professor at the U.C.L.A., who knew Castaneda when he was completing his doctorate there, said the works were at least in part "science fiction." But that does not take away from their virtues of conveying mysterious places and alternative realities, he said.

"Carlos wrote beguilingly and well, and told very colorful tales that hold the interest and give descriptions of people and places and activities that are illuminating," he said.

Mr. de Mille is less forgiving.

"I wouldn't call him a fraud, because any sensible person would see through it," he said. "He could be charming and playful, but that doesn't make him honest or defensible or anything like that."

Even admirers tend to be skeptical of the Tensegrity seminars. Many find it hard to believe that Castaneda would spend almost three decades conveying and refining Don Juan's teachings, only to start marketing a whole new version of it at the end.

"It really seemed to me that the Carlos Castaneda that I met and who was giving these workshops was not even the same person who had written the truly fine books on the teachings of Don Juan," said Barry Klein, a Castaneda admirer who tried the Tensegrity seminars briefly.



A Composite Of Experiences

As to Don Juan's authenticity, many people believe Don Juan was at best a composite of things Mr. Castaneda read and experienced.

"I really think there was no Don Juan," Mrs. Castaneda said. "I think Don Juan was anyone with whom he had a conversation, like the Dialogues of Plato. I told him Plato probably never had anyone to talk with, but the Dialogues were his way of conveying both sides of things. I think that's what Carlos did."

Still, she's pretty sure that Castaneda is doing fine wherever he is.

"I did the numerology of the day he died," she said. "He ascended to a 22, and that's the highest you can get. He was very highly evolved, and I'm sure he won't come back to this world. I like the pseudo-sciences. They help me find my way and understand."



Copyright 1998 The New York Times Company



1998 - Salon Magazine - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

Salon Magazine - Jun 1998

A Yankee way of knowledge

Carlos Castaneda,

Whoever he was, is dead - whatever that is.

BY IAN SHOALES



Last week, the Los Angeles Times ruefully alerted us to the death of Carlos Castaneda, noting the occasion with a baffled overview of his life. He was believed to be 72, born (perhaps) in 1925 in either Brazil or Peru, depending on which story one accepts. On his death certificate, his occupation was listed as a teacher in Beverly Hills, but records don't show Castaneda teaching there. A (possibly bitter) ex-wife was quoted: "Much of the Castaneda mystique is based on the fact that even his closest friends aren't sure who he is."

The obituary was accompanied by a very odd photograph taken at the University of Texas in 1951. The picture, however, didn't show a kid in his mid-20s. It looked like a Hollywood publicity photo of a character actor who specializes in playing stout bankers. He might have played one of Lionel Barrymore's clerks in "It's a Wonderful Life." Time's obituary of what it called, in its mighty wisdom, an "enigmatic personality who was either an unfairly vilified anthropologist or a wildly inventive novelist," was accompanied by a picture of a face covered by a hand, with only intense eyes and a few strands of black hair showing. This is the only photograph, according to Time, to which Castaneda would consent. For a cover story!

I hadn't thought about Castaneda in years. As a matter of fact, the last time I thought about Carlos Castaneda, after the previous years I hadn't thought about him, was at a party in Mill Valley, Calif., in the early '80s. Midnight or so, a short, long-haired Latino man walked through the door. He had a huge mustache and a grin that ate half his face. On either side of him, two women, gorgeous in a Playboy/hippie kind of way (honey-blond, vacant, faded blue jeans, halter tops, you know), sashayed through the door. They seemed like a dream sequence from a Cheech and Chong movie.

After a while, somebody came up to me and shouted over the music (the '80s equivalent of whispering) that this guy was Carlos Castaneda. I went over to the cluster of people surrounding him in the corner of the garage, out of the way of the dancers. He had his wallet open, beaming, showing everybody his driver's license. The two women were moving their bodies idly to the music, looking away, scanning the crowd. I elbowed to his side. Like a stoned pope offering his ring, he held his license up for my view. Sure enough, it said, "Carlos Castaneda."

And that was that. I didn't talk with him. I danced until 3 and drove home erratically.

Was he the One True Castaneda? I doubt it. He was too young and pleased to be recognized. On the other hand, he did have two fabulous babes following him around, always a sure-fire fame indicator. Maybe he was a con man who'd convinced them that he was the real Castaneda. Maybe he was the genuine Castaneda, acting like a con man to teach us a lesson, and the two women were spiritual guides from a separate reality. I just don't know.

After reading the obituary, feeling both nostalgic and mildly alarmed that I couldn't remember what the deal was with Carlos Castaneda, I rushed out and tracked down a copy of "The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge." I found one for $2 in a used bookstore in Santa Rosa, from a woman who seemed excited that I was buying it. I guess the news of Castaneda's demise hadn't precipitated a rush for his output.

The book was pretty much as I'd remembered it -- an earnest seeker hooks up with a cranky old magician and learns what fear is. That was the appeal of the book (and series) when I was a kid, and probably remains so today.

There are all kinds of echoes in the relationship between Carlos and Don Juan-- Plato and Socrates, Boswell and Johnson, Watson and Holmes, Luke and Yoda, Scully and Mulder. The book is very well written, in an old-fashioned meticulous style that only contributes to the -- what? Verisimilitude, I guess. I liked it as much as I had the first time I read it, which was quite a lot.

But I also remembered why I stopped reading the series. "Journey to Ixtlan" was the last one I read, I think, if that's the one that ended with Carlos leaping into the Nagual. Anyway, I didn't leap with him. I lost interest, that's all. I was as fond of amazing dope tales as the next guy, but I wasn't about to pack my troubles in an old kit bag, hitchhike to Sonora and stalk old Apaches in the hope of finding luminous beings, magical gestures or even the secret of life. My parents would have killed me.

I'm a Tonal, not a Nagual, kind of guy, in other words. I had a life, such as it was.

What Castaneda's life was, though, remains a mystery. He seems to be one of those peculiar Americans (despite his origins), like Joseph Smith, L. Ron Hubbard, Walt Disney or Hugh Hefner, who had a dream of combining mission with marketing. He was more subtle than most, and therefore less successful (though successful enough to remain in print, and on required reading lists, for 30 years). Cruising the Internet, however, I've noted that he has bickering female "disciples," roaming the land, promoting his (Don Juan's?) concept of "tensegrity" through workshops and seminars. Tensegrity is a tool that allows us to cross the bridges of space, time and awareness. Nothing wrong with that, but where's the theme park? The church? The drugs?

Ah well, if it isn't dead, Castanedaniasm is young. As are we all. Forever young, forever stupid.

As the ever-wise Don Juan put it in "The Teachings," re. the abuse of magical power: "I killed a man with a single blow of my arm ... Once I jumped so high I chopped the top leaves off the highest trees. But it was all for nothing! ... For what? To frighten the Indians?"

Really. What's the point of that? That's the true lesson of the '60s, isn't it? On the magic bus, we're all Indians. What's the point of that?



Copyright, SALON. June 24, 1998



1998 - The Age - Carlos Castaneda Dies


Version 2011.07.09

The Age - Special Edition - Nov 7 1998

The sorcerer's apprentice

by Mick Brown

In the psychedelic '60s, Carlos Castaneda wandered deep into the Mexican desert and brought back the chemically enhanced key to mystic paperback success. But was he a shaman or a sham? Mick Brown looks for enlightenment.

In February of this year I received a curious and completely unexpected invitation ... Would I like to interview Carlos Castaneda? To the uninitiated, the invitation will mean nothing. But those who came of age in the '60s counter-culture will recognise that it was like being invited to peruse the Cretan Minotaur.

Carlos Castaneda stands alongside Timothy Leary as one of the great avatars - and one of the great enigmas - of the psychedelic age. In 1968, Castaneda published The Teachings of Don Juan, describing his apprenticeship in the deserts of Mexico to an Indian shaman, and his induction through mind-altering substances into "the Yaqui way of knowledge".

Like Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf and Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception, The Teachings of Don Juan and its sequels became essential reading for a legion of seekers after truth - guidebooks into a fantastic and exotic world beyond the dull grind of materialism. And long after the first generation of fans had moved on to more pragmatic concerns - mortgages, families, tax returns - the books continued to sell.

Since 1968, the works of Carlos Castaneda have sold more than eight million copies in 17 languages, totally unhindered by the fierce debate about whether don Juan really existed or was simply a figment of Castaneda's imagination.

No less a mystery was Castaneda himself. "The art of the hunter," don Juan had taught, "is to become inaccessible", and it was a maxim that Castaneda had observed with an almost religious dedication for 30 years, forsaking public appearances, refusing almost all interviews, leading the life of a recluse.

But now, I was told, there had been a mysterious and dramatic change of heart. After years of inaccessibility, Castaneda had emerged into the public eye, bringing with him for the first time what he claimed was the most important facet of don Juan's teachings - a system of physical movements known as "magical passes". He was prepared to lift the shroud of secrecy and talk to the world.

A date was provisionally set for me to meet him in Los Angeles. I was told that he would countenance no photographs, no tape-recording equipment. I would be allowed only to take notes, as he had taken notes during his years of tutelage at the feet of don Juan. "A recording," Castaneda had told the Los Angeles Times in 1995 in a rare conversation, "is a way of fixing you in time. The only thing a sorcerer will not do is be stagnant. The stagnant world, the stagnant picture, those are the antitheses of the sorcerer."

Then the date was changed. And changed again. Castaneda, I was told, was "on retreat" in the Mexican desert. When - if - he returned, I would be notified. In late March, I left for California on other business. But the call never came. There was a simple reason. At the time that I was in sitting in a hotel room in Los Angeles, Castaneda was not in Mexico at all. He was five kilometres away from me in his Westwood home, dying of liver cancer.

Carlos Castaneda died, at the age of 72, on April 27. But, peculiarly, it was to be another two months before the news of his death became public. There was no announcement, no press report, no funeral or service of any kind. According to the Culver City mortuary that handled his remains, his body was cremated at once, his ashes spirited away to the Mexican desert.

In death, as in life, Castaneda remained inscrutable. When, eventually, the news of his death leaked out to the press, two British newspapers ran obituaries, alongside photographs of a man who was not Carlos Castaneda. His friends drew a veil of silence over the death, refusing to comment. In a statement to the press, his agents, Toltec Artists, would say only that, "In the tradition of the shamans of his lineage, Carlos Castaneda left this world in full awareness."

Castaneda, this suggested, was a spiritual teacher of the highest order, who had left behind a body of work to enrich mankind. In reality, he left behind a more tangled legacy. Rather than dying "the immaculate death" of the sorcerer, it is suggested that the sorcerer's apprentice actually died a frail, paranoid and angry old man, lashing out at the world with lawsuits - including one against his 73-year-old former wife, Margaret - and conjuring up the spirit of don Juan in a last, desperate attempt to exploit it for all it was worth.

A key aspect of the teachings of don Juan, as recounted by Carlos Castaneda, was the necessity of the "self" to die. "It is imperative to leave aside what [don Juan] called 'personal history'," Castaneda told the Chilean magazine Uno Mismo in 1997. "To get away from 'me' is something extremely annoying and difficult. What the shamans like don Juan seek is a state of fluidity where the personal 'me' does not count." For Castaneda, "the personal me" was a subject of constant fluctuation and revision.

By his own account, Castaneda was born on December 25, 1935, in Sao Paolo, Brazil. His mother died when he was seven and he was raised by his father, a professor of literature whom Castaneda supposedly regarded with a mixture of fondness and contempt - a shadow of the man he would subsequently meet in don Juan. He claimed to have been educated in Buenos Aires and sent to America in 1951. He travelled to Milan, where he studied sculpture, before returning to America and enrolling at UCLA to study anthropology.

In fact, American immigration records indicate that Castaneda was born not in 1935, but in 1925 - not in Brazil, but in Cajamarca, Peru.

His father was not a university professor but a goldsmith. His mother died when he was 24. And while it was true that he had studied painting and sculpture, this was not in Milan but at the National Fine Art school of Peru. Arriving in America in 1951, he studied creative writing at Los Angeles City College before enrolling on an anthropology course at UCLA in 1959.

The following year, he travelled to the Mexico-Arizona desert, intending to study the medicinal use of certain plants among local Indians. At a bus station in the town of Nogales in Arizona, he would later write, he met the man he called don Juan. For the psychedelic generation it was the equivalent of Stanley stumbling into a jungle clearing and discovering Livingstone, the young John Lennon bumping into Paul McCartney at a church fete in Woolton.

According to Castaneda, don Juan Matus was a Yaqui Indian nagual, or leader of a party of sorcerers - the last in a line stretching back to the times of the Toltecs, the pre-Hispanic Indians who inhabited the central and northern regions of Mexico a thousand years ago. Under the guidance of the Yaqui sage, Castaneda was introduced to the psychotropic substances of peyote, jimson weed and "the little smoke", a preparation made from psilocybe mushrooms that had been dried and aged for a year. Under the influence of these drugs the bemused anthropologist underwent a series of bizarre encounters, with columns of singing light, a bilingual coyote and a 30-metre-tall gnat - "the guardian of the other world" - manifestations of the "powers", or impersonal forces, that a man of knowledge must learn to use.

The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge was first published in 1968 as an anthropological thesis by the University of California Press.

A year later - repackaged in a psychedelic book jacket - it was published by a mainstream company. It became an immediate counter-culture hit, prompting an exodus of would-be apprentice sorcerers to the deserts of Mexico in search of don Juan - or at least good drugs.

A Separate Reality, published in 1971, was more of the same - a giant gnat circles around Castaneda, and he sees don Juan's face transformed into a ball of glowing light - as the old Indian inducted Castaneda into the so-called second cycle of apprenticeship. These experiences were not just psychedelic magical mystery tours. The use of drugs, Castaneda explained, was don Juan's way of leading his pupil to "see" the world outside the cultural and linguistic constraints of Western rationalism, unencumbered by conditioned preconceptions or the taint of personal history.

Drugs were not in themselves the destination, he explained in Journey to Ixtlan, which was published in 1973; they were merely one route to the destination, to be discarded once this fundamental shift in perception had been achieved. Journey to Ixtlan won Castaneda his PhD from UCLA. It also made him a millionaire.

By now, doubts about the authenticity of Castaneda's accounts had begun to multiply. It was one thing for him to refuse to divulge the identity and whereabouts of the Yaqui sage (don Juan, he always made clear, was a pseudonym which he used to protect his teacher's privacy), but quite another for him to refuse to let his field notes be examined by other anthropologists. But whatever the doubts about the books' provenance, even the most sceptical critics agreed that they were powerful parables about the search for personal enlightenment, "remarkable works of art" as the author Joyce Carol Oates described them.

In 1976, a teacher of psychology named Richard de Mille (the son of Cecil B.) published the first comprehensive critique of the don Juan books, Castaneda's Journey: The Power and the Allegory, detailing myriad inconsistencies in the chronology of Castaneda's accounts and the character of don Juan. Don Juan, de Mille concluded, was a work of fiction, but Castaneda "wasn't a common con man, he lied to bring us the truth ... This is a sham-man bearing gifts." But de Mille's book vanished without trace while Castaneda's continued to sell.

An anthropologist named Jay Courtney Fikes provided yet another twist on the don Juan stories in his book, Carlos Castaneda, Academic Opportunism and the Psychedelic Sixties, published in 1993. In this, Fikes suggested that rather than being one individual, don Juan was actually an amalgam of two or possibly three authentic Indian shamans, including a well-respected Mazatec healer called Maria Sabina, who had also collaborated with the anthropologist Gordon Wasson on his study of psychedelic mushrooms in the '50s.

"I would see Castaneda as an anthropologist-lite, as it were, or a travel writer," Fikes now says. "There is a residue of authenticity there. I think he did make trips to Mexico and he had some interesting experiences, and he then fictionalised them and called them non-fiction.

"I don't think he set out in 1960 to create a massive hoax. The first book took off, it was a best-seller: there were very few people who publicly expressed scepticism at that point, so he just kept going."

Castaneda's response to the criticisms was always the same. He was writing about states of mind and perception outside the normal conventions of academia, so the normal terms of reference did not apply. Sorcerers, he said, have only one point of reference: "infinity". He would continue repeating the same mantra to the very end. "I invented nothing."

Castaneda maintained that don Juan "left the world" in 1973, dying "the immaculate death" of the warrior. His departure did nothing to stem the flow of Castaneda books. Throughout the '70s and '80s, a stream of books appeared expounding further on don Juan's teachings. Diligent readers noted that the anthropological references seemed to grow fewer and that the books increasingly bore the traces of other influences: the study of phenomenology; Eastern mysticism; existentialism.

Something weird started happening to don Juan's voice. One minute he was intoning sonorous desert utterances, the next joshing in American slang, and the next assuming the stilted, jargon-heavy circumlocutions of a professor of philosophy. (In Castaneda's last book, The Active Side of Infinity, which is due to be published next year, don Juan is quoted as saying, "The effect of the force that is descending on you, which is disintegrating the foreign installation, is that it pulls sorcerers out of their syntax" - a mouthful for a professor of linguistics, let alone a Yaqui Indian.)

Critics talked of "the grim sound of barrels being scraped" and noted an increasingly Messianic tone in Castaneda's pronouncements. With don Juan having "left the world", Castaneda himself had become the heir to the lineage, the nagual. No longer a mere disciple, he had become the prophet and, as befits a prophet, he began to gather around him a coterie of disciples. Foremost among these were three women - Carol Tiggs, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar - who, according to Castaneda, had also been students of don Juan.

"The four disciples of don Juan", as Castaneda styled them, lived in close, but apparently celibate, proximity to each other. Castaneda once said that he eschewed relationships of "a sexual order", for shamanic reasons. More prosaically, rumours suggested he was incapacitated by "a groin injury", said to have been sustained when he was young.

For years, the group remained largely reclusive, apparently following don Juan's dictum that the sorcerer's way was to "touch the world sparingly". But in 1993, Castaneda suddenly emerged into the public eye, propagating what he claimed to be the culmination of the sorcerer's arts - a system of bodily movements which he called "magical passes". These movements, Castaneda claimed, had been taught to initiates over 27 generations in conditions of the utmost secrecy and passed on by don Juan to Castaneda and his three other disciples before his death.

Through these "magical passes", Castaneda claimed, the Toltec sorcerers had attained an increased level of awareness which allowed them to perform "indescribable feats of perception" and experience "unequalled states of physical prowess and well-being". The "magical passes" even had a brand name - "Carlos Castaneda's Tensegrity" (an architectural term meaning a combination of tension and integrity) - and an organisation called Cleargreen, set up by Castaneda to promote seminars and workshops.

Castaneda himself would appear at these seminars, alongside his three women companions, talking about his experiences with don Juan, before introducing a team of demonstrators, dressed in black work-out uniforms and known as "the chacmools", to demonstrate the movements.

Even the most credulous students of his writings were puzzled. In all of the don Juan books there had been no mention of Tensegrity or "magical passes". If these movements were so important, why had Castaneda never mentioned them before? And why was he breaking the habit of a lifetime by appearing in public to talk about them?

Castaneda's explanation was typically mind-boggling. It was true that don Juan had always maintained that the "magical passes" should be kept secret, but an extraordinary event had dictated they should now be made public. While following don Juan's techniques in mastering "the art of dreaming", Carol Tiggs had "disappeared into a dream" in a hotel room in Mexico City sometime in the '70s. She had vanished, Castaneda said, in order to act as a beacon from the other side, guiding initiates through "the dark sea of awareness". In 1985, however, Tiggs made a surprising reappearance in a California bookshop where Castaneda was giving a talk. Her reappearance had convinced Castaneda that the "message of freedom" enshrined in the "magical passes" should now be passed on to the world.

More puzzling still was the fact that there is no tradition of such bodily movements among pre-Hispanic Indians and that Castaneda's "magical passes" bore a suspiciously close resemblance to such Asiatic disciplines as kung fu and Tai Chi.

In fact, it seemed that for inspiration Castaneda had travelled no further than the Los Angeles suburb of Santa Monica, to the classes of a kung fu teacher and "energy master" named Howard Lee. Lee confirms that Castaneda studied with him between 1974 and 1989.

There were allegations that Castaneda paid a substantial sum of money "and the phallus of a puma" in order to deter Lee from taking legal action. Lee denies this ("A what of a puma?") and says he has never seen the "magical passes" in action. "Some people have said they're similar to what I teach, but I don't know. I've never seen them and I'm not interested."

Whatever their origins, the courses in Tensegrity proved extremely profitable. Workshops and seminars, costing from $US200 to $1,000, attracted hundreds of participants, stimulating a brisk business in Tensegrity T-shirts ("The magic is in the movement") and videos, on sale for $29.95.

In its marketing, promises of well-being and promotion of Castaneda as the guru, sceptics could see in Tensegrity the seeds of a New Age religion. "Castaneda had built himself up as a prophet through the don Juan books," says Jay Fikes.

"The bible, so to speak, was written; but there was no ritual, so it was necessary to invent one."

Whether Castaneda's books were wholly true, partly true or fiction, even his sternest critics acknowledged that their success opened the door to a tradition of authentic Indian shamanic teachings which had hitherto been unavailable.

In the years following the publication of the don Juan books, a number of teachers emerged in America, claiming to be in the same Toltec tradition as don Juan, even to have been taught personally by him or his contemporaries.

Among the most prominent of these teachers is Merilyn Tunneshende - "The Nagual Woman" who says she met the man Castaneda had called don Juan on a railway station in Yuma, Arizona, near the border with Mexico, in 1978, five years after Castaneda claimed he had "left the world". According to Tunneshende, don Juan was a Yuma, not a Yaqui Indian. She says she studied with him from 1978 until his death in 1991. At don Juan's instigation, she met Castaneda in Los Angeles in 1979, remaining in intermittent contact.

Tunneshende became the most vocal critic of Castaneda's Tensegrity, writing a series of articles in the American magazine Magical Blend - a forum for such matters - alleging that Castaneda had been expelled from the sorcerer's circle in 1980. "Carlos was a very insecure man in a lot of ways," Tunneshende now says. "With Tensegrity, he never felt as though he could reveal at any point that this was something he'd developed himself. It was as if he needed the name of don Juan to lend whatever he was doing some authority."

Castaneda, according to one observer, had begun to behave "like the Toltec pope". In 1995 he filed suit against another Toltec teacher - and an old friend - Victor Sanchez, claiming that the jacket of Sanchez's book, The Teachings of Don Carlos, infringed Castaneda's copyright. And in 1997 he launched a lawsuit against his ex-wife, Margaret Runyon Castaneda, over the publication of her book, A Magical Journey with Carlos Castaneda.

In his determination to obliterate any traces of personal biography, Castaneda had never made any reference to a wife. According to Margaret, however, she and Castaneda were married in Tijuana in 1960, and while they lived together for only six months, their divorce did not become absolute until 1973. Furthermore, she claims, Castaneda insisted that she sign documents with the California Department of Public Health making him the legal father of her son, Carlton Jeremy, or CJ, by another relationship.

The book is a gossipy and affectionate account of her life with a man she describes as "looking like a Cuban bellhop". (Only 165 cm, Castaneda favoured neat haircuts and three-button suits.) It casts an interesting light on the possible origins of the don Juan books. Long before encountering don Juan, she suggests, Castaneda had read extensively on the use of psychotropic drugs among Indians, eastern mysticism and the literature of Aldous Huxley. She recounts a dinner with friends in 1959 - a year before Castaneda's supposed meeting with don Juan - when the conversation turned to how the great religious scriptures were never written by the teachers but by their disciples. "It seemed to make a big impression on him," Margaret Castaneda writes.

Which is not to say that don Juan did not exist. Margaret confirms that her husband made frequent field trips to Mexico in the time he was supposedly apprenticed to the Yaqui sage. But by and large, Castaneda seems to have been as much a mystery to his wife as he was to everyone else.

For Castaneda, there was a tragic irony in his emergence into the public spotlight. For by 1996, at the time when he was promoting courses promising "unequalled states of physical prowess and well-being", his own health was said to be in a state of steady decline. His lawyer, Deborah Drooz, maintains that the author was ill for "some 10 to 12 months" before his death in April 1998. Other sources close to Castaneda, however, claim that he was aware that he had cancer at least two years before he died.

Shortly before his death, his agent delivered to his publisher the manuscript of his last book, The Active Side of Infinity. Read in the light of his death, the book has a distinctly valedictory air. Reappraising his encounters with don Juan, Castaneda reiterates that "the total goal" of shamanic knowledge is preparation for facing the "definitive journey - the journey that every human being has to take at the end of his life" to the region that shamans called "the active side of infinity". "We are beings on our way to dying," [don Juan] said. "We are not immortal, but we behave as if we were. This is the flaw that brings us down as individuals and will bring us down as a species someday."

There are any number of theories about exactly why it took two months to announce Castaneda's own death. Cynics point to the unfortunate coincidence of his death with the publication of Magical Passes: it is hardly an advertisement for a book promoting a system fostering "health, vitality, youth and a general sense of well-being" for its author to die of liver cancer. However, Deborah Drooz says there was never any intention that his death should be made public at all. "Dr Castaneda spent his lifetime avoiding press attention and keeping the details of his personal life extremely private. He wanted to be known only through his work."

Had it not been for the matter of Castaneda's will, it is possible that his death would have gone unremarked for years. The news leaked out when Margaret Runyon Castaneda's son, CJ, who now goes by the name of Adrian Vashon, received a court letter indicating he was mentioned in Castaneda's will. According to Drooz, Castaneda asserted "time and time again" that Vashon was not his son. Drooz says that Vashon is not named as a beneficiary. He is now contesting the will and it is likely to be some months before the matter is resolved. Castaneda's estate is believed to be worth some $20 million.

Castenada's organisation, Cleargreen, would make no comment when I contacted them to talk about the author's life and death. It made its first, and to date only, statement about the death on June 22, in a notice posted on its Web site. This stated that he had "left the world" in the same way as don Juan, "with full awareness". "The cognition of our everyday life," the statement went on, "does not provide for a description of a phenomenon such as this. So in keeping with the terms of legalities and record keeping that the world of everyday life requires, Carlos Castaneda was declared to have died."

It is a statement ripe with ambiguity, leaving open the tantalising suggestion, for those inclined to believe it, that in his final moments Castaneda had somehow achieved the nagual's ultimate accomplishment of a sort of spontaneous combustion, burning in "the fire from within".

So Carlos Castaneda is dead, but then again, perhaps he's not. Soon after his death the Internet was buzzing with accounts from people whom he has supposedly visited in their dreams. It will not be long before psychics in South Carolina and Virginia begin "channelling" communications with Castaneda from the other side; or, perhaps, before another young anthropology student walks out of the Mexican desert, bringing with him the teachings of a sage who looks like a Cuban bellhop: a sham-man's way of knowledge.



THE AGE - News Special - Saturday 7 November 1998
Copyright (c) The Age Company Ltd 2000.



2004 - Magical Blend Magazine - Amy Wallace Interview


Version 2011.07.09

Castaneda Casualties: An Interview with Amy Wallace
(Magical Blend Magazine, © MB Media 2004).

Castaneda Casualties: An Interview with Amy Wallace

Castaneda Casualties: An Interview with Amy Wallace (Magical Blend Magazine, © MB Media 2004)

by Michael Peter Langevin

When visionary author Carlos Castaneda died, as he almost certainly did of liver cancer in 1998, several female members of his inner circle disappeared, amidst much sinister speculation. Had they all "burned from within," as Carlos described a sorcerer's departure from this earth? Or was this another outrageous hoax from a man whose credibility had come to be questioned by just about everyone other than those still held in thrall by his personal magnetism and incomparable storytelling? Taisha Abelar and Florinda Donner-Grau-- two of the three "witches" said to be master apprentices of Castaneda's Yaqui sorcerer mentor Don Juan-- were among the missing. Nury Alexander, also known as The Blue Scout and described by Castaneda as an energetic entity rescued from the realm of inorganics (and later legally adopted by him), was gone as well, along with Kylie Lundahl and Talia Bey, two more of the annointed inner circle. Their phone numbers were all disconnected on the same day. All had been regular recipients of large sums of the money generated by the royalties from Casteneda's perpetually bestselling books and his community's well-attended workshops. Was this vanishing act-- perhaps even Carlos' death itself-- the result of a suicide pact? Or was this mystery further evidence of the nonordinary reality that Castaneda wrote about, evoked incessantly, and seemed largely to live in?

If anyone would be in a position to know, it would be Amy Wallace. Having been introduced to Castaneda when she was 16 by her author father, Irving Wallace, she reunited with Carlos in the early 1990s when he called to tell her he had spoken to her dead father in the dreaming realm. They fell in love, or something like it. Amy Wallace had the king's ear, as it were, and ostensibly, his heart. But, as she tells in her new book, Sorcerer's Apprentice (North Atlantic, 2003), being at the center of the psychic storm that Castaneda alternately calmed and created was a painful, confusing place to be. Sorcerer's Apprentice is a powerful yet deeply troubling book. It reveals Castaneda as cruel and manipulative yet charismatic and childlike in his relationships, mostly with women. It's a story told by a sadder but wiser and very honest woman whose self-image is still not quite sure what hit it. She recently told us some of what she knows:


MB: What happened to the witches when Carlos died, and why didn't Carol Tiggs, whom some saw as the most powerful of the witches and who claimed to be The Blue Scout's mother, go with them?

There's lot I can't tell you. But I was told that when I can speak, I should call Magical Blend. It turns out that the witches, including the Blue Scout, disappeared. I was told by a very drunken Taisha Ablelar that she was going to kill herself. Then I was told by Carol Tiggs that she had just arrived at the site of a suicide attempt by the Blue Scout. I believe she didn't succeed then, but it could be possible that she has since then. And one of the things that made me break with the group was that Carol was actually moving into my house, and she was just about insane-- as anyone would be. On Tuesday she would say "They're dead! They're all dead" and then on Wednesday, she would say "They're all alive," and she'd get on the cell phone and say to someone, "Oh, I just talked to them," or "No, I haven't heard from them yet." And it was just too much for me. It was like a "suicide missing-in-action."

But then they settled on a party line, and this I can tell you: Debbie Drooz [Castaneda's lawyer and the executor of his estate-Ed.] is in charge of disbursing extremely large sums of money to these women. And she has not disbursed a single check since the day they left. And I understand that while they were making up their wills, she asked them, "Now, you're not going to do anything stupid, are you?" Now, that's a very odd question, isn't it?

MB: Yes. It also seems odd that they made out new wills days within a few days of Carlos' death. It sounds like perhaps a group suicide was planned.

Well, when Debbie Drooz asked them about it, they said, "Of course not." And she said, "Then I'll make the disbursals." But none of that happened. And some of their family members died-- like Talia's father died and Florinda-- who was in constant touch with her family-- her father died in his 90s and her brothers couldn't get in touch with her and they were all distraught because they can't reach who they were used to reaching. And, in spite of the myth that Carlos insisted on a total cut-off from family members, that's not true for everybody. In Florinda's case particularly. So it's very dark.

So we have a couple of things to look at here. Either they literally left with millions in cash and had some kind of complex Swiss bank accounts-- I don't know about those kinds of things-- or they're not here anymore. They had so much money coming to them, and all that money will go to Carol-- all of it.

MB: Why didn't she go? Was it five women who disappeared?

Well, there was Kylie and Talia, Taisha and Florinda, and then the Blue Scout separately. And it gets confusing for me in some places because I was told for several days or a week that Carlos had left with the Blue Scout. And I thought, physically that's impossible because he was in a coma last I heard, so how could he be moved? She would have to put him in the car and his bodily functions weren't working; he would have to be injected for diabetes, so I didn't see how he could take a long drive with his adopted daughter-- and lover. And of course now we know that none of that was true.

MB: Does this leave Carol Tiggs as the new leader of the community or of Cleargreen [Casteneda's business entity]?

The idea of Carol leading a group is as absurd as the idea of me redoing your plumbing. She's not a leader type. What she said to me was, "I hate what left and I hate what stayed." Now, if she stayed and the Blue Scout had stayed-- at that point, she was still here; she was seen two weeks after they supposedly left town-- who knows? They were supposed to be a loving mother and daughter but there was a lot of animosity between them, and it was quite a sight to see. At one point during that two-week period, Carol was wiggling her toes in the pool and saying, "Now I'm in charge! I get to be in charge!" I don't think she wanted to stay and have somebody like Nury still have some power over her while she was still here. And also I don't think she wants the job. She kept saying, "It's like the whole group of them are sucking on my tits like I'm a big sow or something. I just want to be left alone." It was like Greta Garbo time for her. In other words, she's used to being waited on hand and foot, and she still can be, it's just that she has to deal with all their problems.

If she had left with that group, she would be the lowest on the pecking order. She was here, and she would have been there. If she stayed, she would have basically had to have been consulting therapists because of all the people. So the last I heard was that she moved out to be near her mother. She may have left the country or she may be living in the Pacific Palisades with her mother, who takes an extraordinarily laissez-faire attitude toward what her daughter does. She thinks it's all a big lark.

MB: Do you think the other four committed suicide?

Yes. Taisha said to me, "Since I'm going to commit suicide, it doesn't matter anymore if I'm a drunk, right?" And Kylie said, "We both know what we're going to do, and there's no other way." She never used the word suicide, but I was worried. She'd gotten bottles of pills and given them to Carlos. She said if ever she couldn't make it, she would take them, and she knew what to do. She was hellbent-- she's always talked about suicide. She said, "I know that you've reached that point, too, and that you're to do it." And she was blissed out (this is not in the book; Carol said it). But Talia said "I've never seen anyone look so scared." So they may have done different things or just stuck together, but I suspect they're all gone. Talia's brother was here. Nobody knows if Talia's dead or missing, but if wherever she is is unestablished, part of his estate is part of Talia's estate and it goes to Eagle's Gift [the trust established in Castaneda's will] in her name, so his own home is in danger. So he was really freaked out and in shock. Carlos always portrayed them as rich, but they're not. They don't have the money to hire a detective, but investigations are being undertaken.

MB: How do the remaining group members feel about your book?

One of the most damning things in the entire book Carol said to me after Carlos was gone. She said, "You know, you're very dangerous to us." And I said, "How could I be?" And she said, "Because you know too much. You're a time bomb." And I thought, it's a corrupt spiritual organization when you can know too much. It should have been open, truthful, honest, loving-- these are my beliefs. I don't think there should be baroque secrets that make somebody a time bomb. So, by writing the book I let off the bomb.

MB: That's right. Are you in touch with Cleargreen? Is Tensegrity [the latest version of Castaneda's teachings] being run by Debra Drooz?

It's being run by Reni Murez; she's the person-in-chief there, but they won't answer anyone's phone calls. They might from you if they think they're gonna get a good story, but so many people have told me that they have tried to contact them, and they won't answer any calls.

MB: And yet they're still putting on Tensegrity workshops across the world?

Yes, they are. Now, they're getting smaller, of course. But what they do, is they say the witches are directing it from afar, and since there's no proof either way, yet, quite, about all of them, people choose to believe that. Also they have very little information. People ask me, "Did you ever see magic?" And the answer is no.

MB: No?

I've seen it in my life. I believe in it. I know it exists, but I didn't see it there. That really blew my mind because I'm a professional researcher and writer, and I've written about the paranormal and spontaneous human combustion. It happens, believe me. I've written 13 books. And I've seen magic. I mean, I've talked to cops who were there and witnessed it! But not from Carlos, or any of the others.

MB: Carlos's books changed the world. He was a great writer and a great performer on the world stage. Whether or not he was a sorcerer is hard to say.

I don't think he had powers or secret knowledge.

MB: Do you think the lost years between his first wife's book and your book were just spent doing the same sort of thing he did towards the end?

Yes, he was very focused on workshops during that period. He wanted to go public, and I don't know what his personal reasons were for that. He said it was some energetic need to preserve the lineage. He did try to offer the lineage to Tony Karam in Mexico, and it was very interesting to me that Tony walked away from millions of dollars and hot and cold running women. Now there's an impeccable guy.

MB: And rare.

Yes, and a wonderful person. I just think the world of him. Victor Sanchez, too. These are honorable people. I think there's got to be a lot of hard feelings among the other men in terms of competition who might have expected to be offered that. They weren't offered it.

MB: As far as you know he only offered it to Tony?

Yes, it's amazing. These are the reasons Tony gave me for not doing it. He said, "I never saw magic; it was always a dangled carrot, and I was being asked to tell lies about what places I'd been and things I'd seen. And I will not do that."

MB: Good for him. So as far as you're concerned, you're basically going on record as saying that Carlos was a good author, a good performer, a good storyteller, but not a magic worker at any point.

No. He had one of the most charismatic personalities I've ever seen in my life. I believe we're all psychic, and I believe that he could tune in, at a very high level, to your needs and the right timing. He was very astute, and although that's a form of psychism, it's not the same. He was honed in that way. For example, he once said he was going to bring a 200-pound pigeon from a different dimension. Well, that never happened. None of those things ever happened. Once a year, I would tell him a dream, and because I was so reticent, he was respectful and would answer. One time I said I had a dream in which we were levitating into another dimension while we were making love. I asked him, "So what was that?" And he said, "That's how it's going to be, chica-- that's how it's going to happen." So I think what he did was take people, and confirm their fantasies. He would say your dreams or your waking fantasies are actually dreaming awake so therefore all that stuff happened. So some people believed they were living double lives that they were only aware of in a dream context. In other words, only he could tell them, "This really happened."

MB: The ultimate cult leader, the ultimate guru.

Exactly, and the only thing they remember is working a job, or going to school, and living a bizarre but regular life. None of them performed acts of magic, although Florinda had the closest to that kind of charisma. too.

MB: Does that, then, imply that Don Juan didn't exist on any level?

No one has ever seen Don Juan or spoken to him, and there have been no reported sightings and no reported meetings, ever. Carlos used to say, "Don Juan's oldest student is a woman named Joanie Barker." I met someone during my readings who said he said he had introduced Joanie and Carlos. Joanie claims never to have met Don Juan.

MB: So is Don Juan a composite fictional figure?

That's what I believe. I believe he was a composite figure for literary reasons. And I think this is a good question, "Did other people work on those books?" The series changed dramatically-- and I recommend them as gorgeous parables of how to live-- but Carlos used to say, "People ask me why I wrote these great books? I don't know, I don't know," he'd say. Well, I got an anonymous email from Simon and Schuster saying, "I can't risk losing my job, but those books were either heavily edited or basically ghost-written, at certain points."

MB: Right, and towards the end, like you said, there was definitely a change in the predominant force, originating from either the writers or the editors.

Right, and there was another change when Tensegrity took off. There was also another publisher involved in the last book, and another editor. I've never met an editor in my life who didn't work on a book.

MB: Right, in the industry it's a given.

It's clear to me that there is not one Carlos Castaneda who wrote all of those books that way.

MB: I was in Peru not long ago, and many of the spiritual teachings are very similar to Carlos's early books.

Well, he grew up there.

MB: Yeah, and it seemed to me he took it and grafted it to Northern Mexico in many instances.

Yeah, and I also think he traveled, because he spent a lot of time in Argentina and around Mexico and studied with other shamans as well. Probably the bulk of what you're saying is true.

MB: Even though you weren't in his life at this time, do you feel a lot of his earlier studies were to feed the books rather than to build a true magic or a true repetoire of knowledge?

Well, I think he was trying to get his doctorate; I don't think he knew it would turn into a bestseller. The world of academia meant the world to him. He wanted me to go to college. For him, the biggest kind of trophy he could have was academic respect.

MB: Which he really never got.

No, although they were split. The graduate committee who gave him his doctorate was split on the issue. He never got respect from UCLA-- at least the kind of respect he wanted.

MB: You seem comfortable with the idea that there was a pre-European altered reality that he brought forward though.

Oh yes, and I think if people could take that, and use it, and refrain from dropping off cliffs into other dimensions...If people would keep their power... I'm very moved by people's reactions to my book. I've been getting letters saying they're saved.

MB: You're setting people free; what a great service.

Yeah, it's kind of hard to take in. It's like, it didn't turn into this big bestseller because I parted ways with Simon and Schuster, so it's hard to pay the mortgage, but...

MB: Yeah, writing isn't consistent; we know that. But the movie's coming out, and with interviews and stuff, it could hit. There are a lot of books that come to life late.

There are a lot of books that come to life late, and my publisher's terrific because they keep books in print. I'm better off where I am, going through the hard times. The sense of service is so deep, when I get these letters. I sometimes cry, because to have literally saved a life. That's amazing.

MB: What better purpose to live for?

I know, I mean, it's the most beautiful thing. Or to have saved a marriage, or a family...

MB: Have you come in contact, either when you were in the group or since then, with people who, like you, responded to Victor Sanchez, with people that you really feel are living a Toltec existence or a spiritual existence?

Merilyn Tunneshende, no, and at the office we get a postcard a day from her saying, "Hi Honeybuns, love you, kissy kissies." And I saw her come to the workshop, if it was her, acting really crazy. I have read her publications, and I don't believe her. I don't know much about Ken Eagle; I'm kind of a "no comment there." Victor Sanchez has my total vote of confidence; I think he's the real thing. Tony is primarily Tibetan-oriented, but is really what you would call a spiritual human being. Miguel-Ruiz-- they didn't try to sue him. He's kind of a watered-down, lightweight, but honest.

MB: Sort of a Christian, middle-American Castaneda.

Exactly. They didn't try to sue him; they left him alone. They didn't find grounds. It's incredible how litigious Carlos got.

MB: Regardless of that, his devout fans were furious at anyone that he didn't speak well of-- loyal to a T.

And you know, I don't think that will ever end.

MB: No, because the books did touch so many lives and inspire so many people that regardless of who he changed into or who he really was, it almost doesn't matter.

Yeah, at Simon and Schuster, when I tried to leave, and it turned out I was contractually bound, I couldn't leave, and finally I pissed them off by telling my truth. My editor said, "Pablo Picasso put his cigarettes out on the arms of his mistresses; that doesn't mean he was any less a great artist, or a human being." Now I thought that was a pretty weird statement, because it means he was a creepy human being.

MB: Right, but his art is separate.

Right, but Carlos did create beautiful art, and if you can take it as such and separate that, then you've got the best. But people have so much trouble making that separation, because at certain points Carlos would say, "you have to follow all my commands" and at other days, "Throw out all my books. Don't read them, burn them; they're old stuff. They don't count anymore; they're meaningless." He really was like the weather.

The video, Enigma of a Sorcerer really ends with saying he was the perfect guru because he had feet of clay at the end.

Why does that make a man perfect?

MB: It was an interesting place to go with the ending.

I thought that was such a weird ending. Why does that make you a good guru? Because you have to wake up and find your own path? I ended my book with, "Don't give your power away."

MB: Amen. As you describe him in the book, he was the archetypal cult leader.

Does this cult remind you more of one than another?

MB: I think, in general, that they tended to go that way. You have a charismatic leader, and he falls into one temptation or another, and they become very "in-crowd-out-crowd."

And you'll never get in enough within the in-crowd.

MB: Right, and that's whole goal, and that's what keeps everybody running on the merry-go-round.

Exactly. The one thing I thought was really weird for a long time was that you couldn't join with money. He would take all your personal possessions, but that was my choice, he didn't make me do it. And if I had a really expensive piece of jewelry, but he thought that it had a bad vibe, he'd say, "Try to get some money by selling it." Florinda saved a couple things, because she knew better. And I was so enamored that I was willing to do anything. She comes off badly in the book, but I really love her.

MB: No person is black and white.

No, and she had that moment where she was like, "Save this, the day will come when it's really yours and you're gonna want it and be sorry." The only thing that I found was that was different than most groups was that you couldn't just join.

MB: You had to be invited to go.

Are there other groups like that?

MB: To the inner circles, yeah. There's always the Tensegrity workshops somewhere, so you can be in the outer circle, with the hope of catching someone's attention.

I've heard people say, "He looked in my eyes, and then I had hope for the rest of my life." And then they would go on these long tangents on the internet about what it all meant. As someone who was in this for so long, I can only say I was totally brainwashed and susceptible to it. But I see people there that are....nothing could move them. I like to think it could be otherwise, but maybe I got the best of it because I was closer in.

MB: I think so. Otherwise people live on fantasies and hopes.

And stories. I've heard about the current Tensegrity workshops, and people are saying, "I went here, and I went therewith The Blue Scout," and so on, and I don't believe that.

MB: On a sexual level in the book you portray Castaneda as almost superhuman.

Well, you know-- because he had diabetes, he wasn't able to get a full erection-- that's a sign of having diabetes, and sometimes of age. But he had an ability to have frequent, very frequent, orgasms. And I thought this was impossible, but I did some research and found out it was. Because I know a friend of my father's, just turned 90 and had twins. And Norman Lear, in his 70s, has little children. So obviously they're having sexual activity with their wives. Carlos and I had great chemistry; he and I just really clicked in a lot of ways, sexually. And I think that because of that, he put more into it.

MB: And yet, in the inner circle, he had sex with 10,20, 30 women.

I found out, and it was really hard to get answers, that some women he would only have sex with once every year, or once every six months or something, whereas we were having a lot more sex than the others, like, once a week.

MB: So he wasn't quite Wilt Chamberlain.

No, the numbers may have been great, but could he do it with frequency with everybody? No. And could he do it with a genuine... I mean, Florinda and I talked about this, if you can believe it or not, about his not having a full erection and stuff like that. And that's something I didn't want to talk about in the book. I don't mind you're using it; I just don't want it to sound distasteful.

MB: Right, you know, sex sells, and yet, if you do it wrong, people get so turned off.

Exactly, but this is a critical point: He had this orgasmic capacity, but he wasn't really performing the way you would normally make love that many times in a row. So he had capacity to have repeated orgasms. But his urge to have sex with as many people as possible was so strong, it meant so much to him... I know this sounds silly, but he was so obsessed with his height, that I wouldn't be surprised if it stemmed from that.

MB: Sure. Napoleon conquered all of Europe.

There you go, and he and I were exactly the same size. When I came into the group, Florinda said, "At last someone his size" in front of all the other women, and they looked at me like they were gonna kill me. And although he was very amorous with some of the taller women, I think there were a handful of us... like his adopted daughter-- he was completely infatuated with her sexually, so I think he must have been having as much sex with her as he was with me, or more. But, with other women, it wasn't that way. I knew one woman in the book whose name I changed-- she was in the group for years before he even approached her sexually. Whereas, he approached me sexually before I was in the group. So, whether it was a judgment call of how to get someone in the group, or whether it was attraction, or whether it was because my father was famous and there was some competition there, I don't know. You know that they really, really liked each other but he also wanted to show that he could have his.... I have a friend who he wanted to have the daughter of, and... I don't know.

MB: Did he ever use herbs?

Yeah, he gave me rosemary, which he cut himself from the side of the house, and I was told this was from a cutting by don Juan. He would send them via the witches or hand them to me in big bags, and I was supposed to bathe in them, and never immerse myself in water, although I took baths anyway and no one ever knew the difference. We used to swim in my pool, the witches and I-- no one ever knew the difference. And he wanted me to fill the pool in with dirt, and I couldn't afford it, so we promised never to use it but we (Carol, Taisha, and I) used it every day. So, he couldn't see, you know, psychically that way. And the herbs were supposed to be used on a footstool with a little douche bag, and they were to take away the ugly sperm of anyone else I'd ever had sex with. I did this religiously forever, and its actually a very healthy herb for the genitals for the woman; it helps prevent against infections, and what-have-you. It wasn't really dangerous, just a general cleansing. But then Taisha said I could buy it at the store, and I told her I couldn't-- it was Don Juan's. And she went, "Oh, oops." And then she said, "You know, we cut down all the rosemary." And I asked her why, and she said, "Well, we had to change everything magically." And it was just kind of to piss everybody off. I don't think it was Don Juan's cutting, it was a beautiful plant that grows everywhere in Southern California, but they made it into something that was larger than it really was.

MB: Did the number of the inner circle change over time?

Oh God, it was constantly changing. There was a small handful that remained the same, but even people who were in the original group got kicked out. There was an Orange Scout that had the highest honors, The Blue Scout, kicked out. One had a complete nervous breakdown, and now wears a colostomy bag, but still believes in all this. It is so sad, and so heartbreaking, and Carole said such horrible things. She said, "Well, we'll throw her $10,000; that's what Carlos gives when he wants to get rid of people." This is some brutal stuff. The inner circle was constantly changing, and there was this very small, small core of about half a dozen people that remained. Some of them are now gone of course, and now I would say Tracy, and Bruce, and Deborah, but she didn't come to the classes....and I think she got herself in hot water, because she's a lawyer, and she's gonna come in for some very heavy questioning and she's in a very tight spot so she minded her p's and q's when she said, "Are you gonna do something stupid?" It's very weird for Carlos to die and within three days for these women to come in draw out their wills. That's not normal.

MB: Yeah, anymore than keeping the body for, how long before reporting it?

Well, they took it to... I don't know how many days. Richard knows all this, and he would be very willing to help, He's good with facts, about how many days before they took him to the crematorium, and the people who were going through the garbage, Rick and Gabby, they went to the crematorium, and they identified the body as appearing to them like Carlos so they took the body right away. He was cremated, and we don't know what they did with it. But they didn't keep the body, but once he died, they got rid of the body; the doctor, wrote out a false death certificate, and that's really illegal. I said, "Why did you say this? Why did you say that?" And I was worried that we might all have AIDS, because we all had sex with him. And she said, "Well, all I can tell you is that it was a noncommunicable liver disease, and someday maybe I'll be able to tell you more. And we know that it was liver cancer, as well as advanced diabetes. But Florinda said, "We think he was a death defier; we think you did it to him." I was accused of killing him on more than one occasion because I had poisoned his past or I.... The whole thing about the antidepressants was weird because I had taken them and then I flushed them all down the toilet. Well, they were like drinking, certain people, and taking Vicodin,

MB: Where do you think he went wrong? Do you think there was ever a moment he could have become something greater, something more noble?

I like to think that, because when you love someone you kind of love them forever. I still love him, and maybe there is a part of me that does believe that. I think that having all these women went to his head, and unfortunately I'm starting to learn that it started very early, before the books. He left his pregnant fiancée in Peru, and was fooling around, and he was the roommate of this guy named Alan Cummings, that had come to the readings, while he was writing the first book, and before the first book. And that's how he met Joanie and Lenore, and he was bringing women all the time. So something happened in that family-- maybe the story he told about his grandfather saying "You're short and unattractive and you have a handsome cousin, but you have to get women this other way," maybe that really happened. And maybe that scarred him so much that from the moment he could start seduction he did, and then the books helped so much, that I think that probably was an irresistible pull.

I think that, if he had realized that he was basically a sexaholic because of reasons of severe insecurity and had sought help or had done something about it, or written about that, I think he could've saved himself. But I think this all started long before he left... and what's sad, or good, is that he really did have knowledge.

One of the things I noticed is this: People said of him, "Did he ever stop acting like a guru?" And I said, "When he would fall asleep." And he stopped dreaming in some lucid dreaming, and those moments, he would just say, "Oh sweetie." He would act like an absolutely normal person in the most normal, normal, normal, sweet way that a lover could act at that moment. And then, when he would wake up, if it was a nap, and he would start telling me some bizarre tale about how he murdered people-- he was really into telling me about how me murdered people. That was one of his favorite stories.

MB: Yeah, he was working on a love story, that....

...it was called Assassins. Carol first told me it was so garbled, I guess by the medications, and it was so horrendous and so ugly that it should be burned and destroyed and no one should ever see it. And then a week later I said, "So what did you do it?" And she said, "Oh, it's a beautiful book, gorgeous; it's going to be published." So we may see a ghostwritten, posthumous, version of that.

MB: Yeah that would be weird, wouldn't that be weird. I'm sure it'll see the light of day. Or somebody will create it just to sell it.

I know. People can go on forever. There's a guy who came out with a book saying, " I was Carlos Castaneda; I'm channeling him." And he's probably selling better than I am. I'm taking people's religion away from them. And, on one hand, people are writing me these beautiful letters, but on the other hand, I'm really upsetting people.

MB: Oh, when we were printing Marilyn Tunneshende's articles, we got some of the worst hate mail; they made the Christians look loving.

But she was kind of more pro-Carlos.

MB: But in her articles she was questioning....

And they made the Christian mail look loving?

MB: Yeah because they were so devoted to Carlos and the myth that they didn't want to hear that he was human or that some of it might be fictional.

Did she say some of the things I'm saying in her own words?

MB: Yeah.

Really, well, she switches around a lot, though, because she has her own workshops... Sometimes she says, "I was a student of Don Juan." I mean, was she saying, "I was and he wasn't"?

MB: No, she's saying she was after him. Once Don Juan threw Carlos out, then Marilyn and Don Juan became lovers, according to Marilyn.

And what about her affair with Carlos, and "Honeybunny"?

MB: She tried to hide it for the longest time, and then she came up with the cover story that Don Juan had sent her as an undercover agent to find out what Carlos was doing.

So that's why she became a lover and then we got daily postcards?

MB: Well, that's where it really broke down-- at the questioning of that is when she stopped writing for us.

I see.

MB: I traveled in Peru doing research for my book, and I didn't meet one person in Cahamaca who knew that Casteneda was born there.

Well, his father was supposedly a jeweler.

MB: But its not like they have shrine there or even tourist tickets to a house that he was born in or anything at all.

Isn't that amazing? Florinda just gave me such a bad goodbye that it was horrible, but one of the last things she did was give me this really weird piece of jewelry, which was a pendant with some stones in it, and I showed it to so many jewelers and nobody had ever seen anything like it. It looked like a kind of eye-shaped thing; she said, "Don't wear it; it'll look like a cow bell. It'll make you look like a cow. Besides, Nury and Kylie will get jealous, so we can't have you wearing it. Just keep it." Well, actually, because it was from her and it was her final gift, and I love her, sometimes I do wear it, occasionally, but one jeweler I showed it to said that it was a kind of Argentinean work, and I wonder if Carlos didn't learn some trade from his father.

MB: I would bet.

And maybe he made that thing. And that was why it was really big...

MB: Yeah, that would make sense. Do you think the Tensegrity was stolen from a martial arts teacher that Carlos studied with?

I took Howard Lee's class; I took a private session, and when Howard found out that I knew Carlos and that I wasn't just coming to him for information, he was all over me with questions. Because Carlos tried to ditch him and deny him, and they were down the street from one another at one point, and there was a crowd around them, and Howard is tall, and he said, "Carlos, Carlito!" And Carlos hid and cowered, and Bruce covered him like a football player, and Howard decided he wouldn't have any of it, and he broke right into the circle and said, "Carlos, why are you doing this?" And Carlos decided the only way to play it was to break huddle and open his arms, put his arms around him and say "Howard, how are you?" So I think a great deal was taken from his many years of study with Howard. We also know the other women studied karate, but I don't know about the other martial arts. I also think Carlos probably made up some beautiful things, because some of them, I haven't seen them anywhere else. But I don't know if they're taught in the Peruvian tradition you learned about. Are they?

MB: No, well, I didn't see anything down there when I was down there.

It's amazing that no one knows the family, I don't know the real family name.

MB: It's Spiter.

And nobody knows the family?

MB: Well, I looked in the phone book, and there was nothing, and I asked around and nobody knew, so...

Now, he would be...he died X number of years ago, his parents have died, there's probably no one around. And I think he was an only child, so there probably just isn't anyone to remember him.

MB: Yeah, it's sort of ironic. He took the pre-Incan and Peruvian beliefs and brought them to world knowledge without telling the world what they really were, and yet no one in his hometown knows who he was.

It's extremely ironic. I've never talked to anyone who's been there to find out and told me. I'm actually really glad to hear that he brought that here.

MB: No, it's beautiful, because there's so much down there that stays down there, and its never exposed to the world. It's a convoluted path it took.

I believe that Carlos benefited from the martial arts, and took probably most from Howard, and maybe a lot from other people over the years. Recapitulation has done very powerful things for me; it's very powerful. I've heard other variants on ways to do it and stuff like that, but they claim it its their lineage.

MB: There was once a Nagual newsletter.

What happened to that?

MB: Well, it went away, and the fellow joined the group, but I'm not sure to what degree or what happened to him.

I know what happened. He was invited to what was called the Sunday class.

MB: Which was the forty chosen?

Which I was in charge of until Carlos got really pissed off at me, in the final months of his life, and kicked me out and put someone else in charge. But for years I was in charge of this class, and it was really sad because he would tell people there was no class, and they'd be kicked out, and I'd call, and they'd never know if I was telling them the truth. And sometimes he really was taking a break, so it was just agony for these people and every week they got more and more scared. He'd say, "Any questions?" And every time you opened your mouth, you said something wrong and you were never invited back, so there would be this terrible silence, and he said, "None of you have questions?" So that was awful. But then, the Nagual newsletter, he was really brave and eccentric, and he would ask questions, and Carlos took a liking to him, and never kicked him out. But Carlos went to Florinda and told her to "get this thing stopped." And at that time he was into it, and he stopped it at their request. He writes about that on the Sustained Action site. He's still active there.

MB: Sustained Action?

Sustainedaction.org has a huge list. I've been off the board because of computer problems for about a month, but I was answering questions, five thousand hits, four thousand hits, or something like that somebody told me the last time they checked. But there's all kinds of other stuff. Richard did a chronology of all of Carlos's students and all the history of the group, and all the people he talked to. So that would be an incredible board for some of your questions.

MB: What about your other books. How are they doing?

The Book of Lists series were #1 on the New York Times Bestsellers List. The psychic healing book was a cult classic and is about to go into its 30th anniversary edition.

MB: Wow, congratulations.

Thank you, we just sold it to North Atlantic books. Carlos hated it, and told me to destroy it, and then he used to pull me aside and say, "You know, you really are psychic, and there are such things as psychics, but I can't let your ego blow up, so I have to keep blowing it apart."

MB: And its my show, not yours. [laughter]

Yeah, exactly-- don't you dare. I wrote it with a collaborator, Bill Henkin, and he wrote all the essays, which I don't necessarily go along with, but I wrote all the techniques, and the book is, I think, popular, because it tells you, for the cost of a paperback, how you can sit down and meditate on your chakras for self-healing and for reading, and you don't need a guru.

MB: That's what you should be teaching workshops on.

Exactly, and I've been giving lectures and readings and saying, "The power's in you". What I'd love to teach is accessing one's own power and ways to proceed.

MB: Having spoken to you, I would encourage you deeply. I think you have a lot to offer on that level, I really do.

Thank you.

MB: I meet a lot of people who know and don't know, over the years. You have a very clean essence; I think you could bring forth something that would really empower people.

Carlos spoke some truisms, and one of them was, "Service was very high, if not the highest, form." And that would be an act of service, and for that reason, I want to do it. It's very, very kind of you to say that.

MB: Carlos spoke of major changes and the witches spoke of major changes coming in the world.

They were never specific. Richard kept notes, and most of them are on the website. He might be able to actually say they said this. Nothing they ever predicted happened. And there was nothing even of note that I recall. But, Richard, he and I are like night and day; the difference is that because Carlos was homophobic, they wouldn't let him in. They used him kind of, you know, as a consultant, but he couldn't be in the group because he was homosexual. Maybe now he feels better off, but at the time it hurt him terribly. We're very, very close, and I feel like we're the only two that left. But on the other hand, we're in different situations, because I was the only one that left that was actually inside. Everyone else got kicked out, and I was the only one that chose to walk away. I don't want to be "victim-y," buts it's different; our experiences are different. We all have our own pain, and his pain may have been greater, because he never got in. He works on this website an hour-and-a half every night-- just on my part-- to keep people from slandering me and to keep only honest questions. He also works a million hours a day at his regular job. This is true loyalty. His therapist told him he had to let go of all this, and he said not until this book is out and we get some truth out. He's very devoted to that. He's done so much to help with the relatives, and also I've had kind of a break. I just was so....

MB: Oh God, such an experience. Most people, when they leave intense cults, go through huge trauma for a long, long time.

I became accident prone, I fell down some stairs, I started losing things. People kept saying, "I'm worried about you, I'm worried about you, I don't understand why. Wasn't it a catharsis?" I said, "Yeah, it was a catharsis, but it's not over. People's bodies are found, and there are people who want to kill me, and it's really tough. It was a lot of years, you know. I mean, it's so great to hear you understand that. I'm so tired of explaining to people why I'm not all better now.

MB: Yeah, well, anyone who's been through that at any level has some level of empathy that you can only get that way, I think.

Yeah, and it sounds like you've probably been through things in your life.

MB: I've touched a few nightmares and a few heavens.

Have you written a book?

MB: Yes.

What is it? I'd like to get it.

MB: It's the Secret of the Ancient Incas. What do you feel Carlos's most important accomplishment was?

I think the first three books.

MB: Yeah, I agree.

And after that, I think, everything was downhill.

MB: How do you think people should remember him?

I think people should remember him as a writer, a fiction writer, who compiled parables, and used some real truths of ancient practices in his work. And they should not believe in the cult's whole group myth. That's very important.





Copyright Magical Blend Magazine, © MB Media 2004





Video

2002 - Documentary - Venezuela - The Revolution Will Not Be Televised - Chavez Inside the Coup - YouTube; and video.google

### zzr-embed

2004 - "Enigma Of A Sorcerer" Video


Version 2011.11.20

A Tensegrity private group participant interviews fellow practitioners and others who had interacted with Carlos Castaneda personally.



Video Notes:
  • I set the video above to playback repeatedly in a 'Loop' until you 'pause' it, or close this page.
  • The narration audio level 'cracks' badly at times; and unfortunately this is the case in every version of this video I have heard.
  • This Google Video's page online (Opens in a new Tab or Window.)
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If the Google Video above no longer works for some reason...

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2007 - "Tales From The Jungle: Carlos Castaneda" BBC Video


Original Air Date: 2007.01.15



Version 2011.11.20

Video Notes:
  • I set the video above to playback repeatedly in a 'Loop' until you 'pause' it, or close this page.
  • This Google Video's page online (Opens in a new Tab or Window.)
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If the Google Video above no longer works for some reason...

...the video is available to be downloaded from this site in an *.FLV video format
at the following link.

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Books

Version 2012.03.25

Encounters With The Nagual: Conversations with Carlos Castaneda. ©2004 by Armando Torres.

Version 2010.08.09


Encounters With The Nagual - Front Cover Encounters With The Nagual - Back Cover - Illustration of Carlos Castaneda by  Cesar Rangel
ENCOUNTERS WITH THE NAGUAL
Conversations with Carlos Castaneda
by ARMANDO TORRES

FIRST LIGHT PRESS

FIRST EDITION, NOVEMBER, 2004
First published in Spanish, November 2002

ISBN:968-5671-04-4

Front cover design: by Luis Salgado

Back Cover Illustration of Carlos Castaneda: by Cesar Rangel

Title: ENCOUNTERS WITH THE NAGUAL
COPYRIGHT 2004 by Armando Torres.

All rights reserved. Printed in the USA. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication is allowed without written permission of the editors.

c o n t a c t  e-Mail Published by First Light Press

TheNagualBook.com


Preamble-- by Armando Torres.

I would like to express my gratitude to all those who have helped me on my path, and especially to Carlos Castaneda, for bringing a sense of beauty and purpose to my life.

I dedicate this book to all those who know what I am talking about.

- Thee end, of, Preamble, by Armando Torres.



Contents

  • Part 0 - Preface And Introduction.
    • Preface.
    • Introduction.

  • Part 1 - A Romance With Knowledge.
    • The Sorcerers’ Revolution.
    • Self-importance.
    • The Path Of The Warrior.
    • Awareness of Death.
    • Energetic Drainage.
    • Recapitulation.
    • The Threshold of Silence.

  • Part 2 - The Dialogue of Warriors.
    • Section 1.
      • Conceptual Saturation.
      • An Inventory of Beliefs.
      • Believing Without Believing.
      • Practicing Silence.
    • Section 2.
      • The Minimal Chance.
      • There Is No Need For Teachers.
      • To Know Oneself.
    • Section 3.
      • Power Plants.
      • The Trap of Fixation.
      • Dreaming and Awakening.
      • The Door of Perception.
      • The Dreaming Double.
    • Section 4.
      • Teaching the Art of Stalking,
      • The Mark of the Nagual.
      • Stalking the Petty Tyrant.
    • Section 5.
      • Perceptual Homogenization.
      • Predators of Awareness.
      • Losing the Mind.
      • Movements of the Assemblage Point.
    • Section 6.
      • The Survival of the Assemblage Point.
      • Cyclical Beings.
      • The Sorcerer's Alternative.
      • The Final Choice .
    • Section 7.
      • The Seers of Ancient Mexico.
      • Journey to the Roots.
      • The Antennas of the Second Attention.
    • Section 8.
      • Validating the Nagual.
      • Return to the Essence.
      • I Believe Because I Want To.
    • Section 9.
      • A New Stage of Knowledge.
      • The Appointment Is With Dreaming.
      • Bringing The Teachings To The Masses.
      • The Magical Passes.
    • Section 10.
      • The End of the Lineage.
      • The Evolution of the Path.
      • The Seers of the New Era.
      • Intellectual Preparation.
    • Section 11.
      • The Task of the Nagual.
      • Encounter in the Crypt.

  • Part 3 - The Rule Of The Three-Pronged Nagual
    • Introduction.
    • The Omen.
    • What Is the Rule?
    • The Origin of the Rule.
    • An Impersonal Organism.
    • Assembling a Party.
    • The Structure Of The Party.
    • The Purpose of the Rule.
    • Three-Pronged Naguals.
    • The Portion of the Rule for the Three-Pronged nagual.
    • The Task of the Seers of Today.

  • Part 4 - The World of the Old Seers Today.
    • The World Of The Old Seers Today.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 0 - Preface And Introduction.

  • Chapter 01 - Preface.
  • Chapter 02 - Introduction.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 0 - Chapter 01. Preface By Juan Yoliliztli.

Click The 'Right-Arrow' Above To Start The Audio MP3 File;..

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Version 2011.07.09

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 0 - Chapter 01. Preface By Juan Yoliliztli.

I first got to know Armando when we met by chance in a place of power in the mountains of central Mexico. We felt an immediate and spontaneous friendship between us, and the subject of the conversation which ensued inspired me to tell Armando that I had the privilege of knowing Carlos Castaneda.

Armando told me that he also knew Carlos, and that he, Armando, had written a book about Carlos' teachings.

I became very curious and asked Armando to tell me more about it. He seemed uninterested, saying that this was not the appropriate time.

I did not insist since I was just getting to know Armando.

In the course of many years of friendship, Armando mentioned his book a few times but always in reference to some other subject we were discussing.

Although I had made friends years ago with 'those who walk over there', it is only recently that I have had access to Armando's work.

When I read Armando's manuscript for the first time, I became profoundly excited since it allowed me to comprehend one of the most obscure premises in Carlos' teaching; 'The Portion of the Rule for the Three-pronged Nagual'; a project for the renewal of the 'lineages of knowledge' on a global scale.

Armando assured me that Carlos had ordered him to make this information known, and Armando asked me to support him in the execution of this task.

However, since the 'Three-pronged Nagual' manuscript was quite short-- some thirty pages-- I suggested that Armando supplement it with a description of some of the numerous lectures by Carlos Castaneda which he had attended.

Agreeing to my proposal, Armando selected a portion of teachings which Carlos had presented either in public lectures, or in private conversations.

To make them easier to read, Armando grouped them according to content rather than putting them in chronological order; and in some instances Armando also had to reconstruct the conversations.

Carlos had an extremely emphatic way of speaking, and transmitted much of the information through gestures and facial expressions-- as he enjoyed mixing personal stories, and all manner of observations with his teachings.

As an extraordinary gift, at the end of the book, Armando added a brief account of his own experience with another group of sorcery practitioners.

Due to the simplicity and sincerity of this narrative, this book has a power that I have not found in any other work related to the subject.

For that reason, it is a great pleasure for me to be able to help Armando in the task of publishing it. I am certain that this book will be highly appreciated by all those who love the work of Carlos Castaneda.

- Juan Yoliliztli.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 0 - Chapter 02. Introduction By Armando Torres.

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Version 2011.07.09

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 0 - Chapter 02 - Introduction By Armando Torres.

My name is Armando Torres. I have written this book in order to complete a task that was assigned to me years ago by Carlos Castaneda-- a controversial anthropologist and writer on the subject of sorcery-- who I met in October 1984.

I was still quite young then, and in my quest for answers, I had been looking into various spiritual traditions; and I wanted to find a teacher.

But from the very beginning, Carlos was very clear in that respect. He said, "I do not promise you anything. I am not a guru. Freedom is an individual choice, and each of us must assume the responsibility of fighting for it."

At one of the first of his talks that I attended, Carlos severely criticized the kind of 'human idolatry' that induces us to follow others; and to expect ready-made answers from them.

Carlos explained that this attitude is a remnant of our 'herd mentality'.

He said, "Whoever sincerely wants to penetrate the teachings of sorcerers does not need guides. It is sufficient to have a genuine interest, and guts of steel. You will, by yourself, find everything you need through an unbending intent."

It was on these premises that our relationship evolved. Therefore, I want to state very clearly that I am not Carlos' apprentice in any formal sense of the word. All I did was talk with him from time to time. Yet that was enough to convince me that the true path consists of our determination to be impeccable.

Gratitude is my main motivation for publishing some of the experiences I had by Carlos' side.

It is the nature of a nagual to bestow gifts of power, and as such, Carlos was magnificent with everyone who had the good fortune of knowing him.

To be near him was to receive an abundance of inspiration, and a wealth of stories, advice, and teachings of all kinds.

Since Carlos, as a true warrior of total freedom, shared absolutely everything with those who surrounded him, it would be selfish for me, who has received such gifts, to keep them hidden.

One time, Carlos told me that he used to sit every night and write down fragments of what he had learned from his 'nagual' Juan Matus-- an old sorcerer from the Yaqui tribe of northern Mexico; and Carlos wrote fragments from his 'benefactor', don Genaro Flores-- a powerful Mazatec Indian who was a member of the men of knowledge led by don Juan Matus.

Carlos additionally told me that writing was an important aspect of his personal recapitulation, and that I should consider doing the same with everything I heard during his talks.

I asked Carlos, "What if I forget?”

Carlos explained, "In that case, the knowledge was not for you. Concentrate on what you remember."

Carlos told me that the purpose of his advice was not only to help me retain information that might be valuable in the future, but also that I acquire an initial degree of discipline so that I could undertake real exercises of sorcery later on.

Carlos described the purpose of sorcerers as a supreme enterprise.

By entering a path of saving energy, we regain control of our senses; and we can then intend ourself out of our perceptual limitations.

Carlos preached, "A warrior has no time to lose because the challenge of awareness is total, and the challenge demands maximum alertness twenty-four hours a day."

Carlos insisted that everything a warrior does can be imbued with a practical and urgent sense of unbending focus on our real purpose as human beings-- Freedom.

In my dealings with Carlos and with other men of knowledge, I witnessed events that from a rational point of view I can only call 'extraordinary'.

For sorcerers, however, things like 'remote vision', 'knowledge of events before they happen', or 'journeying to parallel worlds' are normal experiences in the execution of a sorcerer's tasks.

However, as long as we as average human beings are unwilling to verifying this for ourselves, we will inevitably take these things to be fantasies, or simply as metaphors.

That is the nature of sorcerers' knowledge. You can take this knowledge or leave it.

You should not try to reason sorcery out since is not possible to verify it intellectually.

You experience it by exploring the extraordinary possibilities within your being.



- Armando Torres





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - A Romance With Knowledge.

©2004 by Armando Torres.

  • Chapter 03 - The Sorcerers’ Revolution.
  • Chapter 04 - Self-importance.
  • Chapter 05 - The Path Of The Warrior.
  • Chapter 06 - Awareness of Death.
  • Chapter 07 - Energetic Drainage.
  • Chapter 08 - Recapitulation.
  • Chapter 09 - The Threshold of Silence.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 03. The Sorcerers' Revolution.

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Through the revelations of the sorcerers, modern man has been granted an incredible opportunity.

* * *

My teacher don Juan Matus used to say, "I was not present when they decreed that I had to be an imbecile."

In other words, he did not honor agreements made in his absence.


Version 2011.07.09

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 1 - Chapter 03. The Sorcerers' Revolution.

We were a group of twelve people gathered on the second floor of an elegant house in order to listen to a famous lecturer named Carlos Castaneda.

I knew none of the others except the friend who had invited me. While we waited for Carlos to arrive, we chatted amicably among ourselves.

Nearly two hours passed and our guest had not yet arrived. People's faces began to show signs of fatigue. Some despaired and left.

At a certain moment, I had the impulse to lean out of a window. I saw Carlos arrive, and our eyes met.

Unexpectedly, a strong wind came into the room, making papers fly everywhere. Some of the people were still struggling to close the windows as Carlos walked in.

Carlos was short but solid, with grayish hair, and dark skin which had begun to furrow with wrinkles. He was dressed in an informal way which made him look ten years younger.

Carlos' face was funny and full of life, and radiated empathy. He seemed very happy to be with us and it was a true pleasure to be near him.

Carlos greeted each of us with a handshake and said we had to use our time well because he was expected somewhere else later that night.

Then Carlos made himself comfortable in an armchair, and asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

But before we had time to answer him, he took the initiative, and flooded us with stories. His conversation was direct and absorbing, and was sprinkled with jokes that he finished off with expressive gestures.

During his talk, Carlos referred to nagualism as a body of practices and ideas, and he talked about its historical development.

Carlos maintained that through the revelations of the sorcerers, modern man has been granted an incredible opportunity.

This topic was quite new to me, so I limited myself to listening and taking notes. Fortunately for me, Carlos had a habit of repeating the main ideas, and this made it easy for me to follow him.

Carlos spoke of a maneuver of awareness to which seers devote themselves called the movement of the assemblage point, and towards the end, Carlos agreed to answer some questions.

One of the people wanted to know what the sorcerers' view on war was.

Carlos looked annoyed, and responded, "What do you want me to say? That sorcerers are pacifists? Well, they are not; although our destiny as ordinary men does not concern sorcerers at all.

"You should understand this once and for all-- Warriors are continually at war, and while they are at war they are comfortable."

Carlos took his time as he explained that unlike the petty wars which we as average humans constantly involve ourselves in because of social, religious, or economic reasons, a sorcerer's war is not directed against other people. The war is directed against his or her own weaknesses.

By the same token, sorcerers' peace is not the submissive condition to which modern man has been reduced. Sorcerers' peace is an imperturbable state of internal silence and discipline carried in battle.

Carlos said, "Passivity is a violation of our nature, because, in essence, we are all formidable combatants. Every human being is, by right, a soldier who has achieved his place in the world in a battle of life and death.

"Look at it this way. At least once, as sperms, each one of us fought a battle for life-- a unique struggle against millions of other competitors-- and we won! And now as we are trapped by the forces of this world, the battle continues. One part of us is fighting to disintegrate and die, while another part of us tries to maintain life and awareness at any cost. There is no peace!

"Sorcerers realize this, and use it to their advantage. Their goal continues to be that which inspired the spark of life that created us. Sorcerers seek access to a new level of awareness."

Carlos said that as human beings become socialized from birth, we are tamed by the power of stimuli and punishments just like an animal is domesticated.

He said, "We have been trained to live and die meekly following unnatural codes of behavior which soften us and make us lose our initial impulse; until our spirit is hardly noticeable.

"We were born as a result of a fight but the society we live in denies our basic tendencies, and eradicates the warring heritage that transformed us into magical beings."

Carlos added that the only available way to change is to accept ourselves just as we are, and work from there.

Carlos said, "Sorcerers know that they live in a predatorial universe so they can never let their guard down. Wherever sorcerers look, they see an incessant fight, and they know that it deserves their respect because it is a fight to the death.

"Don Juan Matus was always doing something-- moving, coming or going, supporting this or rejecting that, provoking tensions or discharging them in a burst, shouting his intent, or remaining silent.

"Don Juan was alive, and his life reflected the ebb and flow of the universe.

"Don Juan told me that I will live within the flow of life that originated from the moment of my father's explosion until the moment of my death. Those two episodes are unique in all of our lives because they propel us into encounters with unknown things ahead.

"And what best aligns us with that flow? An incessant battle which only warriors will attempt. Because of that, sorcerers live in profound harmony with everything.

"For sorcerers to be harmonious is to flow-- not to stop in the middle of the current and try to make a space of artificial and impossible peace.

"Sorcerers know that they give the very best of themselves under conditions of maximum awareness brought about from their struggle.

"For that reason, sorcerers seek out their opponent the way a fighting rooster does-- with avidity and delight; knowing that the next step is decisive.

"The sorcerers' opponent is not their fellow man, but rather their own attachments and weaknesses.

"And the sorcerers' grand challenge is to compress the layers of their energy so that their energy layers will not expand when their life ceases. Then a sorcerers' self-awareness does not die.

"Ask yourselves these questions-- 'What am I doing with my life? Does it have a purpose? Is it tight enough?'

"Sorcerers make something exquisite of their passage on Earth. A sorcerer accepts her or his destiny, whatever it may be, and yet fights to change things.

"You can temper your will in such a way that nothing can deviate you from any intent you choose."

Another of the people present raised his hand, and asked how sorcerers are able to reconcile the principles of the 'warrior's way' with their duties to society.

Carlos answered, "Sorcerers are free, so they do not accept social obligations. The responsibility is to oneself; not to others.

"Do you know why you were given the power of perception? Have you discovered what purpose your life serves? Will you cancel your animal destiny?

"Those are sorcerers' questions that address the only issues that can seriously change anything. If you are interested in others, then address those questions.

"Death is a personal matter, and it is a challenge for each one of us. Yet a sorcerer knows that the challenge of death gives sense to his life.

"And death is a challenge which only sincere warriors accept.

"Seen from this point of view, the worries of ordinary people are just expressions of their egomania."

Carlos insisted that we ought not lose track of the fact that the commitment of a sorcerer is to 'pure understanding'-- a state of being that arises from internal silence.

Carlos maintained that our social concerns are a description which has been implanted in us, and our concerns do not stem from a natural development of our consciousness.

Rather, our social concerns are a product of the collective mind; of emotional disarray, of feelings of fear and guilt, and of a desire to lead others or to be led.

Carlos said, "Modern man does not fight his own battles. Instead, he enters into extraneous wars that have nothing to do with the spirit.

"Naturally, a sorcerer is not moved by this.

"A sorcerer's commitment is not to the transient attachments of 'the modality of the era' in which he or she happens to live."

Carlos continued, "My teacher don Juan Matus used to say, 'I was not present when they decreed that I had to be an imbecile.'

"In other words, he did not honor agreements made in his absence.

"Although don Juan was born into particularly difficult circumstances, he had the courage to become something more than just a human reaction to those circumstances.

"Don Juan himself affirmed that humanity's situation in general is horrendous, but to put emphasis on any particular group is just a covert form of racism.

"He lived in a permanent fight against the blindness of his fellow men; but the struggle was within himself. So he remained impeccable, and did not interfere with anybody except his apprentices.

"Don Juan used to repeat that in this world, there are only two kinds of people. Those who have a surplus energy for awareness, and those who do not.

"When I tried to explain my concern for people to Don Juan, he pointed at my incipient double chin and told me, 'Do not deceive yourself, Carlos. If the human condition seriously interested you, you would not treat yourself like a pig.'

"Don Juan taught me that to feel pity for others is inappropriate for a sorcerer because pity for others always stems from concern for the self. Don Juan pointed at people we met on our way, and asked me, 'Perhaps you believe yourself better than them?'

"Don Juan helped me to understand that the solidarity of sorcerers towards the people around them comes from a supreme command, not from human sentiment.

"Don Juan mercilessly stalked my emotional reactions, and he led me by the hand to the source of my preoccupations.

"I was finally able to realize that my concern for people was a fraud. I was trying to escape from myself by transferring my problems to others.

"Don Juan showed me how compassion, in the sense we use the word, is a mental illness-- a psychosis that will just make us more and more powerfully entangled in our ego."

It was obvious that remembering Don Juan had moved Carlos. I could see how a wave of affection overwhelmed him.

Someone present raised his hand and commented that, in contrast to what Carlos was saying, compassion towards one's neighbor is the essential idea of all religions.

Carlos made a gesture of waving away a fly, and said, "Forget all that. Notions based on pity are a fraud.

"By the power of telling ourselves the same ideas over and over, we have substituted a genuine interest in man's spirit with cheap sentimentality. We have become professionals at compassion. Has religion changed anything?

"And so, what now?

"When you feel the collective mind putting its pressure on you-- trying to convince you to concentrate on the appearances of the world-- repeat these crushing truths to yourself. 'I am going to die. I am not important. Nobody is.'

"And knowing all this is the only thing that counts."

As an example of misplaced effort, Carlos described the situation of a donkey caught in the mire. The more it moves, the more difficult things become. Its only way out is to concentrate on the immediacy of its problem, and act with coldness as it tries to relieve itself of the load on its back.

Carlos said, "The same thing happens to us.

"We are beings who are going to die. We were programmed to live like beasts carrying loads of other people's customs and beliefs until the very end of our lives.

"But we can change all that.

"The freedom which the warrior's way offers us is within the reach of your hand. Take advantage of it."

Carlos told us how, while he was an apprentice, he had a problem. He was addicted to cigarettes. He had tried to quit several times, but without success.

"One day, don Juan told me that we were going to collect plants in a desert area, and that the trip would last several days. He told me, 'You had better bring a whole carton of cigarettes! But make sure you wrap them very well, because the desert is full of animals that might steal them.'

"I thanked him for his consideration, and carefully did as he had suggested. But the following day when I awoke up in the middle of the chaparral, I discovered that the package had disappeared.

"I despaired. I knew that without cigarettes I would soon begin to feel bad. Don Juan blamed the loss on a coyote, and helped me to look for it. After hours of anguish, he finally found the tracks of the animal which we followed for the rest of the day-- going further and further into the mountains. When night arrived, he admitted to me that we were completely lost.

"Without cigarettes and without knowing where I was, I felt miserable. To console me, don Juan assured me that there had to be a town near by. It was just a matter of walking a little further and we would arrive someplace safe.

"But we spent the whole next day looking for a road, and then the next day, and then another. We spent almost two weeks like this.

"A moment arrived when, almost dead from exhaustion, I let myself fall down in the sand, and prepared to die. When don Juan saw me in that state, he tried to cheer me up and make me keep going by asking, 'Are you not interested in smoking anymore?'

"I looked at him with rage, and I berated him for his incredible irresponsibility. I turned a deaf ear to him and said that all I wanted was to die.

"Don Juan replied with indifference, 'Very well. Then we can go back now.'

"It turned out that the whole time we had been only some meters from the highway!"

That anecdote made the room explode with laughter.

When we finally calmed down, Carlos remarked, "The tragedy of today's man is not his social condition, but the lack of will to change himself.

"It is very easy to design collective revolutions, but to genuinely change-- to put an end to self-pity, to erase the ego, to abandon our habits and whims... ah, that is something else entirely.

"Sorcerers say that true rebellion, and humanity's only way out as a species is to stage a revolution against their own stupidity.

"As you can now understand, this is solitary work.

"The goal of sorcerers is the sorcerers' revolution-- the unrestricted unfolding of all our perceptual possibilities.

"I have never known a greater revolutionary than don Juan. He did not just suggest changing tortillas for bread. Oh no. He went straight to the core of the matter. He proposed a deadly somersault of thought into the unknown-- the release from all ties. And he demonstrated to me that it is possible.

"Don Juan suggested that I fill my life with decisions of power, and with strategies which will bring me to fuller awareness.

"He taught me that the order of the world does not have to be as we have been told, and that I can toss that aside anytime.

"I am not obliged to uphold an image before others, or live in an inventory that does not suit me. My battle field is the path of the warrior."

When the meeting was over, all Carlos' listeners gathered to exchange a few words with him, and say their farewells. When it was my turn, Carlos looked me up and down. Then he asked me to tell him my name, and why I was there.

I told him my name and I explained that a friend, knowing my interest for the subject, had told me about this opportunity.

Carlos' only comment was, "I want to talk to you in private."

I was a little confused by his words, but I waited until the end of his round of greetings, and I followed him to a corner of the room. There he invited me to have breakfast at his hotel the following day.

I assured him that it would be my pleasure.

He gave me the address, and told me, "We will meet tomorrow at nine o'clock."

He added that I should not tell anybody about our meeting, and that I should be punctual.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 04. Self-Importance.

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Self-importance can be fought in various ways, but first of all it is necessary to know that it is there.

. . .

When a sorcerer is confronted with the rigid shells of his fellow human beings, such a warrior does not know whether to laugh or to cry.


Version 2011.07.09

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 1 - Chapter 04. Self-Importance.

I arrived in the hotel lobby at the agreed time, and I had barely waited one minute when I saw Carlos coming down from the rooms upstairs. We greeted each other and went into the restaurant where a delicious breakfast was served. At one point, I wanted to ask him something, but he made a gesture that I should shut my mouth. We ate in silence.

When we were done, we left the hotel, and walked down to Donceles street, towards the zocalo.

While we browsed through the second hand bookstores, Carlos told me that he generally did not speak privately with people, but that my case was different because he had received an 'indication' about it.

I did not know what he was talking about and I preferred to stay quiet since any comment I might make would only show my ignorance.

Carlos added that I should not confuse his deference toward me as being a personal concern.

He explained, saying, "I have said many times that my energetic condition prevents me from taking pupils, and people are disappointed with me because of that. But there is no way."

We talked about all kinds of things. He asked me many questions about my life, asked for my phone number, and told me that he was giving a talk at a friend's house the following night.

Carlos invited me to attend, but said our relationship should remain secret.

I replied that I would love to be there, and he gave me the address and the schedule.

In one of the bookstores we visited, we came across a copy of one of his books called "A Separate Reality". It was on the fiction shelf; which annoyed him a lot.

Carlos commented that people are so wrapped up in their everyday existence that they can not even conceive of the mystery that surrounds us. When they encounter something unknown, they automatically classify it in a comfortable category and then they forget it.

I noticed that he thumbed through the books with great interest and that he would sometimes fondly and respectfully brush his hand over them. He said that some of them were more than just books. They were at times storage rooms of inner knowledge. He said that we could surrender to that silent knowledge in whatever form it was shown to us.

He added that the information we need in order to increase our awareness hides in places we rarely think of, and, if we were not so rigid, then everything in our surroundings would tell us incredible secrets.

Carlos said to me, "All we need to do is open ourselves to knowledge, and it will come rushing to us like an avalanche."

While studying a table of books that were so cheap they were almost free, he was struck by how cheap used books were compared to new ones. In his opinion it proved that people are not really looking for information. What they look for is achieving the status of a buyer.

I asked him what kind of reading he preferred and he answered that he would like to know everything. However, today he was looking for a certain book of poetry, a particular, old edition which had never been printed again. He asked me to help him find it.

For a long time, we leafed through heaps of books. At the end, he went out with a package of them, but not the one he was looking for. With a guilty smile, Carlos admitted, "This always happens to me."

Near noon, Carlos and I sat down to rest on a bench in a square where various printers were offering their services. I took the opportunity to confess that his statements of the previous night had left me perplexed, and asked him to explain in more detail what 'the war of the sorcerers' was about.

He very kindly explained that it was natural that the topic should affect me since, like all human beings, I had been taught from birth to perceive the world in much the same way as a sheep in a flock.

He told me stories of his sorcery cohorts, and how after many years of tenaciously fighting their weaknesses they had finally overcome society's collective coercion.

Carlos advised me to be patient, and in due course things would become clear to me.

After a while of relaxed conversation, he shook my hand in what was clearly a gesture of farewell. I could not contain my curiosity, and I asked him what he had meant when he had said that he had an 'indication' about my person.

Instead of responding, he looked attentively at a point above my left shoulder. Immediately my ear became hot and began to hum.

Then he told me that he did not know the answer himself, because he had not been able to read the nature of the sign. But the sign had been something so clear that he was obliged to pay attention.

Carlos added, "I can not guide you, but I can put you in front of an abyss which will test all your abilities.

"It depends on you whether you hurl yourself off it and fly, or whether you run to hide in the security of your routines."

His words made me even more curious, and I asked him what abyss he was talking about.

He told me it was my own dream.

The answer shocked me since he seemed attuned to my internal dilemma.


The following night, it was about fifteen minutes before seven in the evening when I arrived at a nice house near Coyoacan. A pleasant girl who seemed to be the owner of the house greeted me at the door.

I explained that I had been invited to the talk that Carlos was going to give, and she let me enter.

We introduced ourselves, and she told me her name was Martha.

There were eight people in the room. Then another two guests arrived, and shortly thereafter Carlos appeared.

This time, Carlos was dressed in a very formal manner with a tie and a vest, and he was carrying a briefcase which gave him an intellectual look.

As usual, he greeted us effusively.

He began to talk about many topics, and almost un-noticeably he introduced the main subject of this talk-- How to erase self-importance.

As a preamble, he stated that the significant role we grant ourselves in everything we do, say, or think, constitutes a kind of 'cognitive dissonance' which clouds our senses and prevents us from seeing things clearly and objectively.

"We are like atrophied birds. We were born with everything necessary to fly free, however, we are permanently forced to fly in tight circles around our own self. The cord that ties us down is self-importance.

"The path which transforms an ordinary human being into a warrior is very arduous.

"Our sensation of being at the center of everything, and our need to always have the last word, is forever getting in the way. We feel important.

"And as we feel important, any intent to change is a slow, complicated and painful process.

"And our self-importance isolates us. If not for our feeling of self-importance, we would all flow in the sea of awareness.

"We would know that the self does not exist for its own sake, but rather, we would realize that the self's destiny is to feed the Eagle.

"The sense of importance grows in a child while he or she is perfecting their social comprehension. We were trained to construct a world of agreements that we refer to in order to communicate with each other.

"But this gift included an annoying attachment. Our idea of 'me'.

"The self is just a mental construction, and it came from outside of us. It is time we get rid of it."

Carlos said that all the mistakes that occur when we communicate are living proof that the agreement we have received is completely artificial.

"The sorcerers from ancient Mexico, after experimenting for millennia with situations that alter their ways of perceiving the world, discovered a portentous fact.

"We are not forced to live in this single reality because the universe is constructed according to very fluid principles that can accommodate almost infinite forms, and that can produce countless ranges of perception.

"Having verified this, the sorcerers deduced that what human beings actually receive from outside is the ability to fix our attention in one of those ranges in order to recognize and explore it.

"However, as average human beings we molded ourselves to just one of those ranges and learned to perceive it as something unique.

"This is how the idea that we live in an exclusive world arose, and our feelings of self-importance were generated as a consequence.

"No doubt the description of the world we have received and learned is a valuable possession. However, it is similar to the rigid stake that is tied to a tender sapling to strengthen and guide it.

"Our learned world view allows us to grow up as 'normal' people within society, but that society is molded rigidity to just one limited range of our perceptions.

"To achieve this world view we had to learn how to 'skim'-- that is, how to make selective pickings from the enormous volume of data that arrives to our senses.

"But once those few selective perceptions are converted into 'reality', the rigidity of our attention works as an anchor. It ignores the discarded data, and thereby prevents us from exploring our incredible perceptual potential.

"In our desire to manage and control the world which surrounds us, we have given up witnessing everything perceptually possible.

"We sacrifice our potential flights of awareness in exchange for the security of the known.

"We could be impeccable warriors, and we can live strong, audacious, healthy lives overfilling with wonder.

"But will you dare?"

"Your human perceptions have been limited only by timidity; your natual fear of the unfamiliar and of making decisions.

"Our social heritage is a stable house where we can live, but we have transformed it into a fort for the defense of the self-- a jail where we condemn our energy to weaken in lifelong imprisonment.

"Our best years, feelings, and efforts are wasted in forever repairing and bolstering that vaporous house because we have ended up identifying ourselves with it.

"We, as children during our process of becoming socialized beings, grew and acquired a sense of self, and with it we acquired a false conviction of our own importance.

"And that which in the beginning had been a healthy feeling of self-preservation, ends up transformed into a selfish clamor for attention.

"Of all the gifts socialization has bestowed on us, the cruelest is self-importance. It converts us from magically vivid creatures into poor, arrogant, graceless devils."

Pointing at his feet, Carlos said that feeling important induces us to do absurd things.

He said, "Look at me. Once I bought a pair of very fine shoes which weighed almost a kilogram each. I wasted five hundred dollars for the privilege of dragging these big shoes around!

"Because of our self-importance, we are overstuffed to the point of bitterness, envy, and frustration.

"We allow ourselves to be guided by feelings of complacency, and we escape the task of knowing ourselves with pretexts like 'I can not be bothered', or 'how tiring!'

"Yet behind all that, there is an anxiety which we try to silence with an internal dialogue increasingly more dense and less natural."


At this point of his talk, Carlos took a pause in order to respond to some questions. He told us several stories illustrating the way self-importance deforms human beings, and transforms them into rigid shells.

Then Carlos said, "When a sorcerer is confronted with the rigid shells of his fellow human beings, such a warrior does not know whether to laugh or to cry.

"After many years of studying with Don Juan, I became so frightened of his practices that I went away for a while.

"I could not accept what don Juan and my benefactor don Genero were doing to me. It seemed inhuman, and unnecessary. I yearned for sweeter treatment.

"I took the opportunity to visit various spiritual teachers from all over the world, hoping to find some knowledge in their doctrines that would justify my desertion of don Juan.

"I met a Californian guru who considered himself the real McCoy.

"He accepted me as his pupil, and gave me the task of begging for charitable alms in a public square. Thinking that this was a new experience for me that probably would teach me an important lesson, I mustered my courage and did what he requested.

"Later when I returned to him, I said, 'Now you do it!' He became angry with me and expelled me from the class.

"On another trip, I went to see a well-known Hindu teacher.

"I went to his house early in the morning, and stood in line with others. However, this gentleman kept us waiting for hours.

"When he appeared at the top of a stairway, he had a condescending air as if he were granting us a great favor by acknowledging us.

"He began to descend the steps in a very dignified manner, but his feet got entangled in his ample tunic. He fell to the floor, cracked his head, and died there right in front of us."

Carlos told us that the demon of self-importance does not only affect those who believe themselves to be masters. It is a general problem.

For example, one of the strongest ramparts of self-importance is the concern with one's personal appearance.

Carlos said, "My stature was always a sore spot for me, so don Juan used to stoke the fire of my self-importance by making fun of my size and looks.

"He once told me, 'The shorter someone is, the more an egomaniac. You are small, and ugly as a bedbug, so you think your only option is to be famous because otherwise you do not exist.'

"Strangely, don Juan said that the mere sight of me made him want to vomit, but he added that he was infinitely grateful to me for this.

"I was convinced that he exaggerated my defects, so I let myself be offended by his comments.

"But one day I was in a store in Los Angeles, and I came to realize that he had been right.

"I heard a man beside me say 'Short', and I felt so irritated that, without stopping to think, I turned around and punched him furiously in the face.

"Afterwards, I realized that the man had not made the comment about me at all. He had just been short of money.

"One piece of advice don Juan gave us was that, during our training as warriors, we should abstain from using what he called 'tools for the perpetuation of the self'.

"This category included such things as mirrors, the exhibition of academic titles, or albums of pictures with our personal history.

"The sorcerers of don Juan's group took this advice literally, while the apprentices initially did not.

"However, I eventually adopted his recommendation but I did so in an extreme way, and from then on I did not even allow anyone to take pictures of me.

"Once, during a lecture, I explained that pictures are a perpetuation of self-concern, and that the purpose behind my reluctance to be photographed was to maintain a measure of doubt about my person.

"Later, a more salient reason presented itself to me for consideration when I found out that a certain lady among the lecture's attendees, who believed herself to be a spiritual guide, had commented that if she had the face of a Mexican waiter she would not allow herself to be photographed either.

"So, while observing the quirks of self-importance and the homogeneous way it contaminates absolutely everybody, the seers have divided human beings into categories to which Don Juan gave the most ridiculous names he could think.

"The urines, the farts, and the vomits.

"We all fit into one of them.

"The urines are characterized by their servility: They are toady, sticky, and cloying. They are the people who always want to do you a favor. They take care of you. They hold you back. They pamper you. They have so much compassion! In that way they hide the underlying reality. They are incapable of taking an initiative, and can never do anything by themselves. They need another person's command to feel that they are doing something. And, unfortunately for them, they assume that others are as kind as they are, and because of that they are always hurt, disappointed, and tearful.

"The farts, on the other hand, are the opposite. Irritating, mean and self-sufficient, they constantly impose themselves and interfere. Once they get hold of you, they will not leave you alone. They are the most unpleasant people you will ever meet. If you are calm, the fart will arrive and wind you up and pull you in, and use you as much as possible. They have a natural gift as teachers and humanity's leaders, and they are the kind who will kill to stay in power.

"The vomits are in-between these two categories. As neutrals, they are neither imposing nor will they be led. They are show-offs, ostentatious, and exhibitionistic. They give you the impression that they are something great, but in actual fact they are nothing. It is all boast. They are caricatures of people who believe too much in themselves, but, if you do not pay any attention to them, they are undone by their insignificance."

Somebody in the audience asked him if belonging to one of those categories is an obligatory characteristic-- that is to say, an innate condition of our luminosity.

Carlos answered, "Nobody is born like this. We were influenced to make ourselves this way.

"We get into one or the other of those categories because of some tiny incident that has marked us in childhood-- whether it was pressure from our parents, or from other ponderable factors we have long forgotten.

"It starts there, and as we grow up, we become so involved in the defense of the self that at some point we can no longer remember the day we stopped being authentic, and became actors instead.

"When an apprentice enters the world of sorcerers, his basic personality is already formed, and nothing can cancel it out. The only option left is to laugh at it all.

"Sorcerers that see can detect what type of importance we grant ourselves because our nature is molded over the years; producing permanent deformities in the energetic field that surrounds us."

Carlos added that when we sleep, our self-importance occupies the bulk of our awareness in much the same fashion as when we are awake.

Sorcerers see that this is not a condition present at birth.

The basic condition of nagualism, therefore, is losing self-importance because losing self-importance liberates to us a surplus of awareness for our use as we intend our way forward.

Without the precaution of losing self-importance, the warrior's path would otherwise only lead us to a mental state of disorder.

Carlos related, "This is what has happened to many apprentices. They began well by saving their energy and developing their potential.

"But they did not reduce their self-importance in the same measure.

"They did not realize that as they gained power, they were also nurturing a parasite within themselves.

"If we are going to give in to the pressures of the ego, it is preferable that we do so as ordinary men; because a sorcerer who considers themself important is the saddest thing there is.

"Keep in mind that self-importance is treacherous. It can be disguised behind a facade of 'almost impeccable' humility because it is not in a hurry.

"Then, if after an entire life of practicing humility we minimally neglect the struggle against self-importance, there self-importance is again like a virus that was incubated in silence.

"It is like those frogs that wait for years under the sand of the desert, and with the first raindrops, wake up from their lethargy and reproduce.

"Don Juan whipped his benefactorial pupils' self-importance to the point of seeming cruelty.

"But, it is a benefactor's duty to attack the apprentices' self-importance until it explodes."

A benefactor understands the nature of self-importance; so the benefactor need not, and does not, feel pity.

Carlos said, "Don Juan told me that a warrior needs to learn to be humble in preparation for the arduous path ahead. Otherwise, she or he will not have the smallest chance facing the darts of the unknown.

"Don Juan recommended to us, the apprentices, a twenty-four hour vigil to control the octopus of the self.

"We paid no attention to him at the time, except for Eligio who was the most advanced of the apprentices.

"The rest of us surrendered in the most shameful way to our propensities.

"In the case of la Gorda, it has been fatal."

He told us the story of Maria Elena, nick-named 'la Gorda', who had been an advanced pupil of Don Juan.

Maria had developed great power as a warrior, but she did not know how to control her bad habits on the human stage.

Carlos said, "After don Juan left, Maria thought that she had it all under control, but that was not the case as selfish concerns remained attached to her.

"She expected things from our group of warriors, and that finished her."

Soon after Don Juan's directive force had disappeared, Maria began to reproach Carlos for his inadequacy. She felt offended by him because she considered him unable to lead the apprentices to freedom.

Maria justified her feelings toward Carlos because of an energetic anomaly of his which differentiated him from the last 26 naquals of their lineage.

Carlos said, "So she never accepted me as the new nagual and leader.

"She did not keep in mind that my energetic anomaly, too, was a command of the spirit.

"She allied herself with the remaining apprentices, and began to behave as if she were the leader of the party.

"But then what exasperated her most of all was the public success of my books.

"One day, in an outburst of self-sufficiency, Maria gathered us all together, stood in front of us, and screamed, 'Bunch of Suckers. I am leaving.'

"She knew the exercise of 'the fire from within' by means of which she could move her assemblage point to the world of the nagual, and meet up with don Juan and don Genaro.

"But that afternoon she was very agitated. Some of the apprentices tried to calm her, but that infuriated her even more.

"I found myself inhibited and powerless in that situation, and I could not do anything.

"After her brutal effort, which was anything but impeccable, she had a stroke and fell down dead.

"Egomania killed her."

As a moral of this strange story, Carlos added that a warrior never allows himself to reach the point of madness, because to die from an ego-attack is a stupid way to die.

Carlos said, "Self-importance is deadly. It stops the free flow of energy and the free flow of our awareness; and that is fatal.

"Self-importance is responsible for our end as individuals, and one day it may finish us as a species.

"When a warrior learns how to toss self-importance aside, his spirit unfolds jubilantly like a wild animal liberated from its cage, and set free.

"Self-importance can be fought in various ways, but first of all it is necessary to know that it is there.

"If you have a defect but you recognize what it is, half the work is done already. So, above all, realize this.

"Take a board and write on it-- 'Self-importance kills'-- and hang it in the most visible spot in the house.

"Read that sentence every day, and try to remember it while you work.

"Meditate about it if you are so inclined.

"Maybe a moment will arrive in which its meaning penetrates your interior, and you decide to do something.

"To realize 'Self-importance kills' is, by and of itself, a great help, because the fight against the self generates its own impetus.

"Ordinarily, self-importance feeds on our feelings; ranging from our desire to get along with people and to be accepted by others, to our arrogance and sarcasm.

"But self-importance's favorite area of action is pity for oneself and for those who surround us.

"In order to stalk our self-importance, above all, we have to deconstruct our emotions into their smallest particles, and detect the sources that nurture them.

"Feelings rarely present themselves in a pure form. They disguise themselves.

"To hunt them down like rabbits, we have to proceed very delicately and strategically because they are quick, and we cannot reason with them.

"We begin with the most obvious things, like, 'How seriously do I take myself?', 'How attached am I?', 'To what do I dedicate my time?'.

"Those are things that we can begin to change.

"We accumulate enough energy to liberate a little bit of attention, and that in turn will allow us to go deeper still.

"For example, instead of spending hours watching television, going shopping, or talking to our friends about stupid stuff, you could dedicate a small part of that time to doing physical exercises, or to recapitulating your history; or maybe to going alone to a park where you can take your shoes off, and walk barefoot on the grass.

"It seems simple, but with anyone of those chosen practices our sensorial panorama changes. We recover something that was always there but which we had given up for lost.

"Starting from those small changes, you can analyze elements of your self-importance that are more difficult to detect; where your vanity is projected into insanity.

"For example, 'What are my convictions?', 'Do I consider myself immortal?', 'Am I special?, or 'Do I deserve to be noticed?'.

"This kind of analysis enters into the field of beliefs-- the very core of your feelings-- so you should undertake it through internal silence, and make a very fervent commitment to honesty.

Carlos added that those exercises should also be made with a sense of alarm, because it truly is about surviving a powerful attack.

He said, "Realize that self-importance is an implacable poison. We have no time left. Urgency is what we need. It is now or never.

"Otherwise, your mind will have its own way, and use all kind of justifications for keeping you imprisoned."

"Once you have dissected your feelings, re-channel your efforts beyond human concerns to the place of no pity.

"For seers, that place is an area in our luminosity every bit as functional as the area of rationality.

"We can learn how to evaluate the world from a detached point of view, just as we learned as children to judge it from the point of view of reason.

"The only difference is that detachment as a focal point is much closer to the warrior's desired temperance."

"Without the precaution of acknowledging the benefit of total detachment from all human concerns, the emotional turbulence stirred up by the exercise of stalking our self-importance can be so painful that we may turn to suicide or insanity.

"But when an apprentice learns how to contemplate the world from the position of no pity she, or he, stops being just a knot of feelings and becomes a fluid being."

"An apprentice then travels beyond human concerns with their implicit energetic drainage, and the apprentice now heads out into the impersonal universe.


Later, Carlos was addressing the idea of compassion, and he said, "The problem with compassion is that it forces us to see the world through self-indulgence.

"Warriors without compassion are persons who have located their will at the center of indifference-- The place of no pity.

"They do not soothe themselves by saying 'poor me'. They feel no pity for their weaknesses, and they have learned to laugh at themselves.

"Another way to define self-importance is to understand it as the projection of our weaknesses through social interaction.

"It is like the screams and threatening postures that some small animals adopt to hide the fact that they do not really have any defenses.

"We are self-important because we are afraid, and the more fear, the more ego.

"Fortunately for warriors, self-importance has a weak point.

"Self-importance depends on recognition to maintain itself. It is like a kite that needs a current of air to ascend and to stay aloft. Otherwise, the kite will fall down and break.

"If we do not grant any importance to self-importance, it is finished.

"Knowing this, an apprentice renovates their relationships, and learns how to escape those who confirm their 'self'.

"An apprentice frequents those who do not care about anything human.

"A warrior looks for criticism, and Not flattery.

"Every so often, she, or he, may start a new life. They erase their history, change their name, explore new personalities, and thereby annul the suffocating persistence of their ego.

"A warrior puts them-self in situations where their authentic self is forced to take control.

"A power hunter does not have pity, and does not look to anybody else's eyes for some recognition.


"The place of no pity is surprising.

"One attempts to reach it step by step through years of continuous pressure.

"But your reaching it happens suddenly.

"It is like an instantaneous vibration that breaks our mold, and allows us to look at the world with a serene smile.

"For the first time in many years, we feel free of the terrible weight of being ourselves, and we see the reality that surrounds us.

"Once at the place of no pity, we are not alone. An incredible push awaits us.

"Help comes from the core of the Eagle and transports us in a microsecond to universes of sobriety and sanity.

"When we do not have any pity for ourselves, we can face the impact of our personal extinction with elegance.

"Death is the force that gives the warrior value and moderation. Only by looking through the eyes of death can we notice that we are not important.

"Then death comes to live by our side, and begins to tell us its secrets.

"The contact with death's unchangeable nature leaves an indelible mark on the character of the apprentice.

"She, or he, understands, once and for all, that all the energy of the universe is connected.

"There is no world of objects related to each other through physical laws.

"What exists is a panorama of luminous emanations inextricably bundled together.

And if we are so inclined, we can even make some limited interpretations about these luminous bundles; as far as the power of our attention will allow.

"In this world, each of our actions count because they release avalanches in the infinite.

"For that reason, no single action is worth more than any other. None is more important than any other.

"Our journey and our new visions here destroy the tendency we had to be indulgent with ourselves.

"But the warrior is prey to contradictory feelings upon witnessing this universal bond.

"On the one hand we feel indescribable joy and a supreme impersonal reverence toward all that exists.

"On the other hand, a warrior senses their inevitable death and senses a deep sadness that has nothing to do with self-pity.

"This sadness comes from the breast of infinity as a blast of solitude which will never leave the warrior again.

"This new purified feeling gives the warriors the sobriety, the subtlety, and the silence that they need to venture there where all human reasoning fails.

"Under these conditions, self-importance can not sustain itself."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 05. The Path of the Warrior.

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Encounters With The Nagual ©2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 1 - Chapter 05. The Path of the Warrior.

One morning I received a phone call, and to my surprise it was Carlos. He told me that he would arrive at the airport in Mexico City in four hours, and asked me if I could pick him up.

I told him it would be a pleasure.

He gave me the number of his flight, and I figured that he was calling from the airport in Los Angeles since that would fit the time required for the trip.

When he arrived, I accompanied him on some errands related to the printing of his book. Afterwards, we went to a cafe for a chat. Before saying goodbye, we agreed to meet at the place where he was giving a lecture that night.


The weather was terrible, and perhaps that was why, when I arrived at the house where the appointment was, I found that just a few people had arrived. I placed my coat, sopping wet, over the back of a seat, and sat down in a corner near Carlos.

The core of his statements that evening was that the universe in its great entirety is feminine; and is of a predatory nature with a tenacious battle of consciousness going on, where, as always, the strongest absorbs the weakest.

Carlos said, "On the cosmic scale, the strength of a being is not measured by its physical capability, but by its capacity to manipulate awareness.

"It follows that if we are to take the next evolutionary step, it must be done by means of discipline, and determination. Those are our weapons.

"Through their seeing, sorcerers witness the evolutionary struggle, and they take their place in it.

"With their ever-ready disposition for combat-- ready for the worst, and without complaining about the result-- seers take as a title 'warriors'.

"A warrior considers the world we live in to be a great mystery, and a warrior knows that the mystery is there to be revealed to those who deliberately look for it.

"That attitude of audacity will move the tentacles of the unknown, and will make the spirit manifest itself to you."

Carlos explained to us that the warriors' audacity is born out of their awareness of, or even their contact with, their imminent death.

Carlos told us the story of a girl who one day arrived at his editor's office. She put a small mat down on the floor, sat down on it, and told the editor, 'I will not leave until I speak to Carlos Castaneda.'

All attempts to discourage her were useless. The girl remained inflexible. Finally, the editor called Carlos and told him that a crazy girl demanded his presence.

Carlos said to us, "What could I do? I went there and I met her.

"When I asked her the reason for her strange behavior, she told me that, being deadly sick, she had gone to the desert to die. But, while she meditated in solitude, she understood that she had still not tried everything, and she decided to play her last card. For her, that meant to know the nagual in person.

"Impressed by her story, I made her a unique proposition, saying, 'Leave everything and come to the world of the sorcerers'. She answered at once, 'I am game!'

"When I heard her words, my hair stood on end, because Don Juan used to say the same thing to me, 'If we are going to play, then let us play. But we play to the death'.


Carlos continued, "This is the sorcerer's feeling in front of destiny.

"I bet my life on this intent; nothing less.

"I know that my end is waiting for me everywhere, and I know there is nothing I can do to avoid it.

"I walk down my path with utmost concentration.

"I accept the responsibility of living fully.

"I risk everything on this single hand.

"As a warrior, I know that victory is not guaranteed when faced with death.

"Even so, I freely enter into battle, not because I believe I will win, but for the excitement of this war.

"For me, entering the war is already a victory. And while I fight, I am happy, because for one who is already dead, every second of life is a gift."


Carlos continued by saying that what makes it possible for the world we share to exist just as we see it, is our attention and the attentions of all our fellow human beings focused simultaneously, and connected in a tight net of interpretations reinforced by agreement.

Someone asked him to further clarify this topic.

Carlos explained, "The domain of attention is of supreme importance in the path of sorcerers, because attention is the primary matter of creation. In all worlds, degrees of evolution are measured by the ability to realize, or to be aware.

"In order to manipulate and understand the emanations which arrive to our senses, sorcerers develop the power of their attention. They sharpen it through discipline to exquisite levels which allow them to transcend human limitations, and to fulfill all the possibilities of perception.

"Their concentration is so intense that they can penetrate the thick armor of appearances, and expose the essence of things.

"Seers call that degree of increased awareness 'seeing'.

"Even though such a fixed attention may seem like stubbornness, obsession, or fanaticism, for the practitioner it is nothing but discipline."

He warned us not to confuse the discipline of sorcerers with people's repetitive routines.

Carlos said, "Discipline, as understood by a warrior, is creative, open, and produces freedom.

"It is the ability to face the unknown, and transform old feelings of knowing into reverent astonishment.

"Discipline is considering things that exceed the scope of our habits.

"Discipline is a daring to face the only war that is worthwhile. The battle for increased self awareness.

"Discipline is the courage to accept the consequences of our actions, whatever they may be, without self-pity or feelings of blame.

"Having discipline is the key to handling attention, because it takes us to the 'will'.

"The will allows us to modify our world until it becomes what we want it to be, and Not like the one which was imposed on us from the outside.

"For this reason, will is the starting point on a warrior's new state of intent. Will's power is so great that, when it is focused on something, it can produce the most astonishing effects."

As examples, he told us many stories about extraordinary events he had witnessed.

He maintained that underlying each one of those 'beyond unusual' actions of the sorcerers were years of discipline, sobriety, and detachment.

Warriors place the highest value on those attributes, and together those attributes constitute the state of being which they call impeccability.

Saving energy allows for increased analytical thinking, but energetic impeccability does not have anything to do with an intellectual position, or a belief, nor anything like that.

Impeccability is simply the technique for freeing and increasing awareness. And it builds.

"As warriors accept with humility what we are, we do Not squander our power on lamenting because things are not other than they are.

"If a door is closed, we do not kick it and punch it. Instead, we attentively study the lock and figure out how to open it.

"In the same way, if our life is not satisfactory, the warrior is neither offended, nor complains. On the contrary, a warrior designs strategies to alter the course of their destiny.

"If we learn how to curb our self-pity, and at the same time make room for the authentic 'me', we will become drivers of cosmic intent, and conduits for torrents of energy.

"In order to flow in such a way, we must learn to trust our resources and to understand that we were born with everything we need for the extravagant adventure which is our life.

"As a warrior, each man or woman who has entered the path of sorcery knows that they are responsible for themselves. They do not look aside seeking approval, nor do they try to discharge their frustrations on others.

"Don Juan often told me, ‘What you are looking for is within yourself. You have to struggle to make your actions final-- to achieve your own clarity. Commit yourself before it is too late.’

"A noteworthy aspect of impeccability which particularly concerns sorcerers' daily lives is knowing how exercising freedom affects others; and knowing how to avoid the resulting friction at any cost.

"Occasionally, our relationships with others will generate friction and expectations.

"As a fighting sorcerer, I pay close attention to my potential contacts, and become a hunter of signs.

"If there are no signs, I do not interact with people. I am content to wait because although I do not have time, I do have all the patience in the world. I know that too much is at stake and I will not risk ruining everything by one false move.

"Since I am never desperate to achieve contact with anyone, as a warrior I can choose my affections with sobriety and detachment. I take care at all times that the people I consent to be with are compatible with my energy.

"The secret to my achieving such clarity of vision could be defined as the difference between 'identifying myself' versus 'not identifying myself'. As sorcerer, I identify myself with the abstract, and Not with the everyday world. That allows me to be independent and take care of myself."


Then Carlos told us a story about a guy who considered himself to be a great warrior, but every time he had problems at home and his wife did not make him dinner, or she did not wash or iron his clothes, he collapsed in chaos. After a long battle with that situation, the man decided to introduce a radical change in his life. But, instead of reforming his character, like he might have, he changed his wife for another one.

"Please realize that, face-to-face with our destiny, each one of us is alone so take control of your life.

"It is inconceivable for me to feel destitute because I have self-control and I do not need anything from anybody.

"A warrior polishes life details, develops their imagination, and puts their ingenuity to the test by resolving situations.

"By concentrating on details, I learn how to cultivate delicacy, subtlety, and elegance.

"Don Vicente Medrano said that the beauty of our struggle is shown in the invisible stitches, and a sorcerer's trademark is 'intent fulfilled.'

"Independence and control of details produces the capacity to persist precisely at the point where other people would cease to act.

"When arriving at this point, the warrior is a step away from impeccable conduct.

"Impeccability is born then of a delicate balance between our internal being and the forces of the external world.

"You have achieved your freed awareness from effort, time, dedication, and your being permanently attentive to the objective.

"Your intent is never lost from your sight.

"And since persistence defeats apathy, excercising intent initially requires persistence.

"It is as simple as that.

"The threshold of magic is my intent sustained beyond what might seem possible, desirable, or reasonable.

"It is my mental leap to become tuned to the will of the Eagle's emanations, and to allow the emmanations' command to loosen the rigidity of my limits.

"But few people are willing to walk the extra mile, or to pay the price."

Carlos admitted that as an apprentice, and on several occasions, he considered abandoning his teacher and his benefactor.

He was oppressed by the magnitude of the task he was given by them.

What saved him in the end, and gave him a second-wind, was a wave of energy that the warrior finds within himself when everything seems lost.

"Many apprentices, after searching for years and not finding anything to satisfy their expectations, retire disappointed without knowing that they are actually just a few steps from their goal."

He shook his head and commented sadly, "We should not die on the beach after swimming so far..."

"When I gained flexibility, humility, and a sense of independence, and I gained a control of details and I persisted, as a warrior in search of impeccability I knew that I had gained the power of my decisions.

"Now I am authorized to do, or not do, according to what suits me. Nobody can force me to do anything.

"It is at this point that I need, more than ever, to be the owner of my emotions and of my mind because otherwise clarity joined with power makes an explosive mixture. I could easily become reckless.

"So, my path as a warrior consists of saving energy and freeing my awareness.

"Everything that goes against that threatens my impeccable intent.

"As an apprentice, although I accumulated a surplus of free awareness and energy in my luminosity, never-the-less circumstances would take particularly dramatic turns for me.

"My dilemma was the same which faces a hang-glider who, after struggling for hours to get up to the mountaintop carrying his heavy equipment, finds that weather conditions are no longer right for the flight. In a situation like that, it is tempting for the athlete to decide to jump anyway than to decide to remain on the ground.

"If the athelete has not learned to control their decisions appropriately, the most probable outcome is that the athelete jumps to death.

"In the same way, there were times when as an apprentice I forgot that my objective was not to nourish my ego, and I entered into situations which were stronger than I.

"For an apprentice this constitutes a serious breach of discipline that will unavoidably plunge one into unresolvable labyrinths of power. This situation can be fatal, and in those cases power will have become one's executioner.

"A warrior of knowledge does not senselessly surrender to the excitement of war.

"First I observe the conditions, gauge my possibilities, and establish my support points. Then, depending on this evaluation, I will rush forth, or retreat without the slightest hesitation.

"I do not deal blows out blindly, but rather, I try to turn every step into an immaculate exercise of strategy.

"The apprentice, who does not learn in time to properly decide how, when, and with whom to enter into battle, is removed. Either someone kills them, or they are defeated so many times that they do not rise again.

"The warriors' final challenge is to balance all the attributes of their path. Once they do that, their purpose becomes inflexible.

"They are no longer moved by a desperate desire for gain. They are the owners of their will, and can put it to their personal service.

"When they arrive at that point, a warrior has learned how to direct their awareness and act impeccably. And for them to continue growing impeccably depends totally on the energy they accumulate... on the awareness they free."

Carlos gave as an example an apprentice who uses their recently won powers to become rich, and then comes to a forked road. Then they either enter into the mindset of 'I want this and that', or they choose to cultivate their intent.

If they choose the first option, they have arrived at the end of their path because no matter how much energy they dedicate to the yearnings of their ego, they are never really satisfied.

In the second option, on the other hand, they will have found their route to freedom.


"Intent can be described as tuning our attention to cosmic awareness, which in turn transforms our volition into commands of the Eagle.

"We must be daring to attempt it deliberately, but once there, everything becomes possible. Intent allows sorcerers to live in a extra-ordinary world, and to intend a destiny of freedom. For them, freedom is a fact, not just a Utopia.

"By ignoring the principles of the warrior's way, modern humans have wound up in a diabolical trap made up of family, religious, and social concerns.

"They work eight hours a day in order to maintain their way of life. Then they return home to where their spouses await them.

"Their children, seemingly identical to any other of a billion children, endlessly demand things from their parents. This forces the parents to continue on in chains until their powers are drained. They become useless old objects who sit meditating over their memories in a corner of the house.

"The parents had always heard that this is happiness, but they do not feel happy. They feel shackled.

"Be Warriors and stop all that. Realize your potential and free yourselves.

"Free yourselves from whatever. Do not impose limits on yourselves. If you can defy the force of gravity and fly, that is great. And if you have the impetus to challenge death and buy a ticket to eternity, that is tremendous.

"Take a risk! Get out of the trap of self-reflexion and dare to perceive all that is humanly possible.

"A warrior of knowledge makes an effort to be authentic, and will not accept any compromises because the object of their fight is total freedom."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 06. Awareness Of Death.

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Part 1 - Chapter 06. Awareness Of Death.

Over the years, my need to understand the world had led me to store a lot of scientific or religious explanations on almost everything; which all had one common denominator-- A great trust in the continuity of man.

But by helping me to see the universe with the eyes of a sorcerer, Carlos destroyed that sensation in me. He made me see that death is an irrevocable reality, and that to avoid acknowledging it by applying second-hand beliefs is shameful.

On one occasion, somebody asked him, "Carlos, what expectations do you have for the future?"

He replied, "There are no expectations. Sorcerers do not have a tomorrow."


One night, a large group of interested people had gathered in the auditorium of a private residence near the area of San Jeronimo. When I arrived, Carlos was already there. He was smiling; busily answering questions.

Carlos' initial topic that night was what he called not-doing.

Not-doing is an activity specially designed to banish any trace of everyday habits from our lives. He affirmed that not-doing is the favorite exercise of apprentices because it introduces them to a marvelous environment, and creates a very refreshing bewilderment for one's energy. The effect not-doing has on one's awareness sorcerers call 'stopping the world'.

In response to some questions, Carlos explained that not-doing cannot be reasoned out. Any effort applied towards interpreting it is in fact a mental working and therefore the effort automatically enters into the field of 'doing'.

Carlos advised us, "When not-doing, the premise of sorcerers for dealing with this kind of practice is inner silence.

"And the quality of silence required for something so enormous as stopping the world can easily come from direct contact with the great truth of our existence-- That we are all going to die.

"If you want to know yourselves, become keenly aware of your personal death. It is not negotiable. Death is the only thing that you can seriously own.

"Everything else may fail, but not death. You can take that as a fact.

"Learn how to use your death to produce real effects in your lives.

"And stop believing in fairy tales of death.

"Nobody out there in the great void needs you. None of us is that important.

"Our self-importance is what invented something as fantastic as immortality.

"A humble sorcerer knows that his destiny is the same as that of any other living being on Earth. So, instead of having false hopes, a warrior works concretely and with great effort to escape the human condition, and to reach the only exit we have-- The breaking of our perceptual barrier.

"While you listen to death's advice, make yourself responsible for your life and for the totality of your actions. Explore yourself, recognize yourself, and live intensely; like sorcerers live. Intensity is the only thing that can save us from boredom.

"Once aligned with death, you will be able to take the next step-- Reducing your baggage to a minimum. This is a prison world, and we must leave it as fugitives. We can not take anything with us.

"Human beings are travelers by nature. To fly and to know other horizons is our destiny. Do you take your bed or your dining table with you on a trip? Synthesize your life!"

Carlos made the comment that humanity in our time has acquired a strange habit that is symptomatic of the mental state we live in.

He said, "When we travel, we buy all kinds of useless souvenirs in other countries; things that we certainly would never buy in our own country. Once we return home, we store them in a corner and end up forgetting their existence; until one day we notice them by chance, and toss them in the garbage.

"And we behave this way on the journey that is our life.

"We are like donkeys carrying everything we have done as a bale of stuff with no value to us.

"In the end when old age assaults us, our bundle serves to afflict some statement or other on us; which we endlessly repeat, like a scratched record.

"A sorcerer asks himself, 'What is the sense of all that? Why invest my resources in something which will not help me at all?'

"My appointment as a sorcerer is with the unknown. I cannot commit my energy to nonsense.

"While you walk the Earth, collect something of true value from it. Otherwise the walk is not worth the effort.

"The power that governs us has granted us a choice. Either we spend life prowling around our familiar habits, or we encourage ourselves to get to know other worlds.

"And the one thing which can give us the necessary jolt is the awareness of death.

"An ordinary person spends his whole existence without ever stopping to reflect because he thinks that death is at the end of life.

"You might think, 'I will always have time for whatever.' But a warrior has discovered that this is not true.

"Death lives beside us at an arm's length away, permanently alert, looking at us, and ready to jump at the smallest provocation.

"The warrior who contemplates death transforms his animal fear of extinction into an opportunity for joy; because the warrior knows that all he or she has is this moment.

"Think as warriors, 'We are all going to die.'"

One of those present asked him, "Carlos, in another lecture you told us that having the spirit of a warrior means seeing death as a privilege. What does that mean?"

Carlos answered, "It means to leave our mental habits behind.

"We are so accustomed to human coexistence that, even face to face with death, we continue thinking in group terms.

"Religions tell of flocks of sheep and goats who go to heaven or to hell according to their fortunes; but religions do not tell us about the individual in contact with the absolute.

"Even if we are atheists and we do not believe that anything happens after death, that 'anything' is generic and we assume it is the same for everybody.

"Most atheists can not conceive of the idea that the power of an impeccable life can change things.

"In the view of such ignorance, it is normal for an ordinary person to feel panic regarding their death, and they try to deal with it with prayers and medicines; or they may try to confuse them-self with the noises of the world.

"Most human beings have an egocentric and extremely simplistic vision of the universe. They never stop to consider our destiny as transitory beings.

"And so, their obsession with the future betrays them.

"The sincerity or cynicism of their convictions makes no difference, because, deep down they all know what is going to happen.

"That is why they leave signs behind. They build pyramids, skyscrapers, make children, write books, or, at the very least, they carve their initials in the bark of a tree. It is our ancestral fear of the silent knowledge of death which is behind those impulses.

"But there is one group of human beings who have been able to face that fear.

"Unlike ordinary people, sorcerers eagerly seek out any situation that will take them beyond social interpretations.

"And what better opportunity than their own extinction.

"Thanks to their frequent excursions into the unknown, sorcerers know that death is not a natural thing in that it is not subject to laws. To die is always a personal event, and for that sole reason it is an act of power.

"Death is the gateway to infinity; a door made to the exact measure of each of us which we will all pass through someday; returning to our origin.

"Our lack of understanding impels us to see it as a common reducer. But no, there is nothing common about it"

A girl who took part in this conversation was clearly affected by Carlos' words, and commented that the obsessive presence of death in his teachings was a detail that contributed to darken them. She would have liked a more optimistic emphasis; more focused on life and its accomplishments.

Carlos smiled, and replied, "Oh sweetheart! Your words show a lack of deep experience with life. Sorcerers are not negative. They do not seek the end. But they know that what gives value to life is having an objective worth dying for.

"The future is unpredictable and inevitable. Some day you will not be here anymore. You will be gone. Do you know that the tree for your coffin has probably been cut already?

"For the warrior and for an ordinary man, the urgency of living is the same because neither knows when they will take the last step. For that reason we have to be attentive to death. It can jump at us from any corner. I knew a guy who went up on a bridge and urinated above a passing electric train. The urine touched the high voltage cables which gave him an electrical shock and burned him to cinders on the spot.

"Death is not a game. It is reality. Without death, there would not be any power in what sorcerers do. Death involves you personally whether you want it to or not.

"You can be so cynical that you discard other topics of these teachings, but you cannot make fun of your end because it is beyond your power to decide, and it is implacable.

"Destiny's coach will take all of us without distinction. But there are two kinds of travelers.

"One type of traveler is ordinary people with boring existences, without creativity, and whose only hope is in the repetition of their stereotypes until the end. These people's end will not make any difference whether this end happens today or in thirty years.

"The other type of traveler is the warriors who can leave with the totality of themselves because they have fine-tuned every detail of their lives.

"We are all there waiting on the platform of eternity, but not everyone acknowledges it. Awareness of death is a great asset and art.

"Warriors put an end to their routines. They do not care anymore whether they have company or are alone because they have heard the silent whisper of the spirit. Warriors say that, truly, they have died. From that point on, even the simplest things in life become extraordinary for them.

"Through this, sorcerers learn how to live again. They taste each moment as if it were the last one. They do not waste any effort on feeling dissatisfied, nor do they throw away their energy. They do not wait until they become old to ponder the mysteries of the world. They are on it. They are exploring. They know and marvel.

"If you want to make a space in your life for the unknown, it will help to be aware of your personal extinction. Accept your destiny of death as the unavoidable fact that it is, and purify that feeling.

"You will then easily become responsible for the incredible event of being alive.

"And do not dream of begging in the presence of death. It will not and can not condescend to those who try.

"Invoke your death; aware that you came to this world to know it. Challenge death; knowing that whatever you do, you do not have the smallest chance of conquering it. Death is as gentle with the warrior as it is merciless with the ordinary man."

At the end of his lecture, Carlos said he was going to give us an exercise.

He said, "This exercise concerns an inventory of your loved ones, and of everybody who concerns you. Once you have classified them according to the degree of feeling that you have for each, you will take them, one by one, and pass them through death."

A murmur of consternation rippled through the listeners.

Making a soothing gesture, Carlos added, "Do not get scared. There is nothing macabre about death. What is macabre is that we cannot face it with deliberation.

"If you are inclined to believe in ghosts, you should do this exercise at midnight; if that helps loosen the fixation of your assemblage point.

"It is very simple. You will evoke your dear beings through to their inevitable end. Do not think about how or when they will die. Simply make yourself aware that some day they will not be there anymore.

"You know that eventually one by one they will leave, and who knows in what order. It does not matter what you try to do to avoid it.

"When evoking them in this exercise, you will not harm them. On the contrary, you will be seeing them in the appropriate perspective.

"A focal point of death is momentous, and can restore true value to your life."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 07. Energetic Drainage.

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Part 1 - Chapter 07. Energetic Drainage.

On many occasions when I listened to Carlos, he referred to the topic of energy. Each time, he would explain different aspects of it. I have gathered some of his explanations in this chapter to give the reader a more coherent view.

Carlos' said that the teachings of the tradition of seers to which he belonged begins with the idea that the universe is dual.

It is formed by two forces which the old seers symbolized by means of two snakes that are intertwined.

The two forces constitute an inexplicable wave of energy which the Toltecs called the tonal and the nagual.

Everything we can interpret or imagine in any way is the 'tonal', and the rest which we cannot categorize is the 'nagual'.

The tonal and nagual are not two antagonistic realities, but rather are two complementary aspects of one unique force which the Toltecs nicknamed 'The Eagle'.

Carlos stressed that these forces have nothing to do with the dualities we call good and bad, God and Devil, positive and negative, nor any other kind of opposing pairs we can think of coherently.

The seers compared the tonal and the nagual with the right and the left sides of our physical body simply because our basic configuration as an organisms is structured from a bilateral symmetry.

However, the tonal and nagual are not associated with either side of our bodies.

The tonal and nagual are two forms in which energy of the Cosmos manifests itself to us as humans, and thus dictates the way we perceive the world.

The old seers called the free energy of the cosmos 'the emanations of the Eagle'.

Life is formed when a portion of the emanations are encapsulated by an external force. This then becomes a new individual being that is aware of itself.

The old seekers found that this new being's awareness of the world around it happens when something they called 'the assemblage point of perception' comes into play.

That assemblage point operates as the center of awareness for every living being in the universe.

On this Earth, seers have found that the deliberate awareness of oneself can only be achieved by human beings, and by a group of species who lack physical organization whom the seers of antiquity called 'allies'.

Interaction between man and the ally beings is not only feasible, it is something that frequently happens in our dreams.

Ancient sorcerers cultivated this interaction since the consciousness of inorganic beings, who are much older than us, is filled with something that we all covet-- Knowledge.

Having taken on the work of investigating the tonal and nagual as modes of energy, the sages from old Mexico were urged to describe to their contemporaries what they had discovered.

In the effort to describe their understanding of things which they experienced but that were were far beyond common consensus, the seers borrowed the most appropriate terms from commonly known items.

They said that all that exists is divided into light and dark, like day and night.

From this as a starting point, they derived an infinitude of binary descriptions, almost as if the universe held out a command to reflect some great cosmic duality.

Through their seeing, they had discovered that the world of energy is made up of extensive areas of darkness, sprinkled with tiny points of light.

And they perceived that the dark areas correspond to the feminine part of the energy while the bright areas correspond to the masculine. They arrived at the inevitable conclusion that the universe is almost in its entirety feminine, and that the bright energy, the masculine, is rare.

By definition, they associated darkness with the left side, the nagual, the unknown, and the feminine.

They associated luminosity with the right side, the tonal, the known, and the masculine.

Continuing their observations, they saw that the act of galactic creation happens when the cosmic darkness contracts itself, and from it arises an explosion of light, or a spark that expands giving origin to the order of time and space. The law of this order is that things always have an end, which again implies that the unique and perennial principle of the universe is the dark energy; feminine, creative, and eternal.

Likewise, human beings are divided into the tonal, represented by his daytime vigil; and the nagual, represented by our dreams at night.

From these observations, the rest of the wisdom of the naguals is derived. The seers teach that dreams are a doorway to power because, ultimately, what sustains us is the dark energy to which we go periodically to be renewed.

Consequently, the seers directed all their power towards perfecting the art of becoming conscious while in the state of dreaming. They called that special kind of attention 'dreaming', and they used dreaming to deliberately explore the dark energy, and to come into contact with the source of the universe. In that way, the initial observations of the wise Toltecs became a practical knowledge.

One of Carlos' more frequent statements was that we as average human beings form opinions about everything.

This transforms our world into something more and more predictable until the possibility of visiting other worlds becomes a fairy tale.

On one occasion Carlos explained, "For modern man, absolutely everything that exists is put into definite categories. We are labeling machines.

"We classify our world, and our world classifies us.

"If once you killed a dog, you are the dog-killer for the rest of your life-- even if you never touched another one.

"Those classifications are even inherited!"

Carlos mentioned a series of funny and expressive last names that were related to the characteristics of a particular person. He said the names were then passed onto their descendants as an imposition on them. It went to show that people become marked energetically.

He asserted that the greatest example of that absurd propensity to classify us is what believers call 'original sin'; the sin of Adam and Eve which makes us all forever sinful, and also, makes us all behave as sinners.

Carlos then said, "We have become perceptual jailers of each other. The chain of human thought is powerful.

"We classify and order our deepest feelings so that nothing can escape.

"One example is the way we alienate ourselves from the actual time we are living in by mindlessly going around repeating stereotypes. We have a collection of preset days-- Mother's Day, All Saints' Day, Valentine's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, and weddings.

"They are like stakes we tie our life to so that we will not get lost. Thus we walk the Earth focused only on our descriptions like beasts tied by the neck."

Carlos told us about when he and Don Juan once traveled to a small town in the north of Mexico, and they had sat down to rest on a bench in the church square.

Suddenly, ten or twelve Mexican youths came carrying a Judas figure made of cloth and canes. It was dressed in a blanket and sandals; like an Indian. They installed it in the town square, and that night there was a public burning. Everybody drank, and everybody took turns insulting the puppet as part of the ritual.

Carlos explained, saying, "With customs like that, people keep Judas alive. They remember him. They sustain him. They keep him in a true hell with their memories. And, after burning him, the next year they resuscitate him, and kill him again.

"The rigidity of human behavior is revealed in those routines."

A person in the audience requested permission to speak, and asked Carlos whether, regarding how by remembering Judas the town keeps him alive, his statement was meant literally, or was just a metaphor.

Carlos answered, "Sorcerers affirm that since a current of thought is an injection of life, as long as there is memory, there is awareness of being. True death is oblivion.

"The idea that time moves in a straight line from past to future is completely primitive, and is something that goes against the experience of sorcerers and even of modern science. But due to that limited interpretation of time, most of humanity is kept prisoner in a tunnel of time where their destiny becomes an infinite repetition of the same.

"The reality of our condition is that we are energetically blocked due to what sorcerers call 'the collective fixation of the assemblage point.'

"A remarkable consequence of that fixation is the way we specialize. When preparing for a profession, for example, instead of widening our scope, we usually end up becoming sedentary, boring individuals without creativity and without motivation. In a few years, our life becomes tedious. But far from taking responsibility and changing ourselves, we blame our circumstances.

"One of the most serious habits that shape our inventory is the habit of telling others everything we do, or we stop doing. It is an important part of socialization. We want to generate an exclusive image of ourselves. But the image ends up molding itself to other people's expectations, and we become imitations of what we could be.

"Once others consider us as facts, we have to follow certain behavioral patterns even when we are sick of them even if we do not believe in them. Any intent to change puts us up against the wall.

"Most people have built their lives on a superficial base of relationships and so they feel empty when they do not have love or friends.

"And, unfortunately, friendship is generally based on an exchange of intimacies but with a basic premise of our mundane relationships being that everything we say and do will some day be used against us. It is a sad fact that the ones we care about the most are also our worst headaches.

"So most people do not have any time left to ponder their destiny.


"Sorcerers maintain that talking about ourselves makes us accessible and weak, while learning how to be quiet fills us with power. A principle of the path of knowledge is to turn your own life into something so unpredictable that not even you yourself knows what is going to happen.

"The only way of leaving the collective inventory is moving away from those who know us well.

"After a time, mental walls that trap us become a little softer and they start to give in. That is when genuine opportunities for change appear and we can take control of our lives.

"If we were able to transcend interpretation and face pure perception without prejudice, the impression of a world of objects would vanish.

"In its place, we would witness energy as it flows in the universe. Under such conditions, the chain of other people's thoughts would no longer have the smallest effect on us and we would not feel obliged to be or do anything.

"Then our senses would have no limits. That is 'seeing'."

Carlos later defined seeing further, saying, "The sorcerer's objective is to break the fixation of social interpretations, and to see energy directly. To see is a total perceptual experience.

"Seeing energy as it flows is an imperious need on the path of knowledge. Ultimately, all the effort of sorcerers is guided to that end. It is not enough for a warrior to know that the universe is energy. He, or she, has to verify it for him or herself.

"Seeing is a practical matter which has immediate consequences and far-reaching effects on our lives. The most dramatic of them is that sorcerers learn to see time as an objective dimension."

Carlos continued by explaining that energy is distributed through the universe in layers. All conscious beings belong to one of them and we can tune in to energy of other bands thanks to a phenomenon known as the 'alignment of perception.'

He said, "At some points, the layers are crossed at generating energy vortices. At those points, phenomena take place of the utmost importance to the sorcerers that see. At those places, the conditions for the alignment of perception are best and it occurs spontaneously.

"Seers speak of passageways, bridges and barriers in the space where the coordinates of time lapses, and the consciousness of the traveler enters strange worlds. Inorganic beings from all corners of the universe take advantage of these points to cross the border into our land, and we also can do the same into theirs.

"To you this may seem incredible, but such phenomena, to me, is as natural as rain from the sky.

"On one occasion I was taken to a site in the desert in northern Mexico. I was shown a place where the area was a cosmic whirl. We fought for hours to penetrate the area, but it was impossible. It was as if there was a barrier there."

We asked Carlos what that was, and he responded, saying, "I could never decipher it. But a sorcerer with enough power and who knew how to use those places could have passed through that.

"Another time I was able to witness the most extraordinary effects of one of those passages of energy.

"I was driving in the middle of the desert when a storm hit the road, and completely clouded my field of vision.

"Suddenly a tractor trailer appeared next to my car. The driver made a sign for me to follow him, and we continued over a long stretch. I was sheltered at his side; protected by the huge flank of the truck.

"Finally, the storm abated and we both stopped. We were on a path of stones that I did not know. The driver of the truck exited and greeted me. I recognized that he was an Indian shaman from the area whom I had met before.

"He told me that when he protected me in that way, he was paying for the gift that I had done for him years earlier. He did not attempt to identify the place where we were because he said it was a hideout of the second attention.

"I was amazed by his words; amazed that a warrior would have had enough energy to carry me, car and all, to the other world.

"After a brief chat he told me that it was time to get out of there because the storm had already finished. I followed him along an unknown path, and again I found myself on the motorway. But the truck and trailer were gone without a trace."

These anecdotes had the effect of exciting our imagination, and so we beset Carlos with all sorts of questions. But he remained unflappable. He said that this kind of phenomenon occurs more often than we could believe, and that is not to be reasoned out. It was only to be experienced.

Carlos continued to explain that another striking and very useful effect of seeing energy as it flows is that sorcerers perceive the feelings of other people directly; like heat waves leaving our bright masses, and driven by emotions. The sorcerer even detects feelings that the keeper does not know are there.

He said, "It is as if you projected an infrared light which can be targeted by a seer, whereas most people do not see their fellows more than as an impenetrable darkness.

"Seeing allows you to get through the guards of the conduct of others. This makes it impossible to cheat a seer, and extremely difficult to surprise one.

"However, the real value of seeing is that it helps us understand what we are attempting to achieve.

"I said before that all of existence is energy levels. When we see, we realize that there is something more here. And subsequently, we find some new rule of action which organizes everything.

"Sorcerers identified this rule, or purpose, as a supreme and impersonal will which they manage to tune through their interior in silence.

"Obviously a person of knowledge, with such a tool at their disposal, combines things in the most appropriate way for their awareness and energy. Brimful of energy, and serene is the mark of the warrior. You see?"

In another of his talks, Carlos told us that we bring all of our energy at birth, but we usually die disastrously clueless about energetic facts.

He said, "It is as if we are born with a certain amount of money in the bank; about a million more or less. No matter the difference between individuals, in most cases this is a sufficient amount which would allow us to lead decent lives until the end.

"But, because of the lack of a proper energy culture, most people start to spend that awareness and energy heritage so crazily from the beginning that when they die, they are in a pitiful state of misery.

"However, a few people learn to save up, and to multiply their profits. They also die, but with more capital. And they come further, and go farther.

"The difference between dying with all our gains as warriors full of power, or dying as a bald dog, is due to the way we treat our energy and our awareness."

Carlos explained that the field of light around us is like a giant ball of cotton candy; a dense interweaving of fibers that emanates energy just as a radiator does.

He said, "When two people enter into a relationship, what happens is an exchange of fumes. Our fibers interact even though we may not want them to interact; or we interact our energy fibers without even realizing it is happening. It is an energetic fact that energy flows from where there is more to where there is less.

"So, as we turn life into a constant interaction, it is normal that in the dying end we will be very little of ourselves, and much of what others left in us.

"However, warriors learn to violate this cultural law of energy exchange through exercises such as the recapitulation. This is an endeavor designed to recover our energy, and makes us self-sufficient. We recover our original birthright capital, and return with all we had loaned.

"Some warriors learn to divert the troublesome weight of the attention of others; while other warriors simply separate from average people and become hermits.

"John Tuma used to wear dark glasses. He did it, he said, 'for not dissipating energy through the eyes'.

"The real value of that practice, however, was that this created a barrier between himself and others, and he was no longer accessible.

"The issue of energetic trade and dissipated awareness has the most serious implications on our lives, and this has led to the expression, 'tell me who you hang out with, and I will tell you who you are'.

"That not only describes a state of psychological affinity between two people, but a measurable impact of each others' energetic awareness; a personal energetic condition that a seer or even a sorcerer can perceive.

"If you want to be yourself, learn to walk alone.

"The crucial point is that our interactions can enslave us or liberate us.

"Not every exchange is undesirable. Warriors seek the company of those who help them grow. For example, dealing with witches compels us to be vigilant, and to be impeccable.

"In sharp contrast are common relations which are exhausting because those interactions are based on predetermined patterns of behavior demanded of our-self and the other person.

"Think, for example, in dating relationships where levels of predetermined expectations and demands are often so high that sometimes it destroys the lives of those same people."

One of the people present asked Carlos to illuminate what happens during the exchange of the fumes of sex.

Carlos replied that since life began with a sexual act, we should consider that our energy for sexual activity was determined then. In fact, the primary consideration in dealing with our luminosity is related to this fundamental dimension of our being.

He continued, saying, "The first thing we need to know is that our emotional connections with people are a result of the way we were conceived. At that time, once and for all, the availability and level of our energetic awareness was defined. Our field of energy fibers were sealed, and we are the sum of the passion and desire that our parents collected at the time of conceiving us.

"Everything that follows our conception is a manipulation within limits defined back then; whether it be the wear and tear of our social commitments, or our path of recovery and energy savings.

"And since sex between humans tends to be a routine event, the problem with our level of our energetic awareness often started with our parents there.

"Then socialization imprisons us in a way that gets into our privacy, and obliterates the energy-conscious magical possibilities of our own sexual unions. Socialization turns the sexual act into an obscene and compulsory routine with the often undesirable consequences of conception.

"And then those routine conceptions are reflected strongly in those children.

"As support for this assertion, I tell a joke about a man who tells his wife, 'Honey, on Monday I can not be with you, otherwise I can not play cards with my friends. And on Tuesday I go bowling. On Wednesday, my friends will be waiting for me in the gym.'

"The man thus continued listing his preoccupations for the entire week. Finally, his wife retorts, 'This house will find you in it every night at eight, or you will not find yourself in it!'

"The problem is not making love, but rather doing so by habit.

"The resulting effect of any routine is that it dissipates energy, and dulls what could be the keen edge of our awareness.

"That is shown dramatically in the routine of sex because its outcome are the children who come into the world with a serious deficit of vitality.

"We are so adapted to this situation, that if and when a child is born with all of his or her power intact-- a condition that we consider abnormal-- we deliver the child to a psychiatrist to be calmed.

"And due to the simple coincidental nature of how we select our breeding partner, Don Juan named the generation of modern society, 'the children of aberration'.

"There are two types of unions at conception. The tedious union, and the energetic union.

"Socially speaking, it is very unlikely that we are the product of an energetic conception. Almost all of us come from a routine union. In the view of a seer, typically we are rolled up energy with inhibiting folds in our luminous energetic fibers as if from birth we were already very old men and women.

"Since we can not change our heritage, it is a matter of sanity to learn to save our resources.

"According to sorcerers, the greatest escape of energy in a man or woman is creating children. Having children is a great investment which affects our permanent brightness.

"Therefore, our purpose of bringing children into this world must be deliberate, and weighed with the utmost seriousness.

"If we were conceived in a routine act, and if subsequently we are dedicated simply to the reproductive momentum of producing children, the inevitable result is the fragmentation of our energy unit. Our luminous egg as parents is like a dam with holes where the water is drained. Those holes are our children.

"Those parents will never accumulate enough spare energetic awareness to change themselves unless they apply the energetic principles in their lives called 'the way of the warrior'."

Someone in the audience asked Carlos about the energetic exchange between parents and children.

He answered, saying, "Cutting the newborn's umbilical cord does not mean it has automatically severed the child's connection with their parents. The 'string' light is still active throughout life as an energy straw. It is a real connection that even the blind can see as a fiber that comes from the cocoon light of the parents, to their children.

"The drainage does not occur in a conscious fashion, so for the average person there is no way to avoid it. No matter how much love parents and children profess among themselves, from the standpoint of energy that love is only concerned about the luminosity that has been exchanged. That is why parents are often very demanding with their children and try by all means to mold them to become like them.

"Bringing children to this world is not a clean delivery. It is an investment.

"The blind can see how the depredations result from having children. The parents' energy filaments are projected outward like torn tissue fragments as if it were an old and frayed shirt, or as if they had intestines leaving a disembowelment. This is, of course, one of the most appalling conditions possible."

Carlos' graphic descriptions, accompanied by his gesticulations, had the effect of plunging almost all of his listeners into a state of alarm. I noticed the side casting looks of those who were around me.

With a flickering voice, one of the audience asked him how a warrior can clog their drainage points.

Carlos responded, saying, "The only chance children have to cancel the command of socialization is abandoning father and mother; and not letting their head get back in the game.

"As for the parents' relation to the children, there is no other choice but to eat them. If you can not bite a kid, you bite it yourself."

These words were just too much for some of those present, and I noticed them leaving the the room.

Immutable, Carlos told us how, on one occasion, he was involved in an extraordinary encounter with a girl and an aware female being of another realm; a being whom he wanted to release from her condition of slavery.

Before Carlos found the girl, she had, as a result of her imprudence, engendered a foreign female being for energy.


HTML EDITOR:

Note aside: I understand that the girl referred to is Patricia Partin, also known as Nury Alexander, and that Carlos had legally adopted her.

END HTML EDITOR.


Carlos continued, saying, "Don Juan was, however, fully aware of my limitations, and he took responsibility for the creature and the girl-- a situation the girl gladly acquiesced to.

"One day, in the presence of the girl's birth mother and I, Don Juan took the girl from the room we were in.

"Upon returning, Don Juan placed in front of us a tray of carnizas, and told the mother, 'here is your daughter Cómanla.'

"The mother and I could do nothing else. Bound by don Juan's compelling gaze, the mother and I complied with the unspoken order.

"For us it was a monstrous act, but it had a monumental beneficial effect. It restored the integrity of our once bright luminosities. As a result of the communion with the tender meat, both the birth mother and I recovered all the love and all the light we had poured on the girl, and we closed our holes. In that way, we came back to being complete.

"Eight years later, Don Juan brought the girl back to us. He presented her as 'the blue scout.' He said that he had hidden her during that time, and that what her mother and I had eaten was a baby pig."

Listening to this denouement, a sigh of relief toured the room.

Carlos continued, saying, "I can say that the return of the daughter did shock me; and I felt no solace in knowing that everything had been a joke. My energy body, however, was not surprised."

Out of curiosity, some of those present wanted to know what had happened with the girl during those eight years.

Carlos replied, "Oh, she grew up with my teacher and his fellows in northern Mexico among the Yaqui indians. She became a fierce being. She was not a normal creature. Her energy came from elsewhere.

But unfortunately, she used power plants without discrimination.

"She was so untamed that to get her out of Mexico and bring her to the United States, she had to be tied and put it in the trunk of the car as if she were a suitcase.

"The mother and I could never touch her physically, although she was affectionate with Don Juan.

"I remember, however, on one occasion, by her own will, she put her head on my knees. The mother and I looked at each other surprised; unable to believe it.

"That was the nagual's last maneuver for her disregarding us. The girl knew that she was alone, and she was not going to let the two of us parasite her. She had become a being of her true constitution.

"We are aggressive beings; territorial. We are not pets.

"That girl is the living example of what can be achieved by a maneuver of witches in the sense of re-consolidating our energy."

On another occasion Carlos went back to touch on the subject of boring sex. The conversation led to the manipulation of sexual energy.

Carlos said that the life generating force that was placed in us is important, and has many uses of which we are not fully aware.

He said, "It is pitiful that most people only know how to think about sex in terms of physical pleasure.

"It is like only considering the wild things you can do when you happen to be faced with a something of incredible value-- like a very valuable book, and all you see in it is suitable material to ignite a fire.

"We spend most of our lives worrying about how we are seen by the members of the opposite sex. That means, first, a constant preoccupation of attention to physical appearance.

"In addition, we go to places where we meet other people in the same situation as us, as if we all have set appointments there. We invest many, many hours chatting on peripheral things, but always with our minds set in on our target material. Such a wasteful investment is staggering.

"Sorcerers know that the basis of sex is not playfulness. They know it is ludicrous to think that the power that governs us, created something as important as the generating force, just so that we can perpetuate like mushrooms on earth.

"The generating force's purpose goes beyond sex, and connects us with the mystery of the origin of all things. The universe emerged from a single outbreak that still lingers, and is expressed every time we make love. If the source of who we are is germinating power, then the center of our work ought to be the interior re-channeling of sexual energy."

Doing a very expressive gesture with his hands, Carlos exclaimed, "Sorcerers realize what they gained by not having wasted. Sex is money. Cash. Our destiny is to expand cosmic consciousness. That is why we were endowed with a portion of the creative power of the Eagle. Sexual energy was made for evolving."

Carlos stated that we might theorize that the exchange of sexual partners' energy need not affect the availability of energy of each of the participants because, for example, a man takes the woman's energy as she takes his. The result would seem to be a neutral balance.

But in fact, the operation of the energy mix typically has undesirable side effects generated by bonds of dependency that restrict our freedom, and requires many years of recapitulation to be discarded.

And in practice, that sort of energy exchange is more strenuous than dry red wine to our vitality. When we make love, the movement of energy is not done so as in the case of a closed system. There is always a gap there.

Carlos explained, "Having sex with a person has to do with the whole gene chain that gave us origin. And as a result the fibers that connect us to our parents are altered as well.

"We human beings are not independent entities, but rather are terminal elements. Although sexual activity occurs between individuals, our mold is human, and our peer group strictly determines how the bulk of our awareness is used and processed.

"That social inflexibility is responsible for the feelings of jealousy, dependency and attachment relating to our sexual partners. It turns us into hardened investors until the vileness of it perverts a noble word like 'love'.

"The attitude of the common man, at the possibility of a boundless love, has been diminished to a cold and calculating machine.

"'I love my kids, because they are the reservoirs of my energy. I love my wife, because she washes the clothes and the kitchen, and makes love to me.

"I love my dog because it guards my home. I love my country, because I was born here. And I love my god, because I am going to be saved' ..."

Carlos' face was contracted in a gesture of displeasure.

He continued, saying, "Love is difficult to give without expecting something in return.

"Everyday love ends up becoming a debt when others claim from us the same attention they gave us. And a debt of feelings is something fatal.

"For these reasons, one of the priorities of a sorcery teacher is to destroy the apprentice's sexual patterns. This is a crucial matter that requires lifelong work, but it is necessary to begin this from the first moment of training because becoming a member of a party of sorcerers cannot be used as a pretext for sexual deficiencies.

"If we do not solve that matter as ordinary men and women, our chances to advance on the warrior's path are very slim.

"Sorcerers have many ways of correcting an apprentice. Some teachers do not have any scruples, and subject the pupil to real tortures by attacking his or her weaknesses until she or he gets cured or cracks.

"Others, like my teacher don Juan, were extremely delicate on this point, and preferred to work with our energy from the inside. He made the apprentice become aware of him or herself, and react from that awareness.

"But any method is legitimate as long as it produces the results desired.

"The nagual Julian, for example, combined a merciless efficiency with a tremendous ability to become what he wanted.

"And it was not that he acted. Rather, he genuinely transformed himself by moving his assemblage point to the position corresponding to the form of an animal or another person.

"One of his favorites ploys was to take the form of a woman. Once, in the shape of a beautiful girl, he seduced his apprentice Juan Matus who at that time was barely twenty years old, and hot as a young bull.

"When they were both in bed, the nagual Julian moved his assemblage point back to its habitual position and was a man again. This made the youth Juan Matus run terrified from the room.

"For a mentality like the one Juan Matus had at that time, the impact was devastating. It demolished his stereotypes.

"It was a grotesque joke, but uniquely effective. In one slash, it broke don Juan's inclination to surrender to the first female who made herself available.

"Don Juan never forgave his teacher for the joke, but as time passed he learned how to laugh at the story."

At this point, Carlos allowed a small round of questions.

One of those present interrogated him regarding celibacy and whether it was or was not indispensable for sorcerers; and what the advantages were.

Carlos answered, "A priori, sorcerers are neither for nor against celibacy.

"Sorcerers see that everything depends on the congenital disposition of energy. There are some who are born with the necessary passion to make love every day, while others do not even have enough for a masturbation.

"Some people recover their luminous totality by means of discipline. Others have the appearance of strainers and will die incomplete. All these factors modify and determine the behavior of sorcerers regarding sex.

"What characterizes sorcerers is their refusal to be victims of the collective reproductive command, and lies in their ability to choose a responsible use for their energy. Also, none of them can be trapped in any sexual category.

"Sorcerers are free. They proceed every moment according to what power indicates to them. To have that vision, they cultivate a sobriety that the ordinary person does not know."

Carlos explained that, in general, the new seers opt for a position of celibacy and self-sufficiency because they are very greedy with their energy, and they prefer to dedicate it to the expansion of their awareness. They have witnessed worlds on their journeys into infinity that make all other things seem pale and without attraction; even the sexual act.

Carlos finished by saying, "Don Juan told me that making love is for those who do not have attachments."

Responding to another question, Carlos said that there is no such thing as 'a sexual problem', but rather, there are only individuals with their own particular dilemmas to resolve.

"To see anything, including sex, in a generic form is a trap because it makes us dilute our responsibility; and excuses us with the notion that everybody else is the same as we are. Like birth and death, to procreate is an individual act and a gift which the Eagle has granted us.

"What sorcerers demand is something very simple. Responsibility.

"The society in which we live is a school where they force us to comply with astonishingly cruel orders. We become old, and making love turns into a grotesque parody.

"Society imposes a drainage on us in terms of preset behaviors. And that does not stop until there is not a single blink of light left in us.

"I had an example of this in my grandfather. The old man used to say, 'You cannot make love to them all, but you have to try!'

"He already had one foot in the grave, and he still kept reacting the way he had originally been taught. He spent half his time getting a woman, and the other half working to maintain her. He never realized that he had never been shown our genuine choices.

"Finally, on his deathbed, the old man became bitter with the idea that his lovers did not want him for his manliness anymore, but rather for his money. He whimpered. 'She does not love me!'

"His grandsons assured him, 'She does love you, grandpa!'

"The stupid man died that way, screaming, 'Here I come, mommy!'

"Is it necessary to be a sorcerer to grasp that this is not all we can have as human beings.?"

Carlos admitted that before deciding to practice the warrior's way, he believed he was a seductive man, and he behaved as one; driven by the Latin male stereotype.

He said, "Once I seduced a girl, and brought her to my car. We both got so horny that the windshield got all steamed up with all the kisses and hugs we gave each other. When I was most turned on, I discovered that the supposed girl was a man!

"Another time I fell sincerely in love with a young girl, but eventually I began to suspect that she cheated on me. I changed my car, and stayed watching from the corner of her house.

"I saw her other lover arrive. When I asked her to explain, she told me, 'With you, it is love, and with him it is just sex!'

"These kind of encounters made me decide to behave with more moderation in my love affairs.

"But the pressure of my stereotype was too strong, and I continued to spend my energy on sex according to the pattern of my race until Don Juan gave me the choice that either I had to calm down, or abandon the apprenticeship."

Responding to another question, Carlos maintained that the best way of stopping the energy drainage that takes place through sexuality is learning how to make magnanimous gestures which counter and loosen the fixation of our attention.

He said, "We have received life as a cosmic gift, and it is our privilege to reflect that gesture with total detachment.

"Thanks to a warrior's indifference, she or he is in the position of turning her or his love into an unconditional blank check. Their love can be an abstract affection because it does not start from desire. What a marvelous thing!

"Contrary to what a man in the street thinks, the nature of sorcerers is both passionate and telluric. But the object of their passion is no longer carnal.

"Sorcerers have seen the glue that ties all things together. It is a wave of passion that floods the universe, and cannot be stopped because, should that happen, everything would be reduced to nothing.

"Through their seeing, sorcerers have established their base on the cornerstone of awareness as a most powerful state of individual attention.

"Their love is an overpowering reality that vibrates in every breath, is expressed in every gesture, and gives meaning to their every word. It is a force which impels them to explore, to take risks, and to evolve-- constantly bringing out the best of themselves.

"Sorcerers have discovered the most refined form of love because they love themselves. They know that all we give out is a reflection of what we have inside.

"They have put the power of passion to the service of their being, and this gives them the necessary impulse to undertake the only quest that counts. The quest for oneself."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 08. Recapitulation.

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Encounters With The Nagual - © 2004 by Armando Torres.

Part 1 - Chapter 08. Recapitulation.

When revising my notes, I discovered that another topic Carlos repeatedly referred to in his talks was the concept of the recapitulation. He claimed that it is the exercise to which sorcerers dedicate most of their time.

Once he remarked that, in spite of the energy drainage we are subjected to through social interaction, we all have an option because the sealed nature of our luminous configuration allows us to restart from zero at any time, and to recover our totality.

Carlos said, "It is never too late. While we are alive, there is always a way of conquering any kind of blockage.

"The best way to recover the luminous fibers we have lost is by calling our energy back. The most important thing is to take the first step.

"And for those who are interested in saving and recovering their energy, the best way open to us is the recapitulation.

"A sorcerer knows that if we do not go for our ghosts, they will come for us. For that reason, a sorcerer leaves nothing unresolved. He recounts his past and looks for the magical joint-- the exact moment when he was involved in somebody's destiny-- and applies all his concentration to that point, and unties the old knots of intent.

"Sorcerers say that the average person lives their life from a distance; as if it were a memory.

"We spend life hooked and hurt by something that happened thirty years ago. We carry a burden that does not make sense anymore. We scream at others, 'I do not forgive you!'

"But that is not true. It is ourselves we do not forgive.

"The emotional commitments we make with people are like investments we have made along the way. We must be completely insane to leave our heritage thrown away like that.

"The only way we can become complete again is by picking up that investment, and reconciling ourselves with our energy. We will thus have dissipated the heavy burden of feelings.

"The best method the sorcerers have discovered for this is to remember the events of our personal history until we have completely digested them. Recapitulation takes you out of the past, and inserts you into the now.

"We can not escape having been born from a boring intercourse, nor from our having invested most of our luminosity in making children, nor from our having maintained tiring relationships.

"But we can recapitulate. That cancels out the negative energetic effects of past acts.

"Fortunately, in the realm of energy, things like time and space do not exist. So it is possible to return to the place and to the same moment when the events happened, and relive them. It is not very difficult since we all know very well where we are hurting.

"To recapitulate is to stalk our routines and subject them to a systematic and merciless scrutiny. It is an activity that allows us to visualize our life as a totality, and not just as a succession of moments.

"However, and although this may seem strange, only sorcerers recapitulate as an exercise. Other people only happen to do it by chance.

"Recapitulation is the heritage of the old seers. It is a basic practice and is the essence of sorcery. Without it, there is no path. Don Juan used to disparagingly refer to apprentices who had not recapitulated as 'radioactive'.

"Don Genaro would not even shake hands with me, and if I touched him accidentally, he would run to wash himself as if I had infected him. He said I was full of dirt, and it was seeping out through every pore of my skin. With that comedy routine, he installed in me the idea that recapitulating is an elementary act of hygiene."

In another lecture, Carlos referred to a kind of luminous stagnation, which he described as a fixation of our attention that blocks the flow of energy.

He said that this happens when we refuse to face facts, and try to protect ourselves by hiding behind evasive actions. Or when we leave pending matters unresolved, or make commitments that tie us down.

The consequence of that kind of stagnation is that the person ceases to be himself. When being pressured by the chain of decisions that he has made during his life, he can no longer act in a deliberate manner and he becomes entangled in the circumstances. This situation can escalate to the point of mental or physical illness, and can only be resolved through recapitulation.

Carlos maintained that, in essence, to recapitulate consists of making a list of wounds caused by our interactions. The next step is to travel back to the moment when the events took place in order to reabsorb what belongs to us, and return what belongs to others.

Carlos said, "The warrior begins rewinding his day. He reconstructs conversations, deciphers meanings, remembers faces and names, looks for shades and insinuations, and dissects his own emotional reactions and those of others. He does not leave anything to chance, and grabs the memories of the day one by one. He cleans them through his breathing.

"He also analyzes entire chapters and categories of his past life. For example, he examines partners he has had, houses he has lived in, schools, work places, friends and enemies, fights and happy moments, and so on.

"The ideal thing is to attack the task in chronological order from the most recent memory until the most distant that it is possible to evoke. But in the beginning it is easier to do it by topics.

"A somewhat profitable form of the exercise accessible to all of us is the fortuitous recapitulation. If you think about it, we are constantly recapitulating. All memories which conform to our internal dialogue can be called that.

"However, we evoke them in an involuntary way. And instead of stalking them in silence, we judge them and interact with them viscerally. That is pitiful. A warrior takes advantage of an opportunity to recall because those memories, seemingly random, are warnings from our silent side."

Carlos pointed out that to recapitulate, no special conditions are necessary. We can try the exercise any time or any place whenever or where-ever we feel moved to do it.

He said, "Warriors recapitulate when they are walking down the road, in the bathroom, when working, when eating, or whenever it is possible. The important thing is to do it."

Carlos added that it takes no definite posture. The only requirement is to be comfortable so that the physical body does not demand attention or interfere with the memories.

"However, sorcerers take the exercise very seriously. Some use wooden boxes, raised sleeping platforms, closets, or caves. Others build a seat in the highest branches of a big tree, or dig a hole in the ground and cover it with branches.

"A good practice is to recapitulate sitting on the bed and in darkness before lying down to sleep. Any means that isolates us from the environment is good for formal recapitulation.

"Once we have located an event, and recreated each of its parts, we have to inhale to recover the energy that we left behind, and exhale fibers that others deposited in us. Breathing is magical because it is a function that gives life."

Carlos explained that this kind of breathing should be accompanied by a lateral movement of the head, which sorcerers call 'to fan the event.'

Somebody asked him if it is necessary to breathe from right to left or vice versa.

Carlos replied, "It does not matter. It is energetic work and there is no fixed required pattern. What counts is the intent.

"Breathe in when you try to recover something, and blow back all that does not belong to you. If you do that with the totality of your history, you will stop living entangled in a chain of memories.

"Instead, you will be focused in the present. Seers describe that effect as facing facts as they are, or as seeing time objectively."

Someone asked Carlos what we have to do with our memories once we locate them; whether it means to examine them with some psychoanalytical method, or something like that.

Carlos answered, "It is not necessary to do anything in particular. Memories will find their own course, and luminosity is reordered by itself through the breathing. Just try it. Make yourself available to do it and the spirit will tell you how to do it.

"Recapitulation starts from inside, and sustains itself. It is matter of silencing the mind, and then our energy body will take control by doing what is a delight for it to do.

"You feel well and comforted. And far from draining you, it gives you rest. Your body perceives it as an inexplicable energy bath.

"But you should have the correct attitude. Do not confuse the exercise with a psychological question. If what you think you need is interpretations, then go to a psychiatrist! He will tell you what to do-- to continue being the idiot that you are.

"Neither should you try to find a 'lesson'. Stories with a moral only exist in children's books.

"Recapitulation is a specialized form of stalking, and should be undertaken with a high sense of strategy. Recapitulation is about understanding, and putting our existence in order by seeing it as it is without remorse, reproaches, or congratulations, and with total indifference in a spirit of fluidity and even of humor.

"Understand that nothing in our history is more important than anything else, and all relationships, in the end, are ephemeral.

"The important thing is to begin because the energy we recover from the first intent will give us the power to continue recapitulating more and more intricate aspects of our lives.

"First it is necessary to go for our strongest investments which are our most harrowing feelings. Then we go for those memories that are buried so deeply that we thought we had forgotten them. But they are there.

"In the beginning, recapitulating can be hard work because our mind is not accustomed to that discipline. But, after closing the most painful wounds, energy will recognize itself and we become addicted to the exercise. In that way, each particle of light which we recover helps us to gain more.

"The moment you begin to prepare to voluntarily unravel the plots of your personal history, you will be taking a decisive step."

Responding to another question Carlos said that recapitulation does not have an end. It should last until the end of our days and beyond.

He said, "I stretch my fibers every night while remembering what happened during the day. This way, my list of events stays updated. But once a year, I give myself over to a more complete and total exercise for which I move away from everything for several weeks."

He warned us that, just because it is a daily practice, we must not see the exercise as a routine.

He explained, "If we do not recover the totality of our energy, we will never achieve the power of our decisions. There will always be the background noise of a seemingly foreign command. And without the power of his decisions, a man is nothing.

"Reliving events is ideal because it cleans the wounds of the past, and clears up any congestion of the energy conduits. In this way, you break the fixation of other people's gaze, you expose the patterns of people's behavior, and nothing can hook you again.

"You become a sovereign being, and 'You' decide what you want to make of yourself."

Another question concerned the effects of recapitulation on awareness.

Carlos maintained that the exercise has two main effects. He said, "The immediate effect is that it stops our internal dialogue. When a warrior is able to stop his dialogue, he tightens the relationship with his energy.

"Recapitulation liberates him from the obligation of memory, and from the burden of feelings. It leaves a residual energy that a warrior can invest toward enlarging the frontiers of their perception.

"A warrior begins to appreciate the real thing and not the interpretation of it. For the first time, that warrior comes into contact with the consensus of sorcerers which is the description of a reality inconceivably integrated.

"It is normal that a warrior at this stage begins to laugh at anything, because energy provides happiness. Thanks to the recapitulation, a warrior is happy, overflowing, or jumps like a child.

"On the other hand, the warrior begins to become a fearsome person, since, having their luminosity intact and their life clean, decisions will no longer be an obstacle for them. A warrior will decide what is necessary the moment they want to; and that, to other people, is scary.

"This is also the time when the warrior requires an extra dose of sobriety and sanity, because without it they would take unnecessary risks; endangering both their own security and the security of others.

"Another effect of recapitulation is that it works as an invitation to the spirit, and makes the spirit want to come and live with us. In other words, to remember our past is the most effective method to reunite the physical body and the energy body which have been separated for years."

Carlos went on to say that the sorcerer who has managed to compress the thickest part of his energy is in a state where he or she may intend a feat of perceptual prowess. They can intend a copy of their life experience in order to deceive death.

"That is the final objective of the recapitulation-- to create a double, and get ready to leave. You do not have to be a sorcerer to understand the importance of all this.

"To die in debt is a pitiful way of dying. On the other hand, to have a double to offer the Eagle guarantees that you will be able to continue ahead.

"The fight of sorcerers is heroic. Recapitulating impeccably the content of their lives, sorcerers pick up the fibers which drained their attention, and they return to others they have known all the attention the sorcerer had taken from them.

"In that way, they arrive at a state of balance which allows them to leave with all their awareness. Their memories, coherent, refined, and integrated, work as an independent being which serves as a ticket they hand over in exchange for their awareness.

"The Eagle accepts that effort as a payment, and steps aside. Our replica is sufficient to satisfy its demand.

"Seers see that moment as an explosion of energy which aligns their encapsulated awareness with the totality of emanations out there; and their assemblage point expands infinitely, like a vortex of light."

In another talk, Carlos referred to a method designed by the new seers which can be helpful in the exercise of recapitulation.

He stated, "One of the tasks of sorcerers is to constantly analyze the insinuations of the spirit. For this purpose, sorcerers often use a book of memorable events. This is a map of those occasions when the spirit had intervened in their lives, and forced them to make decisions whether voluntarily or involuntarily."

Carlos explained that the advantage of this technique is that when we write, we detach ourselves from things and events, at least to a minimal extent, and thus we are able to focus on them with more objectivity.

He said, "This book is not about describing our daily routines, but of being attentive to the strange moments in which intent is manifested. Those are magical junctures because they produce changes, and they put us face to face with the meaning of our existence."

Carlos was requested to give us some examples of this kind of event.

He complied, saying, "Although signs of the spirit are a personal matter, they are extraordinary events that in general mark people's lives; like being born, choosing a career, intertwining your destiny with another person, or having children.

"Also, illnesses and serious accidents are spiritual events, because they establish a nexus with death.

"Or for those who have the fortune of finding a conduit of spirit in a person who is a nagual; and that is, certainly, the most memorable possibility of all.

"The interventions of intent are precursors, and are very significant memories for a warrior. They can be used as reference points of where to start when one is exploring episodes of personal history. It requires speed and clarity to select the memorable events, and to synthesize them-- to extract the personal stuff, and leave the magical essence.

"When properly done, one's collection of the interventions of intent becomes what the new seers call their abstract centers of perception. This is a matrix of intent which a warrior has the duty of deciphering."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 1 - Chapter 09. The Threshold Of Silence.

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Part 1 - Chapter 09. The Threshold Of Silence.

One of Carlos' characteristics was that he was unpredictable. Sometimes he arrived on time to his appointments, other times he was an hour late.

The system had its advantages in that it made the less interested stand up and leave, and forced the more committed to cultivate patience.

One afternoon the appointment was at the University of Mexico.

Among many other questions, he was asked if he believed in God.

In answering, Carlos asked us not to confuse his words with a religious message.

He said, "Sorcerers abide by their experience. They have exchanged 'believing' with seeing. They speak of the spirit, not because they believe in its existence, but because they have seen it.

"But, no, they do not see it as a loving father who watches over us from up above. For them, the spirit is something much more direct and immediate. It is a state of awareness which transcends reason.

"Everything that reaches our senses is a sign from the spirit. The only thing you need to have is the necessary speed to silence your mind and capture the message. By means of these indications, the spirit talks to us in a very clear voice."

One of the people present remarked that, even taken as a metaphor, the idea of listening to the spirit or speaking with it had an excessively religious air.

But Carlos was adamant in his definition.

He said, "That voice is not a metaphor. It is literal. Sometimes it speaks in words. Other times it just whispers, or presents a scene before our eyes, like a movie. In those ways the spirit transmits its commands to us; a command which can be summarized in a single expression. 'Intent. Intent.'

"The voice of the spirit speaks equally to everyone, but generally we do not realize it. We are so preoccupied with our thoughts that instead of being silent and listening, we prefer all kinds of subterfuges. That is why the reminding voice exists."

They asked him what the reminding voice is.

He answered, "It is a resource of our attention, or a way of accessing another level of awareness. We can use almost anything to tune in to the spirit, because, finally, it is behind all that exists. But certain things attract our attention more than others.

"In general, people have their prayers, their amulets, or elaborate rituals either private or collective.

"The ancient sorcerers were prone to mysticism. They used astrology, oracles and incantations, magical sticks-- anything that could deceive the vigilance of reason.

"But for the new seers, those resources are a waste and they hide a danger. Those techniques deviate a person's attention from focusing on his or her immediate bond with the spirit because instead of being lead to freedom from reason, those persons become addicted to symbols.

"Today's warriors prefer less ostentatious methods. Don Juan recommended intending inner silence directly."

Emphasizing the words, Carlos specified that sorcery is 'the art of silence.'

He said, "Silence is a passageway between worlds. When our mind stays silent, incredible aspects of our being emerge. Starting from that moment, a person becomes a vehicle of intent, and all his acts begin to ooze power.

"During my apprenticeship, my benefactor showed me inexplicable feats which frightened me, but at the same time stirred up my ambition. I wanted to be as powerful as he was.

"I often asked him how I could learn his tricks, but he placed a finger on his lips and stared at me. It took years before I could appreciate the magnificent lesson of his answer. The key to sorcery is silence."

One of the present asked Carlos to define that concept.

He answered, "It is not definable. When you practice it, you perceive it. If you try to understand it, you block it.

"Do not see it as something difficult or complex. It is not something from another world. It is just silencing the mind.

"I could tell you that silence is like a dock where ships arrive. If the dock is occupied, there is no space for anything new. That is my image of the matter, but the truth is I do not know how to speak about it."

Carlos explained that inner silence is not only the absence of thoughts, but rather, it is about suspending judgment and witnessing without interpreting. He maintained that entering silence could be defined in the typically contradictory terms of sorcerers as learning, 'How to think without words.'

"For many of you, what I am saying does not make sense because you are accustomed to consult your mind about everything.

"The ironic thing is that, for starters, our thoughts are not even ours. They sound through us-- which is a different matter. And since our thoughts have been pestering us ever since we learned to use our reason, we have ended up getting used to them.

"If you ask your mind, it will tell you that the purpose of sorcerers is nonsense because it cannot be rationally demonstrated. And instead of advising you to go and verify that purpose honestly, your mind will order you to hide behind a solid block of interpretations.

"Therefore, if you want to have a chance, there is only one possible way out. Disconnect your mind. Freedom is achieved without thinking.

"I know people who were able to stop their internal dialogue, and they no longer interpret. They are pure perception. They are never disappointed or regretful because everything they do starts from the center for decisions. They have learned to deal with their mind in terms of authority, and they live in the most authentic state of freedom."

Carlos continued by saying that silence is actually our natural condition.

He said, "We were born from silence and to there we will return. What contaminates us are all the superfluous ideas that percolate through us due to our collective way of living.

"Our relatives-- the primates-- have very ingrained social customs whose objective is to diminish the levels of tension inside the group. For example, they dedicate much of their time to caressing each other, smelling each other, or picking each others' lice.

"Those customs are genetic and they have not died out in us. Those social customs are here inside; within you and within me.

"It is just that human beings have learned how to substitute those particular customs with the exchange of words. Every time we have an opportunity, we tranquillize each other by talking about something.

"After millennia of coexistence, we have internalized these exchanges to the point that, whether we are asleep or awake, our mind is never quiet. It is always talking to itself.

"Don Juan affirmed that we are predatory animals who, by the power of domestication, have been converted into grass-eaters.

"We spend our lives regurgitating an endless list of opinions on almost everything.

"We receive thoughts in clusters, and one thought connects with other thought until the entire space of the mind is packed full.

"That noise has no use to us because almost in its entirety, it is devoted to the enlargement of the ego.

"Because silence goes against everything that we have been taught since we were children, silence should be attempted in a spirit of combat.

"At this moment we have a great advantage in having the experiences of sorcerer stalkers.

"Sorcerers nowadays recommend that we pass through the world without getting any attention and by treating everything equally. A warrior stalker becomes the owner of the situation-- for better or for worse-- because there is something terribly effective about acting without the mind."

Someone in attendance asked Carlos to give us some practical exercises to achieve silence.

He answered that this was a very private matter because the source of the internal dialogue is fed by our personal history.

He said, "However, through millennia of practice, sorcerers have observed that since deep down we are very similar, there are situations that have the effect of silencing all of us.

"My teacher gave me various techniques to silence my mind which when they are well understood can be reduced to a single one. Intent.

"Silence is intended crudely by making the effort. It is about insisting over and over again. Silence does not mean to repress our thoughts, but rather lies in learning how to control our thoughts.

"Silence begins with a command; an act of will which becomes the command of the Eagle.

"However, we must keep in mind that if, and as long as, we 'impose' silence on ourselves, we will never truly be there. Rather we will be trapped in the imposition. We have to learn to transform will into intent.

"Silence is calm. It is to yield and to let yourself go. It produces a sensation of absence like the one a child feels when he stares at fire. How wonderful to remember that feeling and to know that it can be evoked again.

"Silence is the fundamental condition of the path. I spent a lot of years battling to achieve it, but all I did was get entangled in my own attempt.

"In addition to the habitual conversation that was always going on in my mind, I began to blame myself for not being able to understand what it was that Don Juan expected from me.

"Everything changed one day while I was absent-mindedly contemplating some trees. Silence came rushing from them like a wild beast, stopping my world, and hurtling me into a paradoxical state because it was both new and at the same time well-known.

"The technique of observation-- that is, of contemplating the world without preconceived ideas-- works very well with the elements; for example, with flames, running water, cloud formations, or the sunset.

"The new seers call it 'to deceive the machine,' because in essence it consists of learning to intend a new description.

"We have to fight boldly to get it, but after it happens the new state of awareness is sustained naturally. You have a foot inside the door. The door then is already open, and it is just a matter of accumulating enough energy to pass through to the other side.

"It is important that our intent is intelligent. The effort it takes to achieve silence would count for nothing if we did not first create conditions favorable to sustaining it.

"Therefore, besides the training using observation of the elements, a warrior is forced to do something very simple but very difficult. Ordering his or her life.

"We all live in a chain of intensity which we call 'time'. Since we can not see its source, we never stop to think of its end. While we are young we feel eternal, and when we grow old, the only thing left is to complain about the 'wasted time'.

"But that is an illusion. Time is not wasted. We waste ourselves.

"The idea that we have time is a misunderstanding that makes us waste energy on all kinds of commitments. When a man connects with inner silence, he puts a new value on his time. So another way to define silence would be to say that it is an acute awareness of the present.

"An infallible method for reaching silence is not-doing. This is an activity that we program with our mind, but which has the virtue of silencing our thoughts once it is in motion. Don Juan called that kind of technique 'to remove one thorn with another'."

As examples of not-doings, Carlos mentioned 'listening in the dark', 'changing the priority of our senses', and 'changing the command that compels us to fall asleep as soon as we close our eyes'.

He also listed, 'talking with plants', 'standing on our heads', 'walking backwards', 'observing shadows', and 'observing the distance or spaces between the leaves of trees'.

He said, "Any of those activities are effective to silence our internal dialogue, but they all have a defect.

"We cannot sustain them for a long time. After a while, we are forced to return to our routines. A not-doing that is exaggerated will automatically lose its power and become a doing.

"If what we want is to accumulate deep silence with a lasting effect, the best not-doing is solitude. Together with saving energy and abandoning those who consider us as 'facts', learning how to be alone is the third practical principle of the path.

"The warrior's world is the most solitary thing there is. Even when several apprentices unite to travel the routes of power together, each one knows that she or he is alone, and knows that they can not expect anything from the others.

"Nor can they depend on anybody. The only thing they can do is to share their path with those who accompany them.

"To be alone requires a great effort, because initially we will not have yet learned how to overcome the genetic command of socialization.

"In the beginning an apprentice should be forced by the teacher using traps if necessary. But after a while the apprentice learns how to enjoy it.

"It is normal then that sorcerers look for silence in the solitude of mountains or in the desert, and that they live alone during long periods."

Somebody commented that this was 'a hideous perspective'.

Carlos replied, "Hideous is to spend our old age like weeping children.

"One of the ironies of modern life is that the more communication increases, the more solitary we feel. Ordinary man's existence is one of harrowing loneliness. We look for company because we can not find ourselves.

"A socialized beings' love has been devaluated.

"Dreams are pure fantasy.

"Natural curiosity has strictly become a personal concern, and the only thing we will have left is our burdensome attachments.

"On the other hand, the warrior's solitude is like a lovers' retreat.

"It is a place for those who seek a remote niche to write poems to their love. And the warriors' love is everywhere, because their love is for this Earth, where we will wander for such a brief time.

"And so wherever a warrior goes, that warrior surrenders to this romance.

"Naturally a warrior may avoid dealing with the world of average men. Inner silence is solitary."

Carlos went on to say that the sorcerers of antiquity used power plants to stop the internal dialogue. But today's warriors prefer less risky and more controlled conditions.

"The same results produced by power plants can be obtained when we are up against the wall.

"When facing extreme situations like danger, fear, sensorial saturation, or aggression, something in us reacts and takes control. The mind becomes alert and automatically suspends its chatter. It deliberately creates the situation called stalking.

"However, the favorite method of warriors is recapitulation. Recapitulation stops the mind in a natural way.

"The main detonators of our thoughts are pending matters, expectations, and defense of the ego.

"It is very difficult to find a person whose internal dialogue is sincere. Usually, we hide our frustrations, and go to the opposite extreme where the content of our mind turns into an ode to 'me'.

"To recapitulate puts an end to all that. After a time of sustained effort, something crystallizes inside us. The habitual dialogue becomes incoherent and uncomfortable, and the only remedy is to stop it.

"An apprentice in this phase will normally find himself facing a cross-fire.

"On the one hand is the homogenization of his assemblage point.

"And on the other hand is some enormous parentheses of silence which strains through his mind and breaks it into fragments.

"Whenever and wherever the inertia of the internal dialogue comes to rest, the world is made over and becomes new.

"The resultant wave of energy feels like an unbearable vacuum opening under a warrior's feet. Because of this, a warrior may spend years in an unstable state of mind.

"The only thing that comforts a warrior in such a situation is to keep the purpose of their path clear to himself or herself, and to not lose under any circumstances the perspective of freedom. An impeccable warrior never loses his sanity.

"If, when applying some of these techniques, warriors feel that their minds shiver, and a voice that is not the habitual one begins to whisper things to them, that is normal and they should not be scared.

"They are not going mad. They are entering into the consensus of sorcerers."

Someone asked Carlos if moving the assemblage point also attracts silence.

He answered, "It is the opposite. Inner silence induces displacements of the assemblage point. And these displacements are cumulative.

"Once a certain threshold is reached, silence can move the point a great distance by itself, but not before inner silence is reached."

Carlos explained that the forces of society's collective consent creates a certain level of impedance that varies from person to person according to their energetic characteristics.

He said that overcoming the resistance of the world's description can vary from some seconds to an hour or more, but silence will come. To conquer the world's description by means of a sustained intent is what sorcerers call 'arriving at the threshold of silence.'

Carlos explained, saying, "That rupture is felt physically as a crack in the base of the skull, or as the sound of a bell. From that starting point, it becomes a matter of how much power has been accumulated as to how far we can go.

"There are those who have stopped their dialogue for some seconds and immediately get scared. They begin to wonder about things, or begin to describe what they feel to themselves.

"Others learn how to remain in that state for hours or days, and they even use it for useful activities.

"For example there are my books that on Don Juan's demand I have written from a basic state of silence.

"But experienced sorcerers go even further than that. They can enter the other world in a definite form.

"I met a warrior who lived there almost permanently. When I asked him something he answered by telling me what he was seeing; without caring if that answer was coherent with my question. He lived beyond my syntax. From my apprentice point of view, of course, he was crazy.

"In spite of its indefinable nature, we can measure silence through its results. Its final effect-- the one that sorcerers look for with avidity-- is that it brings us in tune with a magnificent dimension of our being where we have access to an instantaneous and total knowledge.

"This knowledge is not composed of reasons, but of certainties. Old traditions might describe that state as 'the kingdom of Heaven', but sorcerers prefer to give it a less personal name; silent knowledge.

"You can say that a man who controls silence has cleansed his bond with the spirit, and power rains down on him in streams. A snap of the fingers, and pow! The world is another.

"Don Juan referred to that state as 'the deadly somersault of thought', because we begin in the everyday world, but we never return there again."


The strange power of fascination that Carlos' talks had on me, made the mere idea of missing one of those encounters unbearably painful.

I remarked on it once, and he responded, "You are already hooked. Don Juan always incited everyone who surrounded him to have a romance with his knowledge."

I asked him what he meant.

Carlos explained, "It is the pure desire to know-- not to feel apathy-- to be vividly interested in what the spirit comes to tell you without your expecting anything from it. Having a passionate romance with knowledge is the only thing that can give us the power we need not to falter when signs are pointing in the direction of the unknown.

"When your path no longer corresponds to human expectations, and when it takes you to situations that challenge your reason, then we can say that you have begun an intimate relationship with knowledge.

"You had extraordinary luck when you silenced your mind for the moment which allowed power to point you out to me; but that is not enough.

"Now you have to adjust yourself to the spirit's message so that your life becomes the life of a warrior. From now on, your work will consist of cultivating an honest and clean bond with infinity."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Dialogue of Warriors.

©2004 by Armando Torres.

  • Section 1.
    • Chapter 10 - Conceptual Saturation.
    • Chapter 11 - An Inventory of Beliefs.
    • Chapter 12 - Believing Without Believing.
    • Chapter 13 - Practicing Silence.
  • Section 2.
    • Chapter 14 - The Minimal Chance.
    • Chapter 15 - There Is No Need For Teachers.
    • Chapter 16 - To Know Oneself.
  • Section 3.
    • Chapter 17 - Power Plants.
    • Chapter 18 - The Trap of Fixation.
    • Chapter 19 - Dreaming and Awakening.
    • Chapter 20 - The Door of Perception.
    • Chapter 21 - The Dreaming Double.
  • Section 4.
    • Chapter 22 - Teaching the Art of Stalking.
    • Chapter 23 - The Mark of the Nagual.
    • Chapter 24 - Stalking the Petty Tyrant.
  • Section 5.
    • Chapter 25 - Perceptual Homogenization.
    • Chapter 26 - Predators of Awareness.
    • Chapter 27 - Losing the Mind.
    • Chapter 28 - Movements of the Assemblage Point.
  • Section 6.
    • Chapter 29 - The Survival of the Assemblage Point.
    • Chapter 30 - Cyclical Beings.
    • Chapter 31 - The Sorcerer's Alternative.
    • Chapter 32 - The Final Choice.
  • Section 7.
    • Chapter 33 - The Seers of Ancient Mexico.
    • Chapter 34 - Journey to the Roots.
    • Chapter 35 - The Antennas of the Second Attention.
  • Section 8.
    • Chapter 36 - Validating the Nagual.
    • Chapter 37 - Return to the Essence.
    • Chapter 38 - I Believe Because I Want To.
  • Section 9.
    • Chapter 39 - A New Stage of Knowledge.
    • Chapter 40 - The Appointment Is With Dreaming.
    • Chapter 41 - Bringing The Teachings To The Masses.
    • Chapter 42 - The Magical Passes.
  • Section 10.
    • Chapter 43 - The End of the Lineage.
    • Chapter 44 - The Evolution of the Path.
    • Chapter 45 - The Seers of the New Era.
    • Chapter 46 - Intellectual Preparation.
  • Section 11.
    • Chapter 47 - The Task of the Nagual.
    • Chapter 48 - Encounter in the Crypt.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 10. Conceptual Saturation.

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Part 2 - Chapter 10. Conceptual Saturation.

I once told Carlos how difficult it was for me to understand the postulates of sorcery, and asked him for some definitions which could guide my rationality. But he told me that this was neither possible nor useful, since he did not live in a reality of ordinary consensus.

Carlos assured me with absolute seriousness, "Not even I understand myself."

He maintained that 'to comprehend' is to fix our attention on a specific point from where things can be explained. The more accepted that point is by people in general, the truer we find it.

He continued, saying, "But the universe is not reasonable. Its essence is beyond all description. Security and common sense are islands floating around in a bottomless sea, and we only cling to them out of fear.

"If you continue on the path of knowledge, you will soon discover that explanations are only placebos since they never fulfill what they promise. For each thing an explanation clarifies, it generates a trail of contradictions.

"In fact, sorcerer warriors never understand anything. True learning is physical and we only get it after years of fighting. That is the nature of the lessons of the nagual.

"However, sorcerers have found that it is possible to understand things without reasoning them out, and that has led them to practice. An hour of practice can sweep years of explanations off the table, and then real results appear; results that stay with you forever.

"As you turn yourself into a witness of power, the obsessive pressure of your mind to be in charge will be cancelled out. In its place the childlike spirit of adventure and discovery will be reborn in you. In that state you do not think anymore. You act."

Then Carlos asked me to what extent my interest in the knowledge of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was honest.

I assured him that there could be no doubts about my sincerity, and that I was willing to make any effort-- except to transgress my principles concerning honesty and charity.

Carlos shook my hand effusively, and exclaimed, "You are the ideal candidate!"

I do not know whether Carlos was joking or sincere.

To my surprise, he stated that my principles-- which were not mine, but which were those of any intelligent and normal person-- were a very good base to work from.

Carlos said, "Those principles are your basic materials. But now you have to transform them into an unbending intent, because, as long as they just remain 'good intentions', they will not serve you in any way."

After a pause, he added, "I can help you to elucidate the beliefs of the seers of ancient Mexico by means of a combination of studies and experiences."

Interpreting my silence as agreement, he continued by describing an action program that I should incorporate in my daily life.

It was based on the three points of stopping my internal dialogue with the help of pure intent, compacting my energy by means of rearranging my way of life, and loosening the bounds of my mind in order to dream.

He said the program was designed to help me to loosen a little my fixations from the social collective, and would encourage me to enter into a practical commitment with the postulates of sorcerers.

I accepted his proposal and prepared to listen. But Carlos was anything but a good instructor.

When I had read his books, at least I had the opportunity to pause and to reread a sentence, or to leave everything for later.

But when I was right there beside him, his impatience and his uncontainable torrent of words overwhelmed me. Also, he gave the impression that he was avoiding, in every possible way, establishing a human relationship.

When I later pointed out to him that his method did not work, he told me that it had been a deliberate hunting strategy of his. Apparently, he was stalking the routines of my mind through what he called 'conceptual saturation.'

I asked Carlos what he meant by that, and he explained, "Reason becomes saturated when you give to it too much content to work with.

"Don Juan used to say that strange concepts, like those sorcerers deal with, should be repeated to the point of fatigue. That way they gain a definite place in our awareness which is otherwise burdened by the weight of so many trivial matters.

"What scares us in front of a sorcerers' lesson is that even if we do not want to, we are constantly evaluating everything that comes to us. When the object of that analysis is an irrational proposition, it requires a lot of power to avoid prejudice.

"If you want to know the magical side of the world, be implacable with your reason. Do not let it make itself comfortable. Take your rational thoughts to their limit to the point of rupture.

"Under such circumstances, your mind will only have two options.

"One, your mind will impose itself on you, and force you to abandon the apprenticeship.

"Or two, your mind will be quiet, and will leave you alone."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 11. An Inventory Of Beliefs.

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Part 2 - Chapter 11. An Inventory Of Beliefs.

Carlos asked me, "How is your recapitulation going?"

His question caught me unaware. I answered that I had still not tried the exercise, because I was waiting for conditions at home to be favorable.

He gave me a very serious, almost reproachful look and commented that, for sorcerers, the totality of a path can be summed up in its first step.

He said, "That means that the ideal conditions are here and now."

Softening the tone of his voice, he granted, "It happens to everyone at first. To observe our life is an agitating exercise because to get to the bottom of things scares us, and it is easy to postpone it from one day to the next.

"But if we insist, after a time of scrutiny we begin to discover that what we always found to be obvious and correct ways of thinking are in fact implanted beliefs.

"The ideas we have become addicted to are made up of the densest matter in our mental contamination. In general, they all start from a defect of syntax.

"If, however, the way we speak to ourselves changes, then our old ideas stop making sense, and are substituted by new ideas. That is why there are so many belief systems in the world.

"From the center of silent knowledge we each know that, and this is why we are so rarely willing to practice our beliefs.

"We can spend a lifetime speaking of loving our fellow man, or turning the other cheek, but who dares to actually do it?

"Yet in those declared beliefs you have the motives for wars over religious beliefs; wars where people are killed because of the peculiar way they pronounce God's name.

"Sorcerers know that beliefs based on ideas are false."

Carlos explained to me that the starting point of our convictions is usually something that someone told us in an imperative or persuasive tone when we were children-- before we had our own inventory of experiences for comparison.

Our convictions are one of the effects, of the massive, and subliminal propaganda, to which modern man is subjected.

Or frequently, our convictions come from a sudden and deep emotional outburst, like that suffered by those who allow themselves to be swept away by religious hysteria.

Carlos explained that those modalities of belief were merely gained by association.

He said, "At the core of each one of our actions, customs, or reactions, there is a hidden belief. Therefore, the initial task on the path of knowledge is to make an inventory of all those things we have placed our faith in."

Carlos suggested that I dedicate a new notebook to an exercise. He said I should write down all my beliefs.

He assured me that this practice would help me to make a map of my motivations and attachments.

Then he said, "In each case you should look for the source of your beliefs, and make a profound analysis of each one. Determine when and why it arose, what you had there before it, how you felt, and how much your faith has changed over the years. The intention is not to justify anything, but rather and simply to get things clear. This exercise is called 'stalking the believer'."

Carlos predicted that the result of the practice would be to liberate me of my second-hand convictions.

He emphasized that in the world of sorcerers, only direct experimentation is valid.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 12. Believing Without Believing.

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Part 2 - Chapter 12. Believing Without Believing.

For a couple of weeks, I was devoted to classifying everything with which I felt mentally identified.

I had accepted that exercise, suggested by Carlos, because I found it inoffensive to write down my beliefs.

I had hoped my inventory would be simple and clear. But I was soon surprised as I found an endless list of thought patterns appearing; patterns that sometimes were not very coherent in relation to each other.

For example, one of my beliefs was that only when something can be proven and demonstrated could it be called a certainty.

But at the same time, I believed that a supreme and divine being, beyond all experimentation, does exist.

And no matter how much I tried, I could not resolve that contradiction.

Regarding my non-beliefs, I also had surprises. The most unpleasant was my discovery that one of my mother's simple and repeated suggestions had been blocking an enormous area of possibilities for me.

I had begun to investigate why I honestly found it impossible to accept Carlos' statements regarding how, through dreams, we can access other real and complete worlds.

Then I had remembered that, when I was a child, and I had a nightmare, my mother used to repeat the refrain of a children's story which said, "Dreams are just dreams."

When I met Carlos again, I gave him a superficial account of the results of my investigations.

He told me that my efforts were sufficient, and that I already had enough material to attack the second part of thee exercise.

He suggested that I select the most important one of my beliefs, which served as a base to all the other ones, and stop believing it for a moment.

Carlos told me I should then do this with each one of my beliefs, according to their degree of importance.

When Carlos saw my bewildered face, he said, "I assure you that it is not difficult. And above all, it will not harm your faith. Remember, it is only an exercise."

I protested; and in a decisive tone, I told Carlos that the basis of my principles was my certainty that God exists; and that I was not willing to question it or even analyze that point.

Carlos replied, "That is not true. Your most ingrained conviction is that you are sinful, and for that reason you justify God's existence.

"And so now you can justify your making mistakes, and squandering your energy; and giving in to anger, lasciviousness, whims and fear. After all, you are human. And God will always forgive you.

"Do not fool yourself. Either you choose your belief, or it chooses you.

"First of all, that belief is an imposition and not worthwhile.

"On the other hand, your belief is authentic. It is your ally. Although it sustains you, you are able to manipulate your belief at will. "

I replied that the exercise that he proposed-- treating my faith as casually as a man changing his shirt-- was not only blasphemous and mercenary, but the practice would probably end up throwing me into a state of internal confusion.

Carlos observed, "You do not have to be mentally clear to enter the world of sorcerers!

"Our idea that truth goes hand-in-hand with mental clarity is a trap. The spirit is too inaccessible with our fragile human mind to be understood.

"As you well know, the essence of religion is not clarity, but faith. However, faith is worth nothing in comparison with experience.

"Sorcerers are practical. From their point of view, what we believe or stop believing is absolutely irrelevant. The stories that we tell ourselves do not matter in the least.

"What matters is the spirit. When in the realm of spiritual power, the content of the mind is something secondary.

"A sorcerer could be an atheist, or a believer as a Buddhist, a Muslim or a Christian.

"Regardless, cultivating their impeccability is that which automatically brings him or her to power."

Carlos' words irritated me beyond reason. When I realized it, I was surprised to find how deeply the Catholic doctrines I learned during my childhood had penetrated me. Now that Carlos questioned them, it felt as if he was unfairly robbing me of something very valuable.

He noticed my dilemma and began to laugh.

Carlos told me, "Do not confuse things. Religions are not remedies. Religions are the consequence of man's pitiful state of awareness.

"They are replete with good intentions, but very few people are prepared to fulfill them. If their commitment meant anything of real value, the world would be full of saints, not sinners.

"The moment ideologies-- including nagualism-- become widespread, they become cultural mafias, or schools to make people sleepy.

"No matter how subtle those individuals' postulates are, and no matter how much those individuals try to validate those postulates with personal corroboration, the postulates invariably end up conditioning our actions according to some form of reward or punishment.

"As a result, the postulates pervert the very essence of the search. If the pillar of our faith is a salary, what merit does it have?

"Sorcerers love the purity of the abstract. For them, the value of the path with heart is not so much where it takes us, but how intensely we enjoy it.

"Faith may have value in an ordinary life, but it is useless against death. Our only hope when facing our inevitable death is the warrior's path.

"Sorcerers call the ability to manipulate their mental attachments 'believing without believing'.

"They have perfected that art to the point where they can identify sincerely with any idea. They live it, love it, and discard it without remorse if it comes to that.

"And inside that freedom of choice, they ask sorcerers' questions. For example, 'Why accept myself as a sinner, if I can be impeccable?'"

After some resistance, I agreed with Carlos that there could not be anything wrong with subjecting my beliefs to a shake.

And so, as a result, what I found to be the main effect of the technique of 'believing without believing' was that it showed how incredibly fragile my catalog of ideas was.

Each belief was prone to disintegrate at the slightest blow.

I understood then why Don Juan had claimed that the world we live in is a magic fabric.

Don Juan referred to the fabric of our lives as the magic of our 'first ring of power'.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 13. Practicing Silence.

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Part 2 - Chapter 13. Practicing Silence.

As a base for inner silence, Carlos suggested that I fight against what he called my 'domestic condition'; that is, my membership in a social group. He referred to that as a first step toward freedom.

He said, "To put our interactions on trial means, to analyze all over again a heap of things we have always considered as facts, beginning with our sexual role, and ending with our involvement in family obligations, and religious and civic commitments.

"The purpose is not to judge or to subvert anything, but to observe. Observing, in itself, has an effect on things."

I asked Carlos to explain how the passive act of witnessing can modify anything.

He answered that attention, however tenuous, is never passive because it is made from the same matter which makes up the universe. Even the mere act of exercising our attention implies an energy transfer.

Carlos explained, saying, "It is like velocity which when applied to an object adds force to it. Likewise, the focus of our attention adds more reality to things.

"However, our common reality has a limit. Beyond that limit, the world we know disintegrates.

"The secret of the sorcerers' marvels is the channeling of attention. It does not matter how they apply it-- nor whether for good or for bad.

"The sorcerer's intention is that which changes; not the force of their focus. For the new seers, the magic of sorcery is not in its results, but in the ways we get to them.

"In conclusion, as an apprentice, your best intent is silencing your mind."

The next time I returned to see Carlos, I admitted that, although I had spent much time trying to follow his advice, I did not notice any substantial advance in my struggle to achieve inner silence. On the contrary, I had noticed that my thoughts were more agitated and more confused than ever.

He explained that this sensation is a normal consequence of the practice.

Carlos said to me, "Like all beginners, you are trying to classify silence like another element in your inventory of beliefs.

"The objective of your inventory should be to make you aware of the weight of our prejudices. We use almost all our available energy on maintaining an image of the world, and we do it by means of conscious or unconscious suggestions.

"When an apprentice is liberated from that jail, he has the sensation that he has fallen into an ocean of peace and silence. It does not matter if he speaks, sings, cries, or meditates, that sensation remains.

"In the first stages of the path, it is very difficult to handle silence as a practice. As soon as we detect an absence of thoughts, a mischievous little voice congratulates us for it. And that automatically breaks the state of silence.

"The problem happens because you confuse the objective of sorcerers with an ideal. The concept of 'silence' is too delicate for a mind like yours; accustomed as it is to classifications. It is obvious that you have thought about the exercise in auditory terms, as a lack of sound. But that is not what it is about.

"What sorcerers want is something simpler. They try to resist the suggestions, and that is all.

"If you are able to make yourself the owner of your mind, and you are able to think properly without prejudice or false convictions, you will be able to cancel out the domesticated part of your nature. This is a supreme achievement. Then you will understand what the exercise is about.

"Once you learn how to prevent the commands of your mind, without your being offended by them, and without your giving them any kind of attention, they will stay in your interior for some time, but eventually they will leave.

"So, it is not so much a question of preventing them, but rather of killing them with boredom.

"To reach that state, you have to rattle your inventory of ideas.

"I asked you to begin with your beliefs, but it would have worked equally well if, for example, you had listed all of your relationships and affections; or the most attractive elements in your personal history; or your hopes, goals, and concerns; or your likes, preferences, and aversions.

"The important thing is that you become aware of your thought patterns.

"The maintenance of all inventories is based on the order of its components. When we rattle that order, or when it lacks some of the pieces that we gave it, the whole pattern begins to crumble.

"This is the way it is with routines of the mind. If you change one parameter, suddenly there is an open door where once there was a wall; and that changes everything.

"And the mind will tremble. That is what you have been experiencing as thee extraordinary activation of your interior dialogue.

"You did not even notice your interior dialogue before, but now you know it is there. Eventually, someday, your internal dialogue's presence will be so heavy that you will do something about it.

"That day you will stop being an ordinary man, and will become a sorcerer."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 14. The Minimal Chance.

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Part 2 - Chapter 14. The Minimal Chance.

During a lecture, Carlos was explaining to us various methods naguals had used to help their apprentices.

One of those present interrupted him, saying, "Carlos, you always say that without the nagual there is no freedom, but that is because you had a teacher! What can we do; those of us who were not so lucky?"

He screamed, "That is not true. You do have all the information you need.

"What more do you want? Do you hope to get everything for free, and without any effort? If you believe, that somebody else will do the work for you, you are severely mistaken."

In a reproachful tone, Carlos made fun of the human laziness which makes us hope that others will do things for us, and thus give us the greatest possible advantage. He called this 'the antithesis of a warrior's behavior.

Carlos explained, "All that a man needs is 'the minimal chance'; to be made aware of the possibilities discovered by sorcerers. A warrior does not go around hoping the old sorcerers will come, and kick him in the butt, to make him move.

"A warrior is ahead and he or she says, 'I can do it! And I can do it alone!'"





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 15. There Is No Need For Teachers.

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Part 2 - Chapter 15. There Is No Need For Teachers.

On one occasion, I asked Carlos, "What determines an ordinary man's access to the sorcerers' knowledge?"

He answered, "Intent. A man's intent has to make an offer to the spirit, and the spirit must accept it, and put the means of evolution in his path.

"In other times, the only available way was to be directly pointed out to a nagual. Nowadays, an ordinary man has the opportunity to be guided through publications.

"When seeking access to the world of sorcerers, one must be prepared.

"An accidental encounter with power will not lead to anything except to a brutal fright for the seeker. And from then on that seeker will swear that sorcery is demon's work, or that everything is sheer falsehood.

"A poorly conducted preparation for the first encounter with power will simply foment self-importance. And the encounter becomes a near total obstacle for the apprentice instead of increasing wonder and a desire to learn.

"Someone who comes to the nagual saturated with beliefs on almost everything will not have much chance to continue.

"Therefore, one requirement upon entering the path of knowledge is a profound honesty, and to recognize that when it comes down to it, we do not know anything.

"Understand that it will be necessary to empty the harbor to make room for the new ship arriving.

"Once that degree of preparation has been reached, the rest is a matter of luck as to finding a sorcerers group. Then the spirit determines who will be chosen and who will not.

"The responses of the spirit are inscrutable. They happen in unexpected ways and in terms that are almost always incomprehensible to our reason.

"All we can do is be attentive to the signs, and place ourselves deliberately in their path.

"But when man's intent seals an alliance with the spirit, it is unavoidable that a teacher appears."

I asked Carlos if the nagual could be considered a teacher in the same way as the oriental instructors.

He answered emphatically, "No. There is no comparison for a very simple reason. A nagual never chooses his apprentices. The spirit is the one who determines through omens who can, and who can not, be part of a lineage.

"A real teacher is an impeccable warrior, who has lost his human form, and who has a very clear bond with the abstract. So, he does not accept volunteers.

"Education systems based on the seeker's spontaneous desire do not get very far, because they are not geared towards realization, but towards the concerns of the ego. All the followers do is to imitate, and that does not lead anywhere. Therefore, there is no need for teachers per-se.

"After years of learning, I am convinced that all a seeker needs is the opportunity to be made aware of his possibilities, and a commitment to the death with his purpose."

I observed that Carlos statements were contradicting his repeated statements about how, without Don Juan, he would not have achieved anything.

He replied, "Sorcerers make a clear distinction between the concepts of a 'spiritual guide' and a 'nagual teacher'.

"'Spiritual guides' are an individuals who specializes in directing flocks. They will tell you what you want to hear, and they will give you the miracles that you want to see. You interest them as an acolyte.

"A nagual, as a teacher, is an impeccable warrior who knows that his role is limited to serving as a connection with the spirit. A nagual is guided by commands of an impersonal power.

"His or her help is not altruistic, but a way of paying an old debt to the spirit of man.

"The nagual is not a benevolent type coming to please us, but rather, is coming to wake us up. And a nagual will do it with a stick, if necessary, because she or he does not feel any compassion. When intervening in the life of their apprentices, naguals can produce a condition of such agitation, that the apprentices' latent energies are activated."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 16. To Know Oneself.

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Part 2 - Chapter 16. To Know Oneself.

Carlos' and my conversation turned to the tendency that human beings have of behaving in imitative ways; something that Carlos categorized as 'the behavior of primates'.

He said, "Our great opportunity, and at the same time our great anxiety, is an abyss of silent knowledge which is still inside each one of us.

"Below the noise of the mind, we all have the sensation that there is something indefinite residing there. And that is what makes us grab anything which will alleviate this pressure of the unknown.

"Frequently, that feeling takes us to fanaticism, and there are always those willing to profit from other people's faith."

I asked, "Are all teachers frauds, then?"

Carlos replied, "What I have seen is that most of them are as asleep as their followers, but they have learned how to hide it.

"Imagine a planet where all the residents are blind, and then among them circulates the myth that it is possible to see, although no one has verified it.

"One day someone arrives and says, 'I can see!'

"What can they do? They can either believe or not believe.

"There will always be some who hope. It does not matter if their teacher is also blind, it would be very easy for him or her to take advantage of the situation.

"The Eagle does not demand that you revere it, only that you fill yourself with awareness.

"To fall on your knees before the unknown is totally useless, but to do it before another human being is the pinnacle of idiocy.

"The ape, that we have inside us, yearns to have someone to guide us. The ape needs to believe that there are superior entities who can magically solve our problems.

"As children, we are always hoping that somebody will show up, and take care of the situation. From this mentality, cults are born, that, in essence, are ways of leaving the responsibility for one's own growth in other people's hands.

"We have been deceived. We have been told that we are special, because we are rational. But that is not true.

"The human being wants desperately to obey, and dies from fear when his valuable beliefs are removed. We are like the fish that clean fish tanks, always with the mouth open, devouring any debris that is thrown to us.

"Meanwhile, we ignore the source of life and knowledge that we each have inside.

"I am going to tell you a very old and well-worn story, but one that remains apropos.

"The gods were wondering where to hide wisdom, in order to keep it out of man's reach.

"In the mountains? No. Man would climb them. In the ocean? No. Man would find it. The moon, the stars, and all of outer-space were equally discarded because some day man would explore all of that.

"Finally, the gods came to the conclusion that the best place to hide wisdom was inside man, because that is one place he would never look for it.

"Now, what does man do? Instead of examining himself with total honesty, he looks for a teacher.

"To become responsible for one's own existence is an anomaly; a violation of laws; a state of passion out of the ordinary; a fight that demands your entire life.

"It is the only procedure that will renew our energy.

"I do not know if you will be able to understand this detail, but, to know one's self is an intent of warriors.

"And nobody can intend it for you; not like you might."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 17. Power Plants.

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Part 2 - Chapter 17 - Power Plants.

A man was sitting on a bench, almost hidden behind a newspaper stand. I noticed him, but in such a subconscious way that I had walked some twenty meters past him before it struck me. I turned, and the man looked at me smiling. It was Carlos.

He hugged me effusively and remarked that an encounter of that nature had to be taken as an omen.

He exclaimed, "Now, I am all yours. Ask."

I saw my opportunity.

In various conversations Carlos had categorically stated that hallucinogenic plants are not advisable for a seeker of knowledge.

However, in his first books he had written exactly the opposite. He even gave extensive descriptions of their preparation and their use. And he presented himself as an example of the results of the power of those plants.

This was a matter that interested me intensely. I had never experienced in my own body the incredible forms of perception that he described, and I felt a great curiosity.

So, taking advantage of his good mood, I asked him to clear up the contradiction.

When he heard my question, his enthusiasm cooled down. The topic seemed to affect him deeply.

After a few seconds of reflection he told me that a sign from the spirit had determined the change in his perspective.

He said, "In 1971, after publishing my second book, I received an uncomfortable visit. United States government agents came to one of my presentations and they informed me that I was becoming an idol of juvenile drug addicts, and that they would expel me from the country unless I modified my attitude.

"At first I did not see any reason to concern myself with these threats. But later I investigated a little, and the situation made an impression on me.

"Many students were indeed taking don Juan's teachings as an academic permission to get high. My name was mentioned everywhere as an authority on drugs. But I did not want to be the patron saint of anything.

"I took my dilemma to Don Juan, who laughed at the whole thing and told me that a principle of stalkers is not to confront anybody, and certainly not people more powerful than themselves.

"Don Juan told me, 'You have blundered in among the hooves of horses, and you have to get yourself out of there. I suggest you take care of your learning. The rest, what does it matter?'

"That advice made me decide to have a more cautious attitude in my next publications.

"Personally, I neither approve nor disapprove of anything. And although I am not one to judge, in this matter my learning was a result of such techniques.

"However, in public I cannot encourage the use of the plants because my books are read by all kinds of people and everyone interprets them in their own way.

"Without qualified supervision, power plants can produce regrettable results because they move the assemblage point abruptly and erratically.

"In the long term, they take their toll on a person's health and sanity, and sometimes they will take a practitioner's life.

"On one occasion my friends warned me that the father of a student was looking for me with a gun to kill me, because he blamed me for his son's death after experimenting with drugs.

"It is a very delicate matter-- all this about power plants. If you want to understand it, you have to abandon the folkloric vision that almost everybody has of sorcerers.

"True Toltec warriors are not fanatical about dope, or about anything else. Their behavior is strictly dictated by impeccability.

"I have already explained to you that Don Juan only used plants with me in the beginning of my apprenticeship, and only because I was exceptionally fixed in my routines.

"The more obstinate I got, the more plants he gave me. In that way don Juan was able to loosen my assemblage point, the minimum necessary, in order for me to grasp the premises of his teachings.

"However, in spite of don Juan's careful conduct, my drug abuse continues to have a high cost for me, and is one of the main reasons why today my health is so deteriorated.

"Power plants have a limit and a sorcerer finds it very soon. They are an initial stimulus, but they can not become a viable base to work from.

"They do not have the capacity to take us to complete worlds, which is what a seer looks for."

I asked Carlos, "Do you mean that the movement, that the power plants induce in the assemblage point, is not sufficiently great?"

"It is the opposite. They produce a deep and unpredictable shake. A real sorcerer can manage that, but not an apprentice.

"If the beginner uses them to break his perceptual limits, she or he will be tempted to classify everything they witness as hallucinations.

"After all, everything started from a plant. In that way, the practitioner will never reach the degree of commitment needed to intend the fixation their assemblage point in a new position.

"Plants take you quickly and easily to another world, but they do not allow you to stalk it. That is their limitation.

"The best way of deploying our perception is through a dreaming intent. As a method, dreaming is just as simple as power plant use, but less risky. Dreaming is more comprehensive, and above all much more natural.

"The goal of an apprentice ought to be to take the reins of their assemblage point. Once he or she is able to displace their assemblage point, they have to be able to repeat those movements-- without external help, and with only the force of discipline, and their impeccability.

"Then we can say the warrior has found an ally."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 18. The Trap of Fixation.

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Part 2 - Chapter 18 - The Trap of Fixation.

In one of his lectures, Carlos explained that nothing is as fragile as the fixation of the assemblage point.

He did maintain, however, that the art of agreeing to its position is so special that we spend twenty years of daily training to achieve it.

Those who do achieve it, we call 'adults', and those who do not are 'crazy'.

Carlos then said, "However, nothing is easier for us than moving to new universes. To do it, we just have to return to what we once were."

He explained that the fixation of the assemblage point consumes enormous quantities of energy, and produces a static vision of the world.

The energy of our awareness had originally been dispersed all through our luminosity. However, our awareness winds up crammed up along our luminous borders, where it forms dense masses that create a reflection of the self.

Under these circumstances, changing the fixation of someone else becomes an exhausting task.

Carlos continued, saying, "To break the trap of fixation, one should try any recourse. In most cases, only a push coming from the outside can cause the movement of another person's assemblage point.

"I had a great, great deal of luck. I received that push through the blow of a nagual.

"Once the initial displacement is realized, the warrior should fight for self-control of their attention by means of exercises of intent, and by practicing dreaming.

"Dreaming is the escape door for the human race. Dreaming is the only thing that can allow our existence to realize its appropriate dimensions."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 19. Dreaming and Awakening.

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Part 2 - Chapter 19. Dreaming and Awakening.

Carlos had a great ability to turn conversations towards the practical side of things. In spite of the extraordinary sharpness of his intellect, he hated it if conversations sank to the level of mere speculations.

I often watched how he, in an ingenious but firm manner, would unravel the argumentation of the most rigid speakers, and confront them with the topic of 'results'.

In my case, his method for silencing my attacks of rationality consisted of reducing everything to the immediate proposition of my controlling my dreams. According to Carlos, dreaming was something not very difficult.

However, for me, dreaming was the hardest aspect of his teaching.

Firstly, I could not distinguish the concept of 'dreaming' from ordinary dreams; which are two totally different things for a sorcerer.

Secondly, the idea of focusing my attention on sleep instead of on being awake was contrary to everything that I had learned in my philosophical searches.

Both these considerations very quickly made me avoid dreaming without ever accepting it as an authentic and reachable possibility.

Whenever I listened to Carlos talking about dreaming, I was filled with apprehension. And I justified all this by saying to myself that such an irrational topic was not even worth the pain of trying to analyze it.

One afternoon Carlos asked how my dreaming practice was going.

I admitted that my prejudices had prevented me from making a serious decision, and so, not surprisingly, I had not obtained any positive result.

Carlos commented, "Maybe you just have not been lucky. My teacher don Juan said that each human being brings his basic inclination with him at birth. Not everybody can be a good dreamer. Some people find stalking easier. Yet, the important thing is that you insist."

But Carlos' words did not console me. I began explaining to him that my incredulity seemed to be the result of some mental block implanted in my earliest childhood.

He did not allow me to finish. Making an imperative gesture with his hand, he replied, "You have not done enough.

"If you promise yourself that you will not eat, or pronounce a single word until you dream, you will see what happens. Something in your interior becomes soft, your internal dialogue gives in, and kaboom!

"Keep in mind that, for you, dreaming is not just an option. It is something basic. If you do not accomplish it, you can not continue on the path."

Alarmed by his words, I asked, "But what do I have to do to achieve it?"

He answered, "You must want to do it. It is as simple as that.

"You are exaggerating the difficulty of this exercise. Dreaming is open to everybody. To start dreaming barely requires a minimum of deliberation as compared, for example, to the deliberation that is necessary to learn how to type, or to learn to drive a car."

I commented that it was very difficult for me, to understand, how the handling of dreams could take us to internal awakening.

Carlos replied, "You are confused by the words. When sorcerers speak of dreaming and awakening, the terms do not have anything to do with the physical states you know.

"I do not have any choice but to use your language, because otherwise you would not understand me at all. But if you do not do your part, and put aside everyday meanings, and try to penetrate the meaning of what I am telling you, you will never get out of your state of mistrust.

"I can only guarantee you that, your mental mess will clear up by itself, once you discard the laziness that prevents you from facing the challenge, and you then attack dreaming directly, and without hesitation."

I apologized for my stubbornness, and asked Carlos to elucidate the meaning of dreaming once more.

Carlos, did not give me a theoretical explanation; which was what I wanted. Instead, he gave me an illustration.

He said, "Imagine a confirmed religious believer; one of those people who can not do anything without requesting permission, from his or her god, beforehand. Once they fall asleep, what happens to their convictions? Where do those convictions go?"

I did not know what to answer.

Carlos continued, saying, "They turn off, like the flame of a candle in the wind.

"When you sleep and dream now, you are not the owner of yourself. Your visions are isolated bubbles without connections to each other, and are without the memory of the your true self.

"And of course, the force of habit will almost always take you to dreams where you are your usual self. You might be brave or a coward, young or old, or a man or a woman.

"Presently, in your dreams, you will only be an assemblage point which moves at random; nothing truly personal.

"For the ordinary man, the difference between being awake and dreaming is that while awake, his attention flows with continuity. And while dreaming, his continuity flows in a disordered manner. But in both experiences, the ordinary man's degree of participation, from his 'will', is minimal.

"An average person will wake up in the place where, as always, he puts on his personality like a shirt, and goes out to fulfill his routine tasks.

"Upon falling asleep, he gets disconnected again, because he does not know he can do something else.

"Our everyday wakefulness does not leave us room to stop, and wonder if this world, that we are perceiving now, is as real as it seems.

"And the same thing must be said of any ordinary dream. While it lasts, we accept it as an unquestionable fact. We never judge it, nor put it in more practical terms. We never intend, while inside the dream, to remember some command or agreement we made to our-self while awake.

"But there is another way of directing our attention. The results of that can rightfully neither be called 'dreaming' nor 'awake', because it starts from a deliberate use of our intent.

"What happens is that we take charge of our awareness. And that awareness is the same whether we are sleeping, or awake, because it is something that transcends both states.

"That is the true awakening; to take charge of our attention.

"The Toltec teachings emphasize dreaming. It does not matter how it is described, the result is that the perceptive chaos of an ordinary dream is transformed into a practical space where we can act intelligently."

I asked, "A practical space?"

Carlos said, "That is right. A dreamer will remember himself under any circumstance.

"He always has a password on hand; a pact he has made with his will which lets him align with the warrior's intent in a microsecond.

"He can sustain the vision of his dream, whatever it may be, and return to it as many times as he wants to explore and analyze it. And better still, within that vision, he can meet other warriors. That is what sorcerers call 'stalking in dreaming'.

"This technique allows us to intend objectives and pursue actions, just as we do in the daily world. We can solve problems and learn things.

"What you learn there is coherent. It works.

"Maybe you can not explain how you received that knowledge, but you will not forget it."

I asked Carlos what kind of knowledge he was talking about.

He answered, "Life is learned by living it. The same happens in dreams. There we learn how to dream.

"But those on the warrior's path sometimes hit upon other abilities. Don Juan, for example, used to use his dreaming body to look for hidden treasures, and buried things from the war.

"The products of his 'dreaming' operations he invested in various things, like petroleum, plantations of tobacco..."

My face must have shown the mixture of astonishment and incredulity I felt, because he exclaimed, "It is not so extraordinary! We can all carry out similar feats. It is not even difficult to understand how it happens!

"Imagine somebody teaches you a new language while you sleep. The result is that you learn that language, and you can remember it when you wake up. In the same way, if you find something in that state, like a lost object, or witness an event that is happening somewhere else, you can go and verify it later.

"If it is just as you dreamt it, then it was 'dreaming'.

"Learning in dreaming is a resource much used by sorcerers. I learned much about plants in that way, and I still remember all of it.

"Do not underestimate your resources. Everything the spirit has put inside us has a transcendent meaning. That means dreams are there to be used.

"If it were not so, they would not exist. The techniques I have described to you are not speculations. I have personally checked them out. The art of dreaming is my message to people, but nobody pays any attention."

When I heard the sad tone of Carlos' last observation, I was suddenly struck by the unbearable timidity of my imagination.

For years and years, without fail, Carlos had encouraged us to expand our vision. This was not out of any selfish concern on his part, but for his sheer pleasure of transmitting to us his superior state of awareness.

And here I was, wallowing in my second-hand beliefs, and my habitual doubts.

I wanted to be on his side in the world. I got up from the bench with the intention of shaking his hand to show my gratitude.

I was about to promise Carlos something, but he stopped me by saying, "It is better if you do not say anything, and thereby not waste your time.

"Maybe it is not your destiny to be a brilliant flying warrior. But as to dreaming, you do not have any excuses. Like everyone, you too are splendidly equipped for dreaming.

"If you do not get to it, it is because you do not want to."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 20. The Door of Perception.

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Part 2 - Chapter 20. The Door of Perception.

In another of Carlos' lectures, he explained that any state of awareness that involves an unusual position of the assemblage point is technically a dream.

Carlos said that the advantage of dreams over everyday states of attention is that dreams allow us to cover a wider sensory spectrum, and dreams allow us to better synthesize the information we receive.

In other words, we would learn how to live with more intensity, and that results in a greater clarity of our perceptual processes.

Carlos explained, saying, "Above all, dreaming gives us access to critical events in our past such as our birth and early childhood. Dreaming illuminates the traumatic situations and altered states of awareness from our past.

"A sorcerer can not leave aside his most harrowing experiences."

Towards the end of his lecture Carlos gave a definition that I considered very important because he touched on what I felt was a sensitive topic.

He said, "Dreaming is not something impossible. It is just a kind of deep meditation."

For years, I had been doing some spiritual exercises I called 'meditation'. My meditation practices were quite different in both their form and their results from what Carlos was proposing as dreaming.

As soon as I had an opportunity, I asked Carlos to clarify the distinctions between the concept of dreaming, and meditation.

He answered, "What you are asking is difficult because there is no way of meditating without dreaming. Both terms describe the same phenomenon."

I asked, "Then why have my exercises not produced any of the things you talk about?"

Carlos replied, "You had better answer that yourself. In my opinion, what you have practiced up to now has not been meditation as I know it, but rather some kind of auto-suggestion.

"It is common for people to confuse these two things which for a sorcerer are not the same.

"Pacifying the mind is not meditation, but drowsiness.

"On the other hand, dreaming is something dynamic

"Dreaming is the consequence of a process of sustained concentration-- which implies a veritable battle against our lack of attention.

"If it were just the result of a dulling of the senses, dreaming practitioners would not call themselves 'warriors'.

"A dreamer can be the very incarnation of ferocity or seem profoundly calm, but none of that has any real importance because he does not identify himself with his mental states.

"A dreamer knows that any definite sensation is nothing but a fixation of the assemblage point.

"Dreaming happens when we achieve a certain balance in our daily life, and that only happens after silencing the internal dialogue.

"The term 'dreaming' is not the most appropriate to describe an exercise of awareness which has nothing to do with the content of the mind. I use that term out of respect for the tradition of my lineage. The ancient seers called it something else.

"Expert sorcerers dream starting from a state of waking vigil as easily as from sleeping.

"For them, dreaming is not about 'to close the eyes and snore', but 'to witness other worlds and explore'.

"From the point of view of the will, what distinguishes a dream from a sorcerer's daytime vigil is that the energy body obeys other laws while dreaming.

"A dreaming sorcerer can carry out incredible feats like passing through a wall or moving to the ends of the universe in the blink of an eye.

"Such experiences are both complete and accumulative, and only somebody who has not lived them would cling to logical categories to explain them.

"But those kinds of manifestations, however valuable, are not the objective of your dreaming.

"To dream is essential for you because access to a nagual happens almost exclusively in that state."

I asked him why this was so.

Carlos answered, "The reason is evident. People who have a natural tendency to dream and who have a surplus of energy, qualify to find other, more advanced dreamers, either accidentally or because they deliberately look for them.

"Occasionally, these traveling companions accept to take charge of instructing you more deeply in the art.

"Once an apprentice begins to shine, it is inevitable that he will attract the attention of a nagual.

"Naguals are like Eagles constantly stalking.

"As soon as they detect an increment of awareness, they swoop in, because a voluntary dreamer is a rarity.

"For a teacher, it is much easier to stimulate an effort that has already begun, than to create one from nothing."

Carlos told me that he maintained contact with many warriors from various parts of the world through dreaming.

He went on to say that another reason why dreaming is a door to knowledge, is that its practice allows us to resolve a thousand problems typical of learning; like the lack of clarity and attention in a beginner, or a mistrust regarding the instructor's activities, and or the intrinsic danger of some of the techniques.

"The art of dreaming softens the obsessive nature of the emanations of the Eagle which could otherwise destroy the psychological balance and the will of an apprentice."

I asked him, "Then what can those of us who do not dream do in order to gain access to these teachings?"

Carlos seemed bothered by my question.

He grunted, "You have the wrong focus! The true question should be, "What should I do to dream?

"A warrior can not walk around in the world leaving loose ends with every step.

"If you genuinely cannot consider your dreams a part of your life, and if you cannot visualize them as what they are- avenues to power-, and if you do not even understand what they are or what purpose they serve, well,... then you have a lot of work before you."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 21. The Dreaming Double.

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Part 2 - Chapter 21. The Dreaming Double.

Carlos said to me, "Within our sphere of perception, there is a force separated from what we call 'myself', which is detectable through dreaming.

"That force can be made aware of itself, absorbing the principles of our personality, and behaving with independence.

"The sensation that dealing with it produces in us is unspeakable; because it is an inorganic being."

I asked, "Inorganic?"

Carlos replied, "Of course. We call our everyday attention 'organic' because it depends on a body made up of organs, right?"

I agreed.

Carlos continued, asking, "Then what would you call the body with which you perceive and act when you dream?"

I answered cautiously, "I would say that it is an apparition."

Carlos responded, "I agree. It is an inorganic being. It has appearance, but no mass. For you, it is only a mental projection.

"However, from that being's point of view, it is our physical body that lives in an imaginary world.

"If you had the energy and the necessary concentration to become aware of your other self, and if you asked that being what it thinks of your everyday world, it would answer that it considers it quite unreal; almost a myth.

"And, you know what? It would be right!

"Our dreaming body has many uses. It can move in no time to whatever place you want and discover things.

"It can even be materialized; creating a visual double; something that other people can see whether they are sleeping or awake.

"However, it continues being a mere appearance. It does not have any bodily functions.

"A human being may see it as person, but an animal would see it differently."

I interrupted Carlos, asking, "How do you know all that?"

Carlos said, "It is so simple. I verify it constantly because my dreaming double receives all my attention.

"When I want to know something from my dreaming double, or about the world where it moves, I ask it and it tells me.

"You can also do it. It is not that difficult. You can contact your energy this very night as soon as you fall asleep."

I asked, "How?"

Carlos said, "There are many ways. For example, look for a mirror in your dreams, lean towards it, and look yourself in the eyes. You will see what a surprise awaits you."

I had read something about the double in Carlos' books, but my prejudices prevented me from approaching that matter with an open mind.

In my mind, there was a great confusion about concepts like our 'energy body', our 'dreaming double', and concepts like the 'luminous egg'-- an energetic field that surrounds living beings. I asked Carlos if those things were all the same thing, or if there was some difference between them.

He was surprised by my question, and said, "Have you not understood anything? We are speaking of awareness, not of physical objects. Those entities, even the perceptive unit we call 'the physical body', are descriptions of the same thing, because there are not two of you.

"You are you! It is not that you 'have' an energy body. You are energy.

"You are an assemblage point that assembles emanations. You are only one.

"You can have various dreams and you can have a different appearance in each one.

"You can be either human, animal, or inorganic. Or you can even dream that you are several people at the same time.

"But you can not fragment your being aware."

Carlos told me that my confusing our 'sense of being' and the various descriptions of our vehicles of awareness is common.

This is particularly true for people who have a robust and intellectual internal dialogue.

Carlos said, "Once I went to see an oriental teacher, and our conversation relapsed into dreaming.

"The man called himself an expert, and he boasted to me, 'I have seven dreaming bodies!'

"I was overwhelmed by this revelation, and I did not know what to answer. I finally admitted to him, 'Don Juan only taught me one.'"

When Carlos said this, he pulled his head down between his shoulders as if he was very shy, but was hiding a cynical giggle.

I asked, "So when you speak of the dreaming double and of the energy body, you are talking about the same thing?"

"Practically. The first one can be reached through dreaming and the second by means of stalking.

"Or put in another way, the energy body is the dreaming double with voluntary control on the part of the dreamer.

"But both are one and the same thing. The difference lies in the way one reaches it.

"The ancient sorcerers molded their dreaming by the power of their will, and tried to reproduce the physical body down to the smallest detail.

"My calling it a 'double' stems from that tradition. The idea makes practical sense since we are so accustomed to see ourselves in a certain way and only that way.

"In the beginning, it is very comfortable for the dreamer to consider himself in physical terms.

"But the new seers say that taking this intent toward physicality to its furthest consequences is a useless waste, because it forces us to dedicate huge quantities of attention to details that will never have any practical use.

"Seers have learned to see ourselves as what we really are; bubbles of energetic awareness, like light."

I asked Carlos if, in the classic nagualism of pre-Hispanic people, sorcerers' ability to become animals consisted of trying to see themselves with animal bodies.

He looked at me as if saying, "Elementary!"

He then said, "Dreaming is the deliberate use of the energy body.

"Energy is plastic, and if you apply a constant pressure to it, it will eventually adopt the form you want.

"The double is the nagual; the 'other'; the stamp of nagualism.

"When you control it, you are on the road to become whatever you want; whether that be a beast, or a free being.

"Of course, to achieve something so specialized as becoming an animal can not just be improvised. There are procedures.

"The double is managed through the fixation of the assemblage point in new positions. Such a fixation has an obsessive nature, and it should be evoked with sorcerers' methods.

"For example, if your yearning is to be a hawk, and if you attempt it with inflexibility, you will end up becoming a hawk. Each one of us will achieve what we look for.

"So the trick of the nagual is to manage your obsessions.

"However, you should know that people become blocked if they focus on objectives that are not exclusively those of freedom and sobriety. That takes them to madness, or to the most crass ordinariness.

"Truly, what we are all doing is choosing to be men, and so we are.

"Therefore, any obsession not properly managed means slavery.

"The problem with many naguals of modern Mexico is that they have forgotten the abstract possibilities.

"There are sorcerers who prefer to become turkeys, and they do not come out of that form.

"What is more, many do not have any idea that they can do something more with their energy than pursue strong sensations, and scare others.

"That decadence of the teachings is what moved seers of Don Juan's lineage to attempt freedom in the most impersonal way possible by abandoning all the capricious positions of the assemblage point which they had inherited from their ancestors.

"The purpose of freedom is absolutely clean and displaces all others. By attempting it, new seers have restored the purity of nagualism."

I asked Carlos about the enormous effort which is undoubtedly required in order to prepare a double in the environment of dreaming.

He answered, "For the new sorcerer seers, that effort is the other option.

"That is the door to another realm of awareness; an awareness which will allow them, at the proper moment, to intend their definitive step into the third attention.

"By providing autonomy and purpose to their double, seers are preparing to remain conscious after death.

"When that body is complete and the moment arrives, the seers' awareness abandons the human shell for good. The physical body withers and dies, but the sense of being continues."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 22. Teaching the Art of Stalking.

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Part 2 - Chapter 22. Teaching the Art of Stalking.

Little by little, Carlos' stories had their effect on me.

One day I sat down to seriously consider the amount of effort I invested in sustaining my self-importance.

I did not examine my self-importance in its usual coarse, and common forms like self-sufficiency, or whining for attention.

I reviewed my self-importance in the more subtle aspects linked to fundamental ideas that I had about the world.

However, these reflections did not bring me any certainty.

On the contrary, I began to notice how the enormity of the ideological framework in which I lived, and which I had always taken for granted, trembled.

When I told Carlos this, he saw it as something quite natural.

He said, "You are learning how to stalk yourself. It is what you might have done ever since you learned to use your reason."

I already had read about the art of stalking. Stalking is a hunting strategy which consists of using your prey's own habits and routines to catch it.

We can apply this strategy to our ordinary life; for example, to our business.

But we can also project stalking strategies against our internal demons, like doubt, laziness, and self-indulgence.

Carlos and I had some free time before his lecture, so I took advantage of that opportunity to ask him to tell me more about stalking.

To my complete astonishment, he told me that he could not do it as long as I was not committed to the teachings to the point of death.

I asked him, "Why?"

Carlos replied, "Because you would wind up turning against me.

"Learning about dreaming does not offend you. The worst you can do is not believe that such a thing is possible.

"On the other hand, stalking the way sorcerers practice it is very offensive to reason. Many warriors avoid speaking about it, because they do not have the stomach for it.

"In the initial phase, the apprentice is under a crossfire and is very frustrated, and is not able to let go of ego.

"Like a coin, stalking has two faces.

"On the one hand, it is the easiest thing in the world.

"On the other hand, it is a very difficult technique; and not because it is complex, but because it deals with aspects of oneself that people usually do not want to deal with.

"Dreaming moves you deeply, but bounces you like a rubber ball.

"Stalking induces minuscule, but very solid movements of the assemblage point, but you can immediately return to what you first were.

"So when you look around, you can see everything the same way as you always did, and so you might continue to use your everyday approach to things.

"If, however, in that stalking situation you were forced to make some change by your instructor, I will bet you anything that you would leave offended, or wounded in your pride. You would quit the teaching."

I asked Carlos how, then, sorcerers taught this art.

He answered that, traditionally, it is left until the end, and it is taught in a state of heightened awareness.

Carlos explained, "Stalking is not something that is openly talked about. You must read between the lines.

"The stalking part of my knowledge belonged to the teachings for my left side. Therefore, it took me many years to even remember what stalking is all about; and it took me many more years before I could consciously practice stalking.

"On the level where you are now, the only thing that allows you to handle stalking is to approach it with dreaming methods.

"If at any point you should feel that I am touching on topics that are too personal, or you have an attack of suspicion, then look at your hands, or use any other reminder you have chosen.

"Dreaming attention will help you break your fixation."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 23. The Mark Of The Nagual.

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Part 2 - Chapter 23. The Mark Of The Nagual.

In spite of Carlos' reticence, on another occasion he accepted answering my questions on the topic of stalking as long as we kept to theoretical considerations.

Taking advantage of his goodwill, I asked him to explain the practical uses of the art of stalking.

Carlos explained, "Stalking is the central activity of an energy tracker.

"Although stalking can be applied with astonishing results to our dealings with people, it is designed mainly to tune the practitioner's attention.

"Manipulating and controlling others is an arduous task, but it is incomparably more difficult to control ourselves.

"For that reason, stalking is the technique that distinguishes the nagual.

"Stalking can be defined as the ability to fix the assemblage point in new positions.

"The warrior who is stalking is a hunter, but as opposed to an ordinary hunter who has his mind set on material interests, the warrior pursues a bigger prey; his self-importance.

"That in turn prepares him to face the challenge of dealing with his fellow men-- something that dreaming by itself cannot resolve.

"Sorcerers who do not learn how to stalk turn into grumpy people."

I asked Carlos, "Why?"

He said, "Because they do not have the patience to tolerate people's stupidity.

"Stalking is natural to us due to a characteristic of our animal heritage. To survive we have all developed habits of behavior which mold our energy and help us adapt.

"By studying those routines, an attentive observer can accurately predict the behavior of a animal or a human being at any given moment.

"Warriors know that any habit is an addiction.

"The addition of habits can tie you to the consumption of drugs, or to going to church every Sunday. The difference between those two outcomes is in their forms, and not in their essence.

"In the same way, when we get used to thinking that the world is reasonable, or that the things we believe in are the only reality, we are victims of a habit which clouds our senses, and makes us see only what is familiar to us.

"Routines are templates of behavior that we mechanically follow even when they do not make sense anymore.

"To be a stalker you must free yourself from these imperatives of survival.

"Because a warrior is the owner of his decisions, a warrior stalker is a person who has banished from his life all vestiges of addiction.

"You only have to recover your energetic integrity to be free.

"And since a warrior has freedom of choice, he or she can be involved in calculated forms of behavior whether dealing with people or with other conscious entities.

"Because warriors study the behaviors of others, their resulting conscious maneuvers are no longer a routine participation. It is called stalking."

I asked Carlos, "What is the sense of all this?"

He answered, "From your point of view, it makes no sense.

"Freedom does not obey reasons. It is because freedom exposes the myth of immortality that when you break your routines your entire being shakes."

Pointing at the people returning from work, Carlos told me, "What do you believe they had gone out to do?

"These people went out to live their last day!

"The sad thing is that probably very few of them know it.

"Every day is unique, and the world is not the way everyone has told us it is.

"To cancel the force of habit is a decision that you make once and for all. Starting from that act, a warrior becomes a stalker."

I asked Carlos, "And could it not happen that the warrior may end up making of his purpose something ordinary?"

He responded, "No. And that is something that you have to understand because otherwise your search for impeccability will lose its freshness, and you will end up betraying it.

"To break routines is not the purpose of the path. That is only one of its means.

"The goal is to be aware. Keeping that in mind, another definition of stalking is 'an unbending attention on a total result'.

"That kind of attention applied to hunting an animal results in a prize.

"If we apply unbending attention to another person, it produces a client, a pupil, or a romantic relationship.

"And applied to an inorganic being, stalking attention provides what sorcerers call 'an ally'.

"But only if we apply stalking to ourselves can it be considered a Toltec art. Then it produces something precious. Awareness."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 24. Stalking The Petty Tyrant.

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Part 2 - Chapter 24 - Stalking The Petty Tyrant.

In spite of Carlos' explanations, the practical aspect of stalking continued to be, from my point of view, one of the darkest themes in his teachings.

Over the years I accomplished some of the other exercises like recapitulation and inner silence. I even dreamt.

But when I tried stalking, I only got ambiguous results, or wound up feeling ridiculous.

Apparently, Carlos was aware of my efforts, because at one point he called me, and told me, "Do not get complicated. You are making a caricature of the teachings.

"If you want to stalk, observe yourself.

"We are all excellent hunters. Stalking is our natural gift. When hunger presses us, we sharpen ourselves.

"Children cry and achieve what they want. Women entrap men, and men get even with each other by swindling in business.

"Stalking is to be able to get away with what you want.

"If you become aware of the world you live in, you will understand that simply staying attentive to it is a kind of stalking.

"Since we learned to stalk long before our capacity to discriminate was developed, we feel it as something perfectly natural and we hardly ever question it. So all our actions, even the most altruistic, are imbued with the hunter's spirit.

"Ordinary man does not know he is stalking, because his character has been subjugated by socialization. Man is convinced that his existence is important, so his actions are at the service of his self-importance, and not the expansion of his awareness."

Carlos added that one of the characteristics of self-importance is that it betrays us.

He said, "Important people do not flow. They give themselves airs, and show off their attributes.

"They lack the necessary grace and the speed to hide, because their luminosity is too rigid.

"They can only achieve flexibility when they no longer have anything to defend.

"The stalking method of sorcerers consists of focusing on the reality we live in, but in a new way. Rather than just accumulating information, what sorcerers seek is to compact their energy.

Carlos said, "A warrior is someone who has learned to stalk himself, and is no longer burdened with a heavy image to present to others. Nobody can detect him if he does not want them to because he does not have attachments.

"A warrior is above the hunter because he has learned to laugh at himself."

Carlos told me how his instructor dona Florinda Matus taught him to be in-conspicuous.

Carlos told me, "Just at the time when my books transformed me into a rich man, Florinda sent me to fry hamburgers in a highway restaurant. For years I worked with my money in plain sight, but without being able to spend it. She said that would teach me not to lose the appropriate perspective. And I learned my lesson.

"Some time after that, I was given another opportunity to be invisible.

"I had taken some cactuses to the house of a friend and began to plant them. Suddenly, two reporters from The Times, who had spent a long time trying to find me, appeared. They figured I was a peon and asked for the owner of the house. and I pointed at the door and told them, 'Knock there.' My friend answered their questions, saying, 'No, I have not seen him', and the reporters left wondering where the hell Castaneda could be."

Carlos went on saying that since the problem of self-importance is a personal matter, each warrior should adapt the teachings to his own conditions.

Therefore, the stalking techniques are extremely flexible. But the training is the same for everyone in that it concerns getting rid of superfluous routines, and in acquiring enough discipline to recognize the signs of intent.

Both achievements constitute true feats of character.

Carlos said, "The best way of acquiring that degree of discipline is to deal actively with a petty tyrant."

In response to my queries, Carlos explained that a petty tyrant is somebody who makes our life impossible.

In past times, this kind of people could hurt us physically or even kill us. Nowadays, that kind of petty tyrants practically do not exist.

However, due to the high level of importance that we grant ourselves, anyone in a position of bothering us works as a petty tyrant. And far from avoiding it, we should face, not the petty tyrant, but our own stupidity.

Carlos said, "The petty tyrant is necessary because most of us are too lazy to change by ourselves. A petty tyrant moves the fixation of 'me', and makes our weaknesses appear. A petty tyrant makes us see the truth that we are not important, and the tyrant is willing to demonstrate it with actions.

"Learning how to deal with the petty tyrant is the only really effective way to refine stalking.

"A petty tyrant is so important for that task that it can become an obsession for an apprentice to look for one and get in touch with one.

"A sincere gratitude is the only appropriate feeling for a warrior who has found a petty tyrant to fit his measure.

"Petty tyrants are plentiful. What is not plentiful is the guts to look for them, or to establish a connection with them by means of stalking; or the guts to incite their anger, and put oneself within their reach while at the same time scheming devastating strategies.

"Instead, we spend our lives running away from situations that produce pain, irritation, fear, or confusion. In that way, we lose one of the most valuable tools that spirit has put in our path."

I asked, "What is the strategy to confront that kind of enemies?"

Carlos replied, "Above all, do not see them as enemies. They are involuntary allies in your cause.

"Do not lose sight of the fact that the battle is not fought for the ego, but for energy.

"The important thing is that you win, not that the other one loses. A petty tyrant does not know that, and that is his or her weakness.

"Although I was never given an encounter of the exquisite quality that my teacher don Juan had with a petty tyrant, I did have the privilege of dealing with several of this kinds of persons."

Carlos told me that when his apprenticeship began, his main impediment to approaching the art of stalking was impatience. To help him, Don Juan once demanded that he establish a friendship with a certain person who lived in an old age home.

Carlos said, "When I met this man he turned out to be an annoying old man who was in the habit of telling everyone how in his youth, in the 1920s, he had been witness to a spectacular event.

"He had been sitting in an Italian coffee shop. Suddenly, a car stopped in front of the door, and out of the car came several people armed with machine guns. They began to shoot towards the establishment. But thanks to his lucky star, my old friend hid under some tables and was unhurt.

"The anecdote apparently constituted the only treasure in this old man's life.

"Unfortunately for us who knew him, the old man suffered from amnesia and was always forgetting whom he had told it to. I had to suffer through it again and again for years. Every time I arrived at the retirement home, he would invariably cling to my arm and wonder aloud, 'Did I ever tell you how I was attacked by some gangsters?'

"I felt pity for him because somehow he made me think of my own uncertain future. But towards the end, I had enough. I returned to Don Juan and told him, 'I can not stand this old man anymore. He is really infuriating. What is the point of making me visit him?'

"But Don Juan was inflexible. He ordered that, starting from that day, I had to go visit the old man every day, or give up my apprenticeship.

"Alarmed by this threat, I gathered all my patience and continued the task.

"Sometimes I fantasized, thinking of the possibility that the old man was not the person he seemed to be. That gave me encouragement to continue with my task.

"One day, when I arrived at the retirement home, and I asked for my friend, they informed me that he had died."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 25. Perceptual Homogenization.

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Part 2 - Chapter 25. Perceptual Homogenization.

One afternoon Carlos was talking to a group of us about the characteristics of perception. He told us that human beings have inherited from the dinosaurs the trait of seeing the sky as a blue color. On the other hand, Carlos claimed that our relatives, the primates, see the sky as a yellow color.

Answering a question from someone, Carlos described the world in which we live as 'a conglomeration of interpretation units.'

Understanding that this definition was an obscure one for his listeners, Carlos explained, saying, "Man belongs to the primate group . His great fortune though is that he can achieve unique expressions of awareness due to his capacity for attention and analysis.

"However, pure perception is always interfered with by the way we interpret, and our reality molds itself to our description.

"The goal of sorcerers is to perceive all that is humanly possible. Since we can not escape our biological condition, let us be sublime monkeys.

"To perfect our understanding, the path of attention is all we have got."

That same night I had an opportunity to talk with Carlos, and I asked him to break his statements into smaller pieces for me.

He said, "Due to our biological condition, we all work as units of perception, and it is possible for us to make a miracle of attention; 'perceptual homogenization'."

I asked, "What does 'units of perception' mean?"

Carlos answered, "It means that, since we are autonomous beings, our perception could also be autonomous.

"But it is not because by coming to an agreement with our fellow men, we all perceive the same thing. That extraordinary ability, which began as a voluntary consent aimed at survival, has ended up tying us to our own descriptions."

Carlos affirmed that the flow of the Eagle's emanations is continually new and disconcerting, but we do not see it.

He said, "We live three steps removed from the real world because of our innate sensitivity, our biological interpretations, and our social agreement.

"Those steps do not happen simultaneously, but their speed is superior to anything we can consciously determine. Because of that, we simply take for a fact the world we perceive."

I asked Carlos to to give me an example.

He answered, "Imagine that at this moment you witness a group of the Eagle's emanations.

"Automatically, you transform it into something sensorial with characteristics like brightness, sound, movement, etc. Then memory intervenes, and since it is under the obligation to give everything meaning, you recognize what you are witnessing, as for example, another person.

"Lastly, your social inventory classifies that person by comparing the person with all of those you know, and that classification allows you to identify that person.

"By then you are a good distance away from the real fact of the Eagle's emanations which are both indescribable, as well as unique.

"The same thing happens with everything we see.

"Our comprehension is the result of a long process of purifications, or 'skimmings', as Don Juan called them. We skim everything, and in that way we modify the world that surrounds us to such an extent that there is very little left of the original.

"Although this situation helps us to live under better conditions, it also enslaves us to our own creation, and makes us predictable.

"When we homogenize our assemblage points, the only things we allow ourselves to perceive are those which do not go against our preconceived idea of the world.

"We are like horses who after learning a path can no longer enjoy their freedom. All they do is to repeat a pattern.

"That homogeneity is frightful. It is too much. Start thinking! Something is missing!"

Carlos maintained that any preconceived idea, even something as simple as the names we give things, keeps us tied to reason because it forces us to create mechanisms of judgement.

He said, "For example, when you say: 'I believe in God', in fact you are saying, 'They told me certain ideas and I have chosen to adopt them. Now I will even kill for them'.

"Therefore, you are not the one who decides. It is something else; an implanted judgement.

"The ideal thing is that you determine your life starting from your own experience.

"If your belief takes something away from you, beware. Everything that does not make you free enslaves you.

"Being focused on a particular aspect of the human inventory has two effects. It turns us into specialists in our field, but, at the same time, it will fossilize our energy conduits which then learn only to react to certain stimuli; saturating our self with ideas and opinions.

"A warrior can not have the luxury of following people's ways, nor can he or she be simply reactionary.

"Freedom means to exercise other alternatives."

I asked Carlos which alternatives he meant, but he gave me a pat on the shoulder. He said it was getting late, but that we would continue our conversation another day.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 26. Predators Of Awareness.

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Part 2 - Chapter 26. Predators Of Awareness.

My conversations with Carlos were not resumed until several years had passed.

On that occasion at one of his informal meetings, Carlos brought up an entirely new and frightening concept which gave rise to the group's most passionate controversies.

He said, "Man is a magical being. He has the same capacity to fly into the universe as any one of the millions of awarenesses that exist.

"But, at some point in his history, he lost his freedom. Now his mind is no longer his own. It is an implant."

Carlos claimed that human beings are hostages to a group of cosmic entities who are devoted predators, and whom sorcerers call 'flyers'.

He said this had been a very secret topic among the ancient seers, but due to an omen, he had realized that the time had come to disclose it.

The omen was a picture taken by his friend Tony; a Christian Buddhist. In it appeared the sharply outlined figure of a dark and ominous creature floating above a multitude of the faithful gathered among the pyramids of Teotihuacan.

Carlos said, "My cohorts and I decided that it is time to let reveal our true situation as social beings; even at the cost of all the distrust that this information may generate in the public."

When I had the opportunity, I asked Carlos to tell me more about the flyers, and he told me one of the most terrifying aspects of Don Juan's world.

He said that we are prisoners of beings who came from the confines of the universe, and that they use us as casually as we use chickens.

He explained, saying, "The portion of the universe accessible to us is within the operative field of two radically different kinds of awareness.

"One type of awareness, which includes plants and animals, and also human beings, is a whitish awareness. It is young and a generator of energy.

"The other awareness is an infinitely older and more parasitic awareness, and is the possessor of an immense quantity of knowledge.

"Besides men and other organic beings that inhabit this Earth, there is in our universe an immense range of inorganic entities.

"They are present among us, and occasionally they are visible. We call them ghosts or apparitions.

"One of those species, which seers describe as enormous, black, flying shapes, arrived here at some point from the depths of cosmos, and found an oasis of awareness in our world.

"They have specialized in 'milking us'."

I exclaimed, "That is incredible!"

Carlos continued, saying, "I know. But it is the pure and terrifying truth. Have you never wondered about people's energetic and emotional ups and downs?

"It is the predator who shows up periodically to pick up his quota of awareness. They only leave enough so that we may continue living, and sometimes not even that."

I asked, "What do you mean?"

Carlos replied, "Sometimes they take too much, and the person becomes gravely ill, and may even die."

I could not believe what I was hearing.

I asked, "Do you mean we are being eaten alive?"

Carlos smiled, and said, "Well, they do not literally 'eat' us. What they do is a vibratory transfer.

"Awareness is energy and the flyers can align with ours.

"Since by nature the predators are always hungry, and we, on the other hand, exude light, the result of that alignment can be described as energy robbery."

I asked, "But why do they do it?"

Carlos said, "Because, on the cosmic plane, energy is the most powerful of currencies. We all want it, and we humans are a vital race stuffed with nourishment.

"Every living being eats other beings, and the most powerful always comes out the winner.

"Who said man is at the top of the food chain? That idea could only have come from a human being.

"To inorganic beings, we are the prey."

I commented that it was inconceivable to me that entities that are even more aware than us could be predatory to that extent.

Carlos replied, "But what do you think you are doing when you eat a lettuce or a beefsteak? You are eating life! Your sensibility is hypocritical.

"Cosmic predators are no more and no less cruel than we are. When a stronger race consumes another inferior one, that is helping the stronger one's energy evolve.

"I have already told you that in the universe there is only war. The confrontations of men are a reflection of what happens out there.

"It is normal for one species to try to consume another. A warrior does not complain about that, and tries to survive."

I asked, "And how do they consume us?"

Carlos answered, "Through our emotions that are constantly directed by our internal dialogue.

"The flyers have designed our social environment in such a way that we are constantly shooting off waves of emotions which are immediately absorbed.

"Best of all, they like our attacks of ego. For them, that is an exquisite mouthful. Such emotions are the same anywhere in the universe where they occur, and the predators have learned how to metabolize them.

"Some consume us for our lust, anger, or fear. Others prefer more delicate feelings, like love or fondness.

"But these emotions are, all after, the same thing.

"Normally they attack us around the area of the head, heart, or stomach, where we store the thickest part of our energy."

I asked Carlos, "Do they attack animals, too?"

He said, "These creatures use everything that is available, but they prefer organized awareness. They drain animals and plants in the part of their attention that is not too fixed.

"They can even attack other inorganic beings, but when they can see them, they generally avoid them; like we avoid mosquitoes.

"The only beings who are completely trapped by the flyers are human beings."

I asked, "How is it possible that all this is happening without us realizing it?"

Carlos answered, "Because we inherit the exchange with those beings almost like a genetic condition, and it feels natural to us.

"When someone is born, the mother offers the child like food without realizing it because her mind is also controlled.

"Baptizing the child is like signing an agreement.

"Starting from there, she devotes herself to install acceptable behavior patterns. She tames the child, reduces its warring side, and transforms it into a meek sheep.

"When a boy has sufficient energy to reject that imposition, but not enough to enter the path of the warrior, he becomes a rebel, or socially maladjusted.

"The flyers' advantage stems from the difference between our levels of awareness. They are very powerful and vast entities. The idea that we have of them is equivalent to the one an ant will have of us.

"However, their presence is painful and you can measure it in various ways as, for example, when they provoke us into attacks of rationality or distrust, or when we are tempted to violate our own decisions.

"Lunatics can detect them very easily-- too easily, I would say-- since they feel physically how these beings settle on their shoulders and generate paranoia.

"Suicide is the stamp of flyers, because the flyers' mind is potentially homicidal."

I asked Carlos, "You say that it is an exchange, but what do we gain from such plunder?"

He said, "In exchange for our energy, the flyers have given us our mind, our attachments, and our ego.

"For them, we are not their slaves, but a kind of salaried workers. They bestowed these privileges on a primitive race and gave us the gift of thinking, which made us evolve.

"Indeed, they have civilized us. If not for them, we would still be hiding in caves or making nests on treetops.

"The flyers control us through our traditions and customs. They are the masters of religion, the creators of history.

"We hear their voice on the radio, and we read their ideas in the newspapers. They manage all our means of information, and our belief systems.

"Their strategy is magnificent. For example, if there was an honest man who spoke of love and freedom, they have transformed it into self-pity and servility.

"They do it with everyone; even with naguals. For that reason, the work of a sorcerer is solitary.

"For millennia, flyers have concocted plans to collectivize us. There was a time when they became so shameless that they were even seen in public, and people made representations of them in stone.

"Those were dark times when they were everywhere.

"But now their strategy has become so intelligent that we do not even know they exist.

"In the past, they hooked us through our credulity, and today, through our materialism.

"They are responsible for modern man's ambition not to have to think for himself.

"And just observe how long somebody will tolerate silence."

I asked, "Why the change in their strategy?"

Carlos said, "Because, at this time, they are running a great risk. Humanity is in very quick and in constant contact, and information can reach anyone. Either they must fill our heads, bombarding us day and night with all kind of suggestions, or there will be some who will realize and warn the others."

I asked, "What would happen if we were able to repel those entities?"

Carlos answered, "In one week, we would recover our vitality and we would be shining again.

"But, as normal human beings we cannot think about that possibility because it would imply our going against all that is socially acceptable.

"Fortunately though, sorcerers have one weapon; discipline.

"A sorcerer's encounters with inorganic beings happens gradually. In the beginning, we do not notice them.

"But an apprentice begins to see them in his dreams and then while he is awake. That is something that can drive him crazy if he does not learn how to act as a warrior. Once he understands, he can confront them.

"Sorcerers manipulate the foreign installation in their minds, and turn into energy hunters. It is for that purpose my cohorts and I have designed Tensegrity exercises for the masses.

"They have the virtue of liberating us from the flyer's mind.

"In this sense, sorcerers are opportunists. They take advantage of the push they have been given and say to their captors, 'Thanks for everything. See you later. The agreement you made was with my ancestors, and not with me'.

"When recapitulating their lives, warriors are literally snatching the food out of the flyer's mouth. It is like going to the store and returning a product to the shopkeeper, demanding your money back.

"The inorganic beings do not like it, but they can not do anything about it.

"Our advantage is that we are dispensable. There is a lot of food around!

"A warrior's position of total alertness, which is nothing but discipline, creates conditions in our attention such that we do not taste good any more to those beings. In that case, they turn away and leave us in peace."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 27. Losing the Mind.

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Part 2 - Chapter 27. Losing the Mind.

In another of our conversations, Carlos said that our 'reason' is a byproduct of the foreign mind, and that we should not trust it.

For someone with my mental make-up, this was very difficult to accept.

When I asked him about this, he explained that what sorcerers reject is not the capacity of reason to reach conclusions, but the way it is imposed on our life as if it is the only alternative.

Carlos said, "Rationality makes us feel like a solid block, and we begin to grant the greatest importance to concepts like 'reality'. When we face unusual situations, like those which assault the sorcerer, we tell ourselves, 'This is not reasonable', and then it seems we have said everything there is to say.

"The world of our mind is dictatorial, but fragile. After years of the continuous use of reason, the self becomes so heavy that for a warrior it is just common sense to give it a rest in order to continue ahead.

"A warrior fights to break the description of the world which has been injected into him in order to open up a space for new things.

"His war is against the self. For that purpose, he tries to be permanently aware of his potential.

"Since the content of perception depends on the position of the assemblage point, a warrior tries with all his might to loosen the fixation of that point.

"Instead of creating a cult out of his speculations, he pays attention to certain premises of the path of sorcerers.

"Those premises say that, in the first place, only a high level of energy can enable one to deal adequately with the world.

"And secondly, rationality is a consequence of the fixation of the assemblage point in the position of reason, and that point moves when we achieve internal silence.

"Thirdly, in our luminous field there are other positions every bit as pragmatic as rationality.

"Fourth, when we achieve a point of view which includes reason as well as its twin center, silent knowledge, concepts like truth and lies stop being operative, and it becomes patently clear that man's true dilemma is to have energy, or not to have it.

"Sorcerers reason in a different way than ordinary people. For them, to anchor attention is insanity, and to make it flow is common sense.

"They call the fixing of the assemblage point in non-habitual areas 'seeing '.

"Although staying sane is imperative, they have found out that rationality is not always sane.

"To stay sane is a voluntary act, while being reasonable is just to fix our attention on an area of collective consent."

I asked, "Are sorcerers, then, opposed to reason?"

Carlos responded, "I have already told you that they are opposed to reason's dictatorship.

"They know the center of reason can take us very far. Absolute reason is merciless, and it does not stop halfway.

"That is why people are afraid of it.

"When we are able to focus on absolute reason with inflexibility, it generates an obligation to be impeccable; because being otherwise is not reasonable.

"To do things with impeccability is to do all that is humanly possible, and a little more. Therefore, pure reason can also take you to a movement of the assemblage point.

"To act within the precepts of the warrior's path, you need clarity of purpose, the courage to take on the task, and an unbending intent.

"If you look around, you will see that most people 'of reason' are not in fact located in that center, but on its periphery."

I asked, "Why?"

Carlos explained, "Because they lack energy. Their holes prevent them from having any objectivity. Their attention always fluctuates, and because of that their perception is hybrid. It is ambiguous.

"They drift like a rudderless boat in the current at the mercy of their emotions, and without a clear view of either shore-- the bank of pure reasoning on one side, and the bank of the abstract on the other.

"What is required of a modern warrior is a condition of sustained energy gain until his attention can flow between reason and silent knowledge.

"When moving in that way, he is more sane than ever, and yet he is not a rational being. From whichever position he assumes, he will always be sighting the other side, and his vision acquires perspective and depth.

"Sorcerers describe this condition as 'being double' or 'losing the mind'.

"We can arrive at silent knowledge in exactly the same way as our teachers had taught us to arrive at reason; by induction.

"It is like controlling both sides of a bridge. From one side, you can see reason like a net of agreements which transforms collective interpretations into common sense through the customs of concern.

"From the other side, you can sense silent knowledge as an unfathomable, creative darkness which extends beyond the threshold of non-pity.

"Upon crossing the threshold of silent knowledge, the ancient sorcerers arrived at the source of pure understanding.

"To be double is to make a connection with oneself; to flow between two points.

"It is something practically indescribable, but an apprentice experiences it as soon as he saves enough energy.

"Starting from there, he learns how to deal with reason like a free being, neither reverent nor abject. He acquires what Don Juan called 'intensity'; that is, the capacity to store information in a perceptual block."

I found the concept of 'intensity' totally obscure. I asked him to explain it further.

He answered that perception is composed of content and intensity. Extreme situations, like a sharp awareness of danger, proximity of death, or the effect of power plants, generate great intensity. A sorcerer learns how to store those experiences in positions of the assemblage point.

Carlos added that what is proposed by 'the way of knowledge' is a change of values in how we understand our social interaction as a species. We pull our energy out from everyday life and concentrate it on situations which require an intensive way of living.

"The way of knowledge is about returning man to marvel, to power, and to what he has dreamt about. It reconnects him with astonishment and the capacity to create.

"That rupture is the only thing which can liberate our luminosity from our perceptual uniformity."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 28. Movements of the Assemblage Point.

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Part 2 - Chapter 28. Movements of the Assemblage Point.

On one occasion, Carlos was talking to a small group of friends, and he explained that another effect of the movement of the assemblage point is that the things we perceive acquire new forms.

The clarity of appearances gives way to a deeper and more essential clarity, and living beings adopt the form of enormous, round fields of light.

Carlos said that the luminous configuration of a man or woman is a portrait of their existence.

Seers look at each detail, and in that way they determine whether a person is prepared for apprenticeship or not.

Carlos said, "Most people mistreat their tonal. In consequence, their fibers fall like the pleats of an old curtain.

"Those 'tired' fibers work as a kind of glue, blocking the natural course of energy.

"Don Juan called these individuals 'tonal bells' because they are shaped like bells.

"They are dark and give the impression of a heavy weight. When moving, those fields slither, or give brief jumps as if they are dragging something; or as if the person has put on a bear suit too big for him.

"In warriors, on the other hand, the energetic pleats have tension. Their cocoons are almost spherical and they overflow with vigor.

"The lower part is compact like a solid rubber ball and it bounces; lifting off from the ground. When warriors advance, their globes do not slither sorely, but rather jump with joy and sometimes drift across the planes over long distances.

"Don Juan called them precisely that, 'the planers', and said it was a pleasure to bump into one of them on the street.

"But only seers are able to redesign their luminosity in such a way that they can take completely off from the Earth, and fly.

"Those seers are able to break their limits which is perceived as if they have ruptured the skin which had imprisoned their energy exposing the radiant central core.

"They are traveling sorcerers and they do not depend anymore on their physical body to be aware or to act.

"The task of an apprentice is to re-center his energy body through acts of impeccability, and force that lead to the movement of the assemblage point.

"Above all, an apprentice should achieve mobility for his energy, and make it flow in a natural way. Then his fibers stretch out and begin to shine with an amber shade.

"Perception takes place in a point of intense white light that is generally rigidly fixed inside a very specific area, which sorcerers call 'the human band'.

"That point aligns emanations we receive from the outside with those which are found inside our luminous field, similar to the way an antenna picks up radio waves and transforms them into sound."

To our surprise, Carlos assured us that to see that point is a relatively simple matter which happens in the early stages of adopting the warrior's path.

He said, "To see the assemblage point, it is sufficient to suggest to one's self in an appropriate way.

"An apprentice should never say, 'I am useless. I do not see anything'. Rather, say the opposite, 'I might see it. Yes. There it is.'

"If we repeat our intent to see it over and over, sooner or later the assemblage point will enter into our perceptive field, and that is the first step towards moving it deliberately."

One person in the group asked Carlos how we could witness our own perception.

He explained that since we have no way of perceiving anything if it does not pass through the assemblage point, the only way of understanding this matter is to say that the point perceives itself.

Whatever we see is the result of the assemblage point's operation. Because of that, we have the sensation of a flame burning where our emanations join with those from the outside.

Carlos said that we might equally well describe the phenomenon in auditory terms, or as an electric crack that signals alignment.

He continued, saying, "The important thing is to verify it for yourselves, because that will put you beyond the mind. It will fill you with silent knowledge. The mere act of seeing the assemblage point has an impact which moves the fixation of it."

Carlos explained that an experienced sorcerer is able to displace his attention very far from the human band. This enlarges the reach of his perception considerably.

He said, "Some sorcerers go on a trip to the realm of the inorganic beings. That alignment is very gratifying for his energy, and the traveler returns home renewed.

"Others have an inclination to go to the lower area; the area of the beast; the most sordid corner of awareness. For human beings, that is a dangerous place, because to remain there for a long period can produce physical lesions."

Someone asked Carlos where the self stays while the assemblage point moves to the low area.

He answered, "It seems you are thinking that the assemblage point fits inside your inventory of reasonable things, but that is not the case.

"Do not see it as a solid object or as another part of your body. We do not have an assemblage point. We are it.

"While a warrior is imprisoned within the limits of the human form, the furthest place he can transfer his assemblage point is to an area of interpretive vacuum, which new seers call 'limbo'.

"That is a real space on the frontier of the other world; a transition area on the periphery of the other attention.

"These movements accumulate and serve to condense our personal power until they finally crystallize in a kind of luminous matrix that Don Juan called 'the dreaming positions'.

"Through exploration of those positions, the individual experience of a sorcerer leaves the human groove and becomes practically limitless.

"The movement of the assemblage point is not just propelled by an interest in accessing astonishing visions, but is above all directed by the fact that each controlled displacement liberates enormous quantities of energy.

"Ideally, the warrior applies his unbending intent and lights up his energy field as if he becomes one gigantic assemblage point intending to witness everything once and for all.

"In that case, the point shoots out and up. The traveler becomes a blast of light, and he never recovers his form again. This is the greatest challenge; the union of our awareness with infinity."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 29. Survival of the Assemblage Point.

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Part 2 - Chapter 29. Survival of the Assemblage Point.

Although Carlos frequently mentioned the topic of death, he avoided talking about what happens after a person dies.

On one occasion it seemed like a good opportunity to investigate his opinion on it.

I asked him, "Carlos. What happens to us when we die?"

He answered, "It depends. Death touches us all, but it is not the same for everyone. Everything depends on one's energy level."

He assured me that the death of an ordinary person is the end of his journey; the moment when he has to return to the Eagle all the awareness he obtained while alive.

Carlos said, "If we do not have anything else than our life force to offer it, we will be finished. That kind of death erases any feeling of unity."

I asked him if that was his particular opinion, or part of the traditional knowledge of seers.

He answered, "It is not an opinion. I have been on the other side and I know.

"I have seen children and adults wandering over there and I have observed their efforts to remember themselves.

"For those who dissipated their energy in life, death is like a fleeting dream filled with bubbles of steadily fading memories, and then nothing."

I asked, "Do you mean that when we dream, we approach the state of the dead?"

Carlos answered, "We do not just approach it, we are there. But since the vitality of our body remains intact, we can return.

"To die is literally a dream.

"You see, when ordinary persons dream, they are not able to focus their attention on anything.

"They do not have anything but their fragmented memories fed by the experiences they have accumulated in the course of their lives.

"When ordinary people die, the difference is that their dream lengthens and they do not wake up again. It is the dream of death.

"The journey of death can take them to a virtual world of appearances, where they will contemplate the materialization of their beliefs, of their heavens and private hells; but nothing else.

"Such visions start disappearing in time as the impulses of memory wear out."

I asked, "And what happens to the souls of those who die?"

Carlos said, "The soul does not exist. What exists is energy.

"Once the physical body disappears, the only thing left is an energy entity fed by memory.

"Some individuals are so oblivious of themselves that they die almost without realizing it.

"People who die with a blockage of their assemblage point are like people with amnesia. They can no longer align memories because they do not have any continuity.

"As such, while they live they feel permanently on the brink of oblivion. Then when they die, those people disintegrate almost instantaneously. The impulse of their lives only lasts for a few years at the most.

"However, most people take a little longer disintegrating, between one hundred and two hundred years. The ones who had lives full of meaning can resist for half a millennium. The range expands even more for those who were able to create bonds with masses of people. They can retain their awareness during entire millennia."

I asked, "How do they achieve that?"

"Through the attention of their followers. Memory creates bonds among live beings and those who have left life. That is how they stay aware. And that is why cults of historical personalities are so pernicious.

"However, that was the intent of those who in the past were mummified. To preserve their name in history.

"Ironically, it is the greatest damage that can be inflicted on energy. If you seriously want to punish a person, bury him in a lead casket. His confusion never ends.

"It does not matter what ordinary people do or how they have lived. They do not have the smallest chance of continuing ahead.

"For sorcerers who live facing eternity, five years or five millennia are nothing.

"That is why they say that death for ordinary people is an instantaneous disintegration."

I wanted to know if dead people can return to contact the living.

Carlos answered, "Relationships among residents of various spheres of awareness can only be made through the alignment of the assemblage point.

"Death is a final perceptive barrier.

"Living people can go to the realm of the dead through dreams, but that is the kind of thing a warrior does not enter into because it only wears away his energy.

"Something very different, on the other hand, is to contact sorcerers who have left."

I asked, "Why?"

Carlos said, "Because you are able to reach your energy double, and to retain your individuality using sorcery techniques."

I asked, "How can we enter into relationships with that kind of awareness?"

He replied, "In dreaming. However, it is very difficult for a sorcerer who has already left to fix his attention on this world unless he or she has some specific task to complete.

"And it is more than difficult for an ordinary man to support that contact.

"Interaction with these beings is gratifying for warriors, but terrifying for the average person.

"An inorganic sorcerer is not a ghost, but rather is an intense source of aware and implacable energy that is able to damage those who recklessly come near that inorganic sorcerer.

"For an ordinary person that kind of contact can be even more dangerous than an exchange with a live sorcerer."

I asked, "What does the danger consist of?"

Carlos said, "It is in the nature of the sorcerers energy. If you believe sorcerers are friendly people, you are mistaken. They are naguals.

"There is a very morbid feature in our constitution that impels all of us to use any means necessary. It is something natural and we can not avoid it.

"That feature is exacerbated in a living sorcerer, and magnified after his or her departure, because there are no longer any inhibitions to counteract it.

"When the sorcerer becomes inorganic, he or she returns to what they always were; a cosmic, predatory emanation."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 30. Cyclical Beings.

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Part 2 - Chapter 30. Cyclical Beings.

Before I met Carlos, I had been influenced by my oriental readings, and I was in favor of the doctrine of reincarnation. It seemed a logical alternative to the Christian belief in the resurrection of the body.

However, in one of our conversations, Carlos observed that the dogmas of Christianity and of the Eastern religions were suspiciously similar because they start from a common denominator; the fear of death.

His comment threw me into a state of perplexity. It was a totally new focus on something that had always fascinated me.

When I asked his opinion, Carlos tried to deviate my interest to another topic; as if it were not worthwhile to speak of that matter. But later he changed tactics, and he told me that all my beliefs about the survival of my personality were the result of social suggestions.

Carlos said, "They have told you that we have time; that there is a second opportunity. Lies.

"Seers affirm that a human being is like a drop of water that separated from the ocean of life and began to shine by itself.

"That shine is the point of assembling perception.

"But, once the luminous cocoon is dissolved, individual awareness disintegrates and becomes cosmic. So how could it return to Earth?

"For sorcerers, each life is unique. But you are hoping to repeat it?

"Your ideas originate in the high opinion you have of your own unity.

"But, like everything else, you are not a solid block. You are flowing.

"Your 'me' is a sum of beliefs; a memory; nothing concrete."

I asked Carlos why religions preach such very different doctrines.

He answered, "It is easy to understand. Those doctrines are answers to the ancestral fears of human beings.

"Each culture generated its own explanatory propositions, but only seers went beyond beliefs, and corroborated for themselves these aspects of the emanations of the Eagle."

Carlos explained that there are energy clusters in the universe to which we are all hooked; like the beads of a rosary are hooked to each other.

He said we are cyclical in that we are the result of a luminous stamp. And every time a new being is born, the child embodies the nature of that pattern.

But the chain that unites us is not of a personal nature. It does not imply transfers of memory or personality, or anything like that.

Carlos said, "To survive death, it is necessary to be a sorcerer. By satisfying the Eagle with a living replica, sorcerers are able to keep the flame of their individual awareness burning for eternities.

"But that is a feat.

"Do you think this greatest achievement of a warrior should be a free gift?"

I commented that recent studies had demonstrated that some people, under very special circumstances, are able to remember events of a past life.

Carlos insisted that it was an erroneous interpretation of facts.

He said, "It is true that anyone can tune in to certain living emanations that took place in other times, and feel that he or she has lived not only one, but many lives. But that is only one alignment among millions of possible alignments."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 31. The Sorcerer's Alternative.

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Part 2 - Chapter 31. The Sorcerer's Alternative.

I asked Carlos if an ordinary person has any chance of surviving death.

He answered that there is always one possibility; the way of the warrior.

He said, "If you want to understand this, do not look at it in black and white.

"See it more in terms of movements of the assemblage point. The challenge of a warrior is to fix his attention, and fight to maintain the awareness of his individuality even after his departure.

"When we reach a certain threshold of perception, we see that physical death is a challenge.

"Just as there are two ways of living, there are two ways of dying. In each we can act as impeccable warriors, or as unconscious idiots. That difference is everything."

I asked, "Do you mean that what happens after death depends on how we prepare for it?"

Carlos, perceiving the intention of my question, answered, "Yes, but not in the way you want to interpret it.

"The idea that being good or complying with certain commandments will facilitate things is a fallacy which has been transmitted to us by the social order.

"The only preparation that is worthwhile is to take on the rigors of the way of the warrior, which teaches us how to save energy and be impeccable.

"Since there are two forms of living and dying, there are also two kinds of people; those who feel immortal, and those who are already dead.

"The first ones harbor hopes, the latter do not.

"A warrior is somebody who knows that his time is already up, but still continues to fight because that is his nature. If you look into his eyes, you will find emptiness."

I asked Carlos, "But then what is the sorcerer's alternative really about?"

Carlos told me, "There is only one way for a man to be ahead of his own end and that is through managing his energy.

"That work consists of dreaming, stalking and recapitulation. These three techniques together give one result; the completion of the energy body.

"In a general sense, the duration of our existence depends in a great measure on how we treat our energy.

"Ordinarily we leave this life filled to the brim with everyday concerns.

"We are eroded by the things we see and touch. For that reason we die.

"But if we call back to ourselves all of that vital force through recapitulation, death can no longer be the same because we will have our totality.

"From the seers' point of view, a warrior who has recapitulated his life does not die.

"His attention is not dispersed, and is so compact that it is one continuous and coherent line.

"So his recapitulation never ends. It continues for eternity because it is the work of retracing his steps of existing on his own and being complete.

"Just like we need a certain quantity of experience to function as individuals, a warrior requires sufficient practice in the second attention to be a true sorcerer seer.

"Otherwise, he will not be prepared when the time comes, and he will depart into infinity as an incomplete sorcerer.

"So, a warrior who struggles all his life to reach the parameters of impeccability does have a second chance.

"He can gather the events of his existence, and he can pick up his scattered energy in order to pass into the world of the nagual."

I asked Carlos what a sorcerer does in that world.

He answered, "For most people, to die is to speechlessly enter something very unfamiliar; much like what we experience in ordinary dreams. In that realm nothing has a linear sequence, and the concepts of time, space, and gravity do not apply.

"Imagine what a warrior with the control of his dreaming double can do on a journey of that nature. No doubt you can see that this is a great feat of awareness.

"A sorcerer is somebody who spends his life tuning himself through arduous discipline. When his time arrives, he faces death like a new stage in his travel along the path. Unlike an ordinary man, he does not try to soothe his fear with false hopes.

"The warrior departs for his definitive journey filled with joy, and his death greets him and allows him to keep his individuality like a trophy.

"His sense of being is so finely tuned that he becomes pure energy, and disappears with the fire from within.

"In that way, he is able to extend his individuality for thousands of millions of years."

I asked, "Thousands of millions?"

Carlos replied, "That is it. We are children of the Earth. It is our ultimate source. The option of sorcerers is to unite with the awareness of the Earth for as long as the Earth will live."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 32. The Final Choice.

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Part 2 - Chapter 32. The Final Choice.

One afternoon, Carlos was limping when he came to a meeting. We asked him what had happened, and he told us that while he was at the hotel, for one fraction of second a toe on his left foot lit up and was scorched with an internal fire.

"I had to move quickly, because my assemblage point had begun the process of alignment!"

Moved by his strange experience, he talked for a long time about the final exercise of sorcerers, by means of which they catch fire from inside and enter pure awareness in their totality, shoes and all.

One of the people in the room asked him why, if the passing into awareness is the final objective of sorcerers, he had fought to retain his individual self today, instead of taking advantage of the opportunity.

With a roguish smile, Carlos told us that the question made him remember one of his ancestors, a Portuguese, who devoted himself to the business of transporting people to Brazil with the story of the promised land. The man made a small fortune that way, and he did a great job creating propaganda about the advantages of Brazil, but he had never been there.

"And here I am, similarly transporting you!"

After we had laughed at his anecdote, Carlos changed the expression on his face. In a very formal tone, he explained that warriors do not act for reasons of self-importance, and therefore, their decisions are not theirs.

"Don Juan told me how some men of knowledge, after a life of impeccable fighting, decide to remain, while others dissolve like a puff of wind into infinity.

"The thing that makes some warriors fight to retain their self is something unrelated to personal concerns. To belong to a lineage of power implies bonds of such a deep nature that our personality is annulled. It becomes just a minuscule detail in an energy structure that the new seers call 'the Rule'.

"Properly speaking, in that situation, individual choice no longer exists for the warrior. All he or she can do is accept their destiny and fulfill the commands of the Rule: Anything else would just lead to his extinction."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 33. The Seers of Ancient Mexico.

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Part 2 - Chapter 33. The Seers of Ancient Mexico.

In the beginning, one of my worries had to do with Carlos' historical sources. To what extent were Don Juan's teachings the product of a tradition of men of knowledge which stretched back thousands of years, and to what extent had they been influenced by Western ideas?

On various occasions, I tried to validate what Carlos told us through comparisons with what has been left to us from pre-Hispanic antiquity, but I must admit that I always ended up frustrated. I wanted to question Carlos it in terms of the most orthodox anthropology. However, it seemed inappropriate to approach this delicate matter in front of people, so I postponed my questions.

One afternoon, I mentioned what was on my mind. He was perfectly affable, and told me that this was a doubt that assaulted almost all his listeners, because we have all been presented with the image of the communities of ancient Mexico as primitive towns.

He added that my mistrust regarding his statements was normal, and that the problem I was presenting in such a straightforward way, was actually about finding definitions for experiences which don't fit within the syntax of modern languages.

Carlos told me, "I made a similar error with my teacher. For don Juan, anything that did not serve the objective of the teachings was a waste of time. Every time I tried to find some relationship between his words and those I had read in history books, he simply stopped speaking and turned away.

"Once I asked don Juan about his reticence and he answered: 'Behind your professional concern hides a professional doubt. If you do not discard it, you won't understand the core of what I am telling you. I know the sources of the information which I am passing on to you, so I do not need to prove them'.

"Later, don Juan spoke about a time in which sorcerers traveled enormous distances across the world in order to share the results of their spiritual search with colleagues on other latitudes. Unlike today, sorcerers moved in dreaming with complete freedom, and nothing was more respected than being a seer.

"The credit for the knowledge those men accumulated can not be awarded to any one country in particular. The knowledge is universal. But the organization of their principles into the arrangement which today is called 'nagualism' or 'the path of the warrior' definitely took place in ancient Mexico.

"Starting from their primary observations, the ancient seers arrived at the most profound understanding of universal truths that man has ever achieved. The power of their attention had so much force that it is still active today, generating potentialities which are affecting certain areas of Mexico and the Southern United States; creating favorable conditions for an energy concentration that you would be hard put to find anywhere else in the world.

"Partly, those sorcerers were helped by a peculiar configuration of the luminous field of the Earth, whose epicenter rotates around the Valley of Mexico. They see that peculiarity as a gigantic funnel or pleat of light, where emanations coming in from the universe fit with those of the planet, producing a heightened level of awareness.

"Don Juan thought that the formation is natural and was used to maximum advantage by the seers to increase their power. But in my analysis of the matter, I have come to the conclusion that it is the other way around: The seers of antiquity fixed their attention on this area of the world, and the planet in its entirety responded to that intent, creating a gigantic catalyst of cosmic emanations. But however we choose to interpret it, the fact remains that this is the center: Anything can happen here!"





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 34. Journey to the Roots.

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Part 2 - Chapter 34. Journey to the Roots.

While Carlos and I were contemplating the ruins of what in the past was the main temple of the Aztecs, Carlos surprised me by making an extravagant declaration. He told me that in this very place, located in the heart of the capital's main square, resided the protector of Mexico, whom he described as an inorganic being in the shape of a tube of light, the size of a twenty-story building.

I looked at him, trying to figure out if he was joking, but his eyes were totally serious. From there, the conversation shifted to a topic of great interest to me: The enigma of pre-Hispanic cultures.

He affirmed that while we nowadays use books to transmit knowledge, the ancient sorcerers kept it in positions of the assemblage point. And they used their sculptures of stone, wood, and ceramics as catalysts for the movement of that point. So their knowledge took the form of magnificent works of art, because for them knowledge was not only information, but, above all, a sublime vision of life.

"The power of that vision has lasted until the present. All the naguals I am aware of were Toltecs; that is, accomplished artists. They combined impeccable control of their emotions with a high aesthetic sensibility provided by their experiments with awareness. The result was their unheard-of capacity to make sense of extreme experiences, and their ability to communicate sensations that would have entangled other men to the point of babbling incoherently.

"Some naguals of my lineage were attracted to the plastic arts; others were attracted to theater, music, or dance. Some naguals' predilection was tales of power; stories which are able to unleash the same effects on all their listeners, because the tales are not based on the cleverness of reason, but on the marvels of our being aware. Today we call those stories 'myths', and of course, we do not understand them."

Carlos went on to say that, judging from their artistic expression, the obsession of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico with transmitting their knowledge to those who surrounded them has no parallel anywhere else on Earth. The agreement they made with their pupils had different parameters from our Western, 'rational' agreements. The pre-Hispanic reality included aspects we would not consider normal, because those aspects had to do with energy fields that are not in use anymore.

As an example of one of those fields, he mentioned the emphasis on dreaming, which was of consuming interest to pre-Hispanic people. Remnants of it can still be found today in isolated tribes in the country.

He concluded by saying that, due to the lack of synchronicity among the emanations aligned by ancient and modern concerns, it is almost impossible to cross the interpretive barrier that separates us from those cultures. So, as ordinary men, we will never fully understand their artistic creations.

"Fortunately, a sorcerer has special tools, because he has learned how to make his assemblage point flexible. He can connect his attention with the modality of awareness of other times, and he knows how to adjust his concern with that of sorcerers who have departed.

"Don Juan was an expert on pre-Hispanic cultures. For him, old stones did not hold any secrets. He sometimes brought me on a tour through the buildings of the museum of anthropology in order to make me experience a verification of these special agreements for myself."

Then Carlos told me about one of those visits, when he himself witnessed the specialized ways in which sorcerers contemplate the past.

"That morning, don Juan and I had discussed historical topics: I was trying to convince him of the seriousness of my theories, and he was openly making fun of me. I got into a very heavy mood. Before entering the museum, don Juan manipulated my luminosity and made me enter a different state of awareness. His maneuver had the effect of charging the art works with life. Everything was there: the luminous egg, dreaming, the warrior's way, the movement of the assemblage point... it was tremendous!

"As I verified the authenticity of the teachings, I made a swift and thorough assessment of my position as a researcher. I understood that, in great measure, academic institutions had programmed me, not to impartially gather information, but to corroborate a specific description of the world, and this position prevented me from surrendering entirely to knowledge. So, when I did my fieldwork, I was not so much an impartial seeker of truth as an ambassador for the normal way of life. This generated an inevitable collision in me, and often resulted in distrust and suspicion.

"As I was leaving my experience in the museum and returning to my habitual view, I could no longer understand, or even remember, my previous state of euphoria. But strangely enough, from that moment on, my academic point of view began to change. I learned how to see things as they were, without conceptual veils. Until then I had been an investigator at the service of a system of Western cultural agreements. Suddenly, I began to feel more and more comfortable with the idea that, under my anthropologist's skin, I was an ordinary man involved in the task of finding his destiny."

I asked Carlos to give me some concrete example of how sorcerers interpret old monuments.

In response, Carlos asked me, "Have you seen the Atlantes at Tula?"

I told him I had, and he explained that those impressive figures of the Toltec age are a description of the party of the nagual. He maintained that the sixteen priests, in bas-relief on the four columns behind the statues, represent the complete group of warriors; divided into four teams; one for each of the cardinal points.

"The priests are cosmic travelers, and their mission is to flow with the energy of infinity. The objects they carry with them symbolized each of their functions. These priests are a party in mid-flight; an image of the final objective of their path; which is to reach the third attention."

For a long while, Carlos continued giving his own interpretations of various archaeological objects. His stories were so graphic, that he gave me the sensation of walking with him on the millenary paths of a pre-Hispanic city. I could almost distinguish the enormous and impenetrable Olmecan heads there, at the end of central square; and the human warmth of the smiling Huastecas statuettes looking at us from the niches of the pyramids; and the delicate Mayan stelas, talking nearby.

Carlos affirmed that the simple act of contemplating some archaeological pieces, in a state of inner silence, is enough to project the observer's attention to the position of the ancient artists. Hence, some of those pieces work as veritable traps of attention.

"Many of them were designed like that with deliberate intention. Their purpose was not ornamental or symbolic. Each one of their proportions and designs contain a detonator of psychic states and flows of energy. Those pieces are, you might say, catapults for the assemblage point. No professional investigation will ever be able to figure them out, because their creators were not in the least interested in adjusting themselves to rational criteria. To align with them, we have to have the guts to meet the challenge, and perceive in terms of silent knowledge."

Carlos maintained that, because of their intent, the creations of pre-Hispanic antiquity are true deposits of the second attention. Those works are an oasis of power in the middle of the dry sterility into which current civilization has thrown man.

"By encouraging me to present the heritage of ancient Mexico to the world at large, Don Juan began a kind of journey to the roots in order to validate aspects of the teachings which had remained hidden right up until today; and return to man the true dimensions of his being.

"As seekers of knowledge, we have the full benefit of the old seers' intent today so that we can continue their work with renewed vigor."

Somewhat shyly, I asked Carlos if we could meet in some museum or archaeological site, where he could give me a practical demonstration of the keys to sorcery.

But Carlos did not approve of that suggestion.

He emphatically answered, "As a Mexican, you are best qualified to recover the Toltec message. All that you want to know about your country, go and find out for yourself! That is your task, and your commitment to the world. If you are too lazy to take it on, somebody else will."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 35. The Antennas of the Second Attention.

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Part 2 - Chapter 35. The Antennas of the Second Attention.

One time, while Carlos and I were drinking coffee in a restaurant in the center of the city, I told him that I got confused by his enthusiasm when he spoke of ancient Mexico-- in contrast with the warning made in one of his books about the dangers of visiting ruins, or picking up objects from that time. I was referring to the thrilling stories he wrote about some of his fellow apprentices who got into serious trouble due to their habit of prowling around archaeological sites.

Carlos replied that I had misunderstood, and added, "What happens is that I do not confuse the abstract knowledge of the new seers with the cultural focus of the seers of antiquity, because they are not the same thing. The old seers lived in the second attention. They were fascinated with its intricate details, and they tried to reproduce them in their daily life by means of their sculptures and buildings. In that way, they put big chunks of that dark fascination within reach of the masses.

"But Don Juan said that any form of representing knowledge is a subterfuge: It shuts you off from true, silent knowledge. In spite of the prodigious quantity of information that they were able to extract from the other side, the old seers ended up paying a high price for their propensity: Their freedom.

"Therefore, one of the priorities of a modern nagual is to direct his apprentices, at least during the first stages of the path, so that they are not trapped by the external side of knowledge.

"Also, there was another reason why Don Juan insisted to some of us that we must not waste our time trying to make sense of something that has no sense. At that time, most of don Juan's apprentices had not yet lost our human form-- which meant that we felt impelled to classify knowledge: We systematized everything as quickly as possible. That is not valid with the artifacts of ancient Mexico because what has come down to us is too fragmented. There is still a lot of work to be done, and it is risky work which can turn against the investigator."

I asked Carlos, "Why?"

He replied, "As I have already told you, these creations are not innocent. The problem with them is the passion they stir up. The old seers were masters of obsession. Their works are full of tricks, and all of it continues operating today with the same vigor as on the very first day, because the fixation of a sorcerer's attention does not wear away with time."

He added that the Mexican tradition of wisdom was designed by men of power in a supreme act of altruism. The intent was to rescue our essential freedom, but it only worked for a short time. And because they were steeped in rituals and superfluous beliefs, in the end their creations became means of fixating the assemblage point of that society.

"Those works are enormous concentrations of intent, but the teachings they guard are not pure. They are blended with the self-importance of their creators; and focusing on them should only be done through stalking. Pyramids are particularly powerful captors of attention. They can bring us quickly to states of inner silence, but they can also turn against us. There comes a point when it is preferable to abstain from them rather than venture without defenses into the domain of the old seers.

"Keeping in mind my morbid inclinations, Don Juan had forbidden me to go to museums or archaeological sites on my own. He said that those places were only to be trusted when in the company of sorcerers. One day, while walking through the ruins of Tula, I had a truly unpleasant experience and began to change my opinion."

I asked Carlos, "What happened to you?"

He answered me, saying, "Something that made me tremble with fear. I could see that the pyramids exuded enormous energy fields, undulating like a bottomless sea, completely wrapped around the visitors. A very enjoyable condition for certain sorcerers, but not for us."

I asked him if that phenomenon is only linked to Mexican pyramids, or if it can also be seen in other parts of the world.

He answered that fixation is not a local phenomenon: It is universal. It appears wherever awareness strives to exist. But on Earth, only the human society invests a considerable part of its energy in creating symbolic objects of no utilitarian value-- whose exclusive purpose is to generate states of attention.

"In fact, if they did not have this characteristic quality of being extraordinary energy accumulators, those objects and monuments would not exist. They are in this world, but they are not from here. They are agents from the other side; antennas of the second attention. Their design and construction were personally directed by inorganic beings in every latitude and era.

"Once, while traveling through Italy, I went to see a famous sculpture. I hardly dared to get up close: I was so captivated by its beauty. I observed that people passing by could not help projecting their feelings towards the image. The emotional climate was so powerful that I could easily perceive how those feelings elongated in the shape of fibers towards a shadow which was vibrating behind the sculpture. And I was not the only one who realized the phenomenon. There was a tourist there who, when he was 'attacked', took a stone and threw it against the statue. I applauded! Those things are centers of humanity's fixation. They condition the attention: They bind it."

I commented that it seemed pitiful that the most magnificent creations of humans were in fact vehicles of their fixation.

Carlos replied that I had it backwards. He said that the problem is not in the monuments, or in the intent that gave them existence, or even in the inorganic entities who use them as traps, but in ourselves.

Carlos added, "Those works belong to another modality of attention: They do have the ability to move the assemblage point, and that gives a break to our everyday fixation. But there is nothing more obsessive than the second attention; and to feed it with unrestrained enthusiasm can put us in a state of total energetic submission.

"However, that does not mean you can not defend against those places. There are two ways by means of which we can counteract their heavy intent: turning away from them, or cultivating impeccability.

"A warrior is able to emerge intact from any conceivable situation. When we cut our ties with our human form, nothing external can affect us any more. Then the monuments of old Mexico are revealed in all their splendor and, at the same time, they take up position where they really belong: The place of silent understanding."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 36. Validating the Nagual.

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Part 2 - Chapter 36. Validating the Nagual.

In the months following our first encounter, my commitment to Carlos stayed on the level of attending his lectures and reading his books. But it did not take long before the magic of his teachings began to attract me with a force of its own.

This situation confronted me with a choice, which I suppose presents itself to every apprentice of nagualism. On the one hand, I could analyze the strange ideas of sorcerers in the light of academic knowledge, and assimilate only what I could understand and verify. On the other hand, there was always the possibility of my accepting Carlos' words to the letter, and provisionally relegating my prejudices until I could work out a framework of my own supported by experience.

When I told Carlos about my dilemma, he was happy, and told me the two options I had considered had one important thing in common: Practice. He said it did not matter which one of them I would adopt, as long as I was inflexible in my conclusions.

I tried to elicit some explanations from him that might serve as a point of support in my mind, and enable me to accommodate his postulates; but he interrupted me with a gesture, and said, "A warrior is not ahead of knowledge. A warrior does not make inquiries out of habit, nor does he succumb to the sense of not understanding. When he wants to know something, he experiences it."

I made Carlos notice that the word 'experience' had a very different meaning depending upon whomever used it. For him, 'experience' meant a way of facing life; for me, 'experience' meant the need to understand a phenomenon on an intellectual level.

I thought I saw Carlos repressing an ironic smile. In a very kind tone, he explained that the knowledge and exercises of sorcerers are not by themselves difficult to understand or to practice. What makes them seem crazy is the fact that they were designed by a culture alien to us, and for people with a different understanding of the world. Carlos attributed my initial distrust to my rational configuration, and not to any impediment of my awareness.

He added that modern science has not been able to penetrate the Toltec knowledge, because modern science has no appropriate methodology; not because the principles of sorcerers and scientists are intrinsically incompatible.

He said, "In spite of all their good intentions, researchers are unable to move their assemblage points on their own. That being the case, how could they understand what sorcerers say?

"The lack of surplus awareness is a serious barrier between ordinary man and sorcerers, because, without the necessary freed awareness, corroboration of the phenomena of sorcery is impossible. It is as if two people are trying to communicate in different languages.

"In general, sorcerers lose in that kind of exchange. In other times, people were threatened into believing they would lose their soul if they listened to a sorcerer. Today modern man is indoctrinated to believe that the sorcerers' vision is unscientific.

"The truth is something else. Practicing the warriors' principles-- far from damaging our mental clarity-- gives us valuable tools with which to manage knowledge. That is because these principles, when they are guided towards accumulating energy, zealously follow the two scientific postulates of experience, and verification.

"Contrary to what many think, the need to corroborate is not exclusive to Western culture. It is also an imperative in the Toltec tradition. Nagualism, as an ideological system, is not based on dogmas, but on the personal experience of generations of practitioners. It would be absurd to think that all those people over thousands of years have placed their trust in simple lies.

"Since nagualism's starting point is experimentation, we can say that it is not a belief system, but a science."


This statement was too much for me.

Certain topics in Carlos' teaching had an undeniable practical value: for example, his constant advice to control self-importance; and his advice to acquire a clear vision of the privilege of living in this instant; and his advice to adopt the strategic principles of the warrior's way.

However, other points of his conversations went beyond my capacity to understand. I simply could not accept that, in a parallel space to this world, a universe of laws exists that has nothing to do with our daily logic; populated by conscious entities that my senses could not perceive.

From the expression on my face, Carlos no doubt realized that I did not entirely agree with what he had said, because he added, "For you, to corroborate is to explain, while for sorcerers to corroborate is to witness indescribable things without subterfuge or mental tricks. You believe that the reach of your senses is the real limit of the universe, but you do not stop to think that your senses are very poorly trained.

"I am not inviting you to believe, but to see; and I assure you that seeing is sufficient proof of everything I have told you. However, I can not attest the energetic essence of the world for you. You have to intend that on your own, and find inside your innate potentialities the way of carrying it out.

"What differentiates a contemporary scientist from a seer is that for the seer, what is at stake is his own life; while for the scientist, the only thing he stands to lose if something goes wrong in his investigations, is his time. Both methods are equally rigorous, but are different.

"A sorcerer can not be satisfied if he can not verify for himself the stories he has been told. Just as there are degrees and levels of scientific instruction, the sorcery apprentice soon discovers that there are certain very defined stages in the increase of his perception. A sorcerer will not rest until he reaches them, or perishes in the attempt. So, as a method of investigation, nagualism is totally reliable.

"My instructor showed me that the mark of the new seers is their capacity to synthesize: They are 'abstract' sorcerers."

Carlos put great emphasis on the term 'abstract'; accentuating each syllable.

He continued, saying, "In fact, sorcerers' focus is more rigorous than the focus of science, because seers are involved in an enterprise of a colossal magnitude, which men of science do not even dare to formulate. The enterprise is: 'The verification of our interpretation concerning the consensual reality in which we live'. With that as a starting point, you can see how sorcery is the best ally of formal thought.

"Some day, it will be possible to break the ice, and science will discover that it shares a great vocation with nagualism: a passion for truth. Then both modalities of investigation will shake hands and cease being antagonistic points of view. They will fuse into one intent to penetrate the mystery."

While we said goodbye, I remarked to Carlos that his statements were on the opposite extreme of the view that most people have on the topic of sorcery.

He shrugged, as if to say: "And what does that matter?"





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 37. Return to the Essence.

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Part 2 - Chapter 37. Return to the Essence.

After I had practiced Carlos' teachings for a while, they began to leave an imprint on me.

Although I was mistrustful at the beginning, I soon verified an astonishing state of awareness beyond my mental parameters.

Suddenly, I became possessed by an urgent need to understand; but not with my reason. Rather, I needed to understand with the totality of my body.

I had come to a point where the foundations of my everyday existence finally crumbled. It became evident to me that the perception of sorcerers contains universes of experiences that previously I did not had the slightest awareness of.

During this whole process, I went through an intense identity crisis. At times I would behave as a daring and unprejudiced investigator, but then, at the next moment, I turned into the epitome of mental resistance.

I realized that these emotional fluctuations were from Carlos' conversations.

After listening to him, I would pass weeks in feverish activity. I would attempt dreaming, and I would practice all of the techniques that I had heard of, or that I had read about. But, little by little, my initial enthusiasm would cool down, and I would return to the uncomfortable feeling of not understanding anything.

Faced with the chaos of those new sensations which began to saturate me, I discovered that I only had one defense: My 'reason'. More than ever, I tried to convince myself that, ultimately, only things that can be fully explained can be true.

Carlos had often noted how deceptive reason can be. Yet, in-spite of everything I had been through, I still felt that I would only be willing, to tolerate his point about 'reason', if I myself witnessed some prodigious act that truly challenged natural laws.


One morning, Carlos and I had an appointment in a restaurant in front of the hotel where he stayed. We were practically alone in the room-- apart from a shoe-shiner who nodded in a corner, and the waiter who looked at us with an air of boredom.

Judging that this was an appropriate moment, I asked Carlos, "Can you prove your teachings to me with some act of power?"

Carlos looked at me with astonishment, as if he had expected anything but this; and he took some seconds to answer me.

Then he responded, saying, "Unfortunately, I can not prove anything to your mind: It is too far gone.

"To validate the nagual, you need freed awareness; and for that, the only source I know of is your impeccability. In the world of energetic awareness, everything has its price, so it depends on you."

I can not silence your mind, but, you can; and thus you yourself will verify what I am telling you."

I asked Carlos what I could do with the doubts which inevitably arose in my mind.

He answered, "Uncertainty is the natural state of victims; on the other hand, trust and audacity are characteristic of predators. You decide.

"The main thing is that you realize that there is no such thing as 'the teachings of Castaneda'. I just try to be direct, and to act from my silence; and that is a course of action which I recommend for you, because it does away with madness.

"I am not a powerful nagual like Don Juan, but I have been a witness to acts that would leave you speechless with surprise. And although I am not your benefactor, I do not mind at all telling you all about my experiences. However, those stories will not tell you anything unless you lower your guard, and allow them to penetrate you.

"If you want to verify the tales of power, you have to open up to experience. Do not shield yourself behind your interpretations, because in spite of all our studies as modern, ordinary men, we know very little about the world.

"You, like any other sorcery apprentice, have an enormous training field, as for example, in your emotional ups and downs. And about your energy drainages-- plug them, and you will see how things change.

"Those eight hours you spend every night like a vegetable, without realizing anything,... explore them. Take control and dare to be a witness. If you elucidate the secrets of your dreams, in the end you will see what I see; and there will not be any more doubts in your mind."

Carlos and I remained silent for a moment while our plates were served.

Carlos interrupted the silence, saying, "Remember, doubts are just mental noise; nothing very deep."

I replied that according to what little I had learned in my passage through life, doubt is the base of all true knowledge.

But Carlos had a different theory. He argued, saying, "So much time is spent accumulating stuff that it becomes very difficult to accept anything new. We are willing to waste years of our life filling out forms, or discussing with friends; but if someone tells us the world is unique and full of magic, we feel distrust and we run to take refuge in our catalog of preconceived ideas.

"On the other hand, a predator fights all his life to perfect his hunting techniques; always keeps his sense of opportunity alert, and is never confused by the appearance of things. He is cautious and patient. He knows that his prey may jump out from any bush, and that the smallest hesitation can be the difference between continuing to live, or perishing. He carries no doubts.

"A warrior is a hunter, not a cynical opportunist. Either he fully accepts the challenge of knowledge, with all that it involves, or his own achievements will regress him to a more awful condition than that of an ordinary man."

I felt that Carlos' words contained a veiled reproach. I tried to justify myself, but he interrupted me, saying, "It is obvious that you have been practicing techniques. In those circumstances, your mind is disturbed. But the pain of your worrying will disappear as soon as you recognize that what you worry about is an implanted doubt.

"Like all of us, you have been trained to pass, all the information you receive, through the filter of reason. You remind me of a dog that lived in a senior citizens home. When somebody, out of pity, threw him some crumb, he got so excited that he could not enjoy it calmly anymore. You are just like that. You are so grateful to your science that you think you owe it something, and that you can not be unfaithful to it. You do not dare to dream. You can not enjoy the magical side of the world.

"You have given yourself a much too deceptive parameter for your verifications: Reason. What I propose is that you substitute that approach with another more reliable and, above all, much wider approach: Sanity. I have already explained to you that sorcerers claim there is a radical difference between the two concepts.

"To understand it better, think, for example, about the history of the world. Most of it was made by very sane people who nevertheless dared to challenge commonly held beliefs: They were opposed to what seemed reasonable at that time.

"If you travel beyond our world, you will see that it is the same there. The universe is not reasonable, but it can be faced with energy and sanity. When you learn how to use it, then you understand it in a basic way-- without words. Who needs words when one is a witness?

"I agree with you in that, from an everyday point of view, concepts of sorcery are completely senseless. But there is a deep dimension to our awareness where the complaints of the mind do not penetrate; and a warrior will not rest until he finds it. Once there, he discovers that his own reason, when it is exercised with inflexible rigor, and in its entirety, will automatically lead to sorcery, because the essence of reason is sobriety, indifference, and non-pity.

"Once he is the owner of his reason and no longer manipulated by it, a sorcerer can attempt the feat of speech; putting into words the unfathomable enigma of existence. But that is such a difficult art that you can only approach it by means of a great energy surplus.

"To be a warrior is an endless fight to be impeccable. The trick of sorcerers is that they know that the energy we invest in enslaving ourselves is the same energy that can liberate us. We just have to re-channel it, and the tales of power will begin to materialize in front of our eyes.

"Therefore, do not fight against your uncertainty. Go with it. Use it as a stimulus for verification and put your uncertainty to the service of your energy needs. Verify everything. Do not let a tale of power remain in the domain of myths. Commit yourself intimately to knowledge; but commit as a warrior, not as a slave of reason!"

Carlos then pointed out an Indian girl who was passing by down the street, with a boy of nine months or so tied to her back. The face of the child radiated an insatiable curiosity, spilling and bubbling out of his black, round eyes which were like small obsidian mirrors; eyes eagerly looking at everything.

Carlos continued, saying, "The warrior's commitment with the spirit consists of a return to our original nature. It is a pact we all seal, by the simple fact of having been born.

"Man is born with the impulse to witness everything, but that impulse is brutally mutilated during the first years, and so we must rediscover it. You have to clean your concern of all prejudice, and return to that boy's pure curiosity. A warrior is forced to verify all the knowledge that arrives at his door; forced to experience it in full, no matter where it comes from. And then he has to have the necessary discerning ability to select and keep what is useful."

I asked Carlos, "Should I also apply that discerning ability to the path you preach?"

Carlos seemed bothered by my question, and replied in a firm tone, saying, "I have already told you that there is no 'Castanedian' way, just as there is no Buddha's way, nor one of Jesus Christ. Have you not understood yet that teachers are not necessary? I am not selling you merchandise, and I do not care if you agree with me. I am only pointing out an address to you out of sheer impersonal affection: Go and verify it, if that is what you want; and if not, keep your doubts."

As we were saying our goodbyes, Carlos told me, "You should not pay too much attention to your worries. They are symptomatic. Something in your interior is giving in, and it is normal for your human form to defend itself. Very soon, your dealings with the nagual will make you shake in your boots, and you will need your sanity like never before. Maybe you will regret ever having asked me for a sign!"





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 38. I Believe Because I Want To.

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Part 2 - Chapter 38. I Believe Because I Want To.

It is difficult for me to write about such a personal concept as 'the verification of the postulates of sorcerers'.

My own agreement with those ideas was not a matter of arriving at coherent explanations, but rather was a consequence of my being at least minimally experientially involved, and of my building a new kind of consensus from there.

The warriors language and dialogue elements that were new to me are not founded in our common reason, but rather in freed energy saved.

As Carlos explained to me, the validation of such an irrational topic as 'the movement of the assemblage point' can only be done via experience within the premises of power.

He said that any intent to explain something is a product of the fixation of the assemblage point in a specific position, and so there is no other way to corroborate the assemblage point's movement than by moving it for ourselves, and seeing what happens.

Faced with the overwhelming logic of his argument, I asked Carlos, "Does that mean that it is not possible to verify the statements of sorcerers from the outside?"

Carlos answered, "On the contrary! The effects of power can only be lived from the outside, because, once our attention flows, we stop being a rigid and isolated 'me'; and instead we blend into the world that surrounds us. That is why seers say that the mystery of the world is not inside us, but outside. In other words, the solution is not mental: It is practical!"

I asked him what was practical about a topic as vague as the movement of the assemblage point.

He replied that the movement was something vague for me, because I did not have any voluntary control over my states of awareness. As an analogous example, he mentioned learning how to read and write; something that may seem vague and completely unimportant to a savage, but ends up becoming a vital necessity for civilized man.

And that example, he said, could only give a bleak idea of how urgent the control of the assemblage point becomes for a sorcerer.

I wanted to know how it was possible that a topic of such importance goes unnoticed in the life of the immense majority of people.

He answered that the movement of the assemblage point is something as natural, and at the same time as sophisticated, as speaking or thinking. If we are not taught how to do it, we never do it.

He assured me that the key to either reaching or missing the extraordinary achievements of sorcerers resides in our consensus; in the agreements we make.

Carlos explained, saying, "To verify facts, one first has to agree on their meaning. Unfortunately, for most people to agree means to be rigid, and to not depart from the official description. Therefore, we must have a strong will to learn if we are to dare exploring other areas of consent.

"Sorcerers have found that there are two ways of reaching an agreement.

"The first one is via the collective consensus. It starts from reason and it can take you very far, but it will inevitably throw you into a paradox in the end.

"The other way of reaching an agreement is via the consensus induced by a movement of the assemblage point, but it can only be corroborated by those that share similar experiences.

"Consensus based on individual experience has an advantage over one based on explanations. Your senses are complete in themselves, whereas reason, on the other hand, only works by means of comparisons of dualities either positive and negative, certain or false, and so on.

"The first effect of penetrating the consensus of sorcerers is that those dualities we have always accepted as something self-evident stop being operative-- which in the beginning is extremely disconcerting for our reasoning.

"In time, sorcerers learn that in a world where there are no solid objects, but only beings who flow among various states of awareness, there is no need to have to separate truth from lies.

"Don Juan said that the truth is like the cornerstone of a building a sensible man should not try to remove. When we surrender to definitions, our energy becomes stagnated, or blocked.

"The tendency to surrender to definitions is an imposition of the foreign mind, and we have to put an end to it. Experience substituted for reason-based consensus was what Don Juan called 'to believe without believing'. For sorcerers, this completely redefines the concept of corroboration.

"Sorcerers do not look for definitions, but for results. If a practice is able to elevate our level of awareness, what does it matter how we explain it to ourselves. The means by which we will start acting to save and increase our energy are not important, because once we are in possession of our totality, we enter a new field of attention where we do not care about defining concepts anymore, and things demonstrate themselves.

"Perhaps you think these statements just give permission to be irresponsible. But a warrior understands the real message: 'Reality' is a 'doing', and a doing is measured by its fruits.

"Anyone who judges a sorcerer from an everyday point of view, will judge him to be an irremediable liar, because the universes of each do not coincide. And if the sorcerer tries to explain inexplicable things with words borrowed from the everyday point of view, he will inevitably become entangled in contradictions; and he will be seen as a humbug or a lunatic. That is why I have said that from the point of view of the everyday world, the world of the nagual seems fraudulent.

"In fact, that goes for all 'isms'; and nagualism is not an exception. But, as opposed to the defenders of reason who seek followers for their particular kind of agreement, a sorcerer will not tell you that his vision of the world is the real one. He tells you, 'I believe because I want to, and you can do it, too'. This expression of will is something very powerful, and will provoke, as an avalanche, events of power.

"If you pay close attention, you will notice that children do not just 'innocently' believe in the magic of the world. They believe because they are complete and they see. And the same thing happens with sorcerers. The fabulous stories I have told you do not belong to this plane of reality in which you and I are having this conversation, but they did happen.

"Nagualism is like somebody who inherited a story and a treasure map, but who does not believe in it. So he comes to you and gives his secret to you.

"And you are so clever, or so naive, that you take the story as truth and dedicate yourself to deciphering the map. But the map is coded with various keys, which makes you learn several languages, go to difficult places, dig in the ground, climb mountains, descend into ravines, and dive in deep waters.

"In the end, after years of searching, you arrive at the place where the treasure should be, and-- oh how disappointing-- you just find a mirror. Was it a lie? Well, you are healthy, strong, well educated, full of adventures, and you have had a great experience. Truly, there was a treasure there!

"Keeping in mind that there are neither truths nor lies in the flow of energy. A warrior chooses to believe by predilection, for the excitement of the adventure. And in this way he learns to focus on the world from another point of view-- the focus of an internal mental silence. It is only then that the immense treasure of the teachings is revealed."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 39. A New Stage of Knowledge.

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Part 2 - Chapter 39. A New Stage of Knowledge.

When the presentation of Carlos' new book ended, we left and walked along Insurgentes Avenue. It was night, a little cold, and surprisingly clear. The air smelled clean.

While we walked, Carlos commented that what he did not like about that kind of activity was meeting so many sycophants, and the fact that they forced him to toast with champagne. His technique was to keep one full glass during the whole event, without having even one sip: That way, they stopped inviting him.

He added that his literary career began with a challenge. One time, Don Juan put forward the proposal that in order to utilize the heaps of notes he had taken during his apprenticeship, he should write a book.

Carlos explained, "In the beginning I considered it a joke, since I was not a writer. However, Don Juan outlined it to me as a sorcery exercise."

Carlos told me that once he had started, he began to take pleasure in the work, and ended up understanding that, for him, his books were an avenue to his real mission as a nagual.

I asked him if he did not fear that divulging the knowledge to all kinds of people would end up corrupting it.

He answered me, saying, "No! What degenerates knowledge is secrecy. Putting it within reach of people renews it. Nothing is more healthy for energy than fluency, and the knowledge of sorcerers is concerned with fluency most of all. We are temporary recipients of power. We are not entitled to retain it. Also, this knowledge only makes sense for those who both practice it, and achieve the necessary energy to corroborate it. The rest do not matter.

"I entered the world of the nagual at the precise moment when a rupture was necessary. That forced me to face the most dramatic decision of my life: To publish the teachings.

"It has been very hard for me to be the representative of such a watershed, and for years I lived with the trauma of not understanding what I was doing. There were people who even wrote me threatening letters in the name of tradition saying that the sorcerers of the old guard did not want to lose their prerogatives."

I told him how extraordinary I thought it was that he should choose to break so drastically with the millennial tradition of secrecy.

Carlos replied, "I did not break anything! The command of the spirit was clear. All I did was comply with it.

"In the beginning of my apprenticeship, I was prepared to take the reins of the lineage. One day everything changed. Warriors of the party saw that my energy structure was different than the nagual Juan Matus' energy, and they interpreted it as a command with no possibility of appeal. As the Rule dictates, they put in my hands the heavy responsibility of closing the lineage.

"For centuries, parties of warriors had acted as a sponge, absorbing experience to corroborate the sophisticated principles of the way of knowledge. The only exit left for me was to return that knowledge to the people.

"The cycle of my books is a beginning; a humble intent to put within reach of modern man fragments of a knowledge which was hidden for generations. The moment for corroborations will come later, and other cycles will follow; because once the teachings of sorcerers come into the hands of the public, it is inevitable that some begin to question and experiment with perception, and in that way discover the entire potential of that which we are capable of."

I asked Carlos how Don Juan and his cohorts had reacted when they realized that the secrets of the group were being disclosed.

He answered, "I have already described how on one occasion when I brought a copy of one of my books to Don Juan, he returned it to me with a scornful comment. That is only half of the truth. The fact is that he was the author of those texts. He did not write them letter by letter, but he was in charge of the whole matter, and he supervised every one of my statements. In time, I discovered that Don Juan's strategy had been carefully calculated.

"The plan of the nagual don Juan had supreme audacity and a brilliant simplicity. He introduced the knowledge of seers to the public, not to contribute to the grandeur of academia, but to elevate the level of awareness in the masses; and he presented it through the very institutions that might refute him. He knew that exposing the teachings through a mystic or religious format would not penetrate as deeply as a presentation with the support of a scientific guarantee. For that reason he demanded that I shape my first book as a thesis for my degree.

"The operation of the nagual Juan Matus initiates a new stage in the transmission of knowledge; an unprecedented stage. The secrets of the movement of the assemblage point have never been put within reach of the public before."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 40. The Appointment Is With Dreaming.

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Part 2 - Chapter 40. The Appointment Is With Dreaming.

When I told Carlos that I had been visiting certain groups based in the Mexican tradition in search of keys to ancient knowledge, he took it as a joke and started to laugh. Seeing my disconcerted reaction, he asked me not to take his laughing personally. It was just that my investigations reminded him of his own actions when he came to Mexico as a student in search of information.

He explained that, according to Don Juan's teachings and what he himself had been able to discover, there are two kinds of tradition: The formal, and the energetic. The first one does not have anything to do with the other.

"The formal tradition depends on secrets and the preservation of routines. It teaches allegories; and produces shepherds and flocks.

The energetic tradition deals with concrete achievements, like seeing and moving the assemblage point. Its strength is experimentation and renewal; and it produces impeccable warriors.

"An energetic warrior is devoted to his task. He does not waste his energy on following anybody. He does not care about social customs, whether they may be contemporary or represent millennia of tradition. Also, secrecy is not part of his stalking."

I replied that, in my opinion, believing that an ancestral knowledge exists in various traditions on Earth is justified by the fact that techniques of manipulation of awareness can not be imparted by means of books, but only from mouth to ear. The interaction with a teacher of wisdom has to be personal.

Carlos commented, "You read that somewhere, right?"

We both laughed.

He told me that truly useful knowledge is very simple, and can be expressed in very few words.

Carlos explained, "It is not necessary to make so much noise about it, and it does not matter how it is transmitted. If it is done orally, well, great-- but any other means will serve equally well. The important thing is to convince oneself that there is no time for foolishness, because death is at our heels. Beyond that truth, a warrior needs very little, because his sense of urgency will make him save his energy, and his accumulated energy will allow him to discover his totality."

I commented that, according to what I had read, divulging secret knowledge is characteristic of 'black' sorcerers. On the other hand, 'white' sorcerers transmit what they know with restraint, because they are aware that knowledge involves a certain danger to those who are not prepared to receive it.

Carlos shook his head incredulously.

He asked, "What is going on with you? That which destroys us is ignorance, not knowledge! There is nothing in the profundities of knowledge that can put man's authentic interests at risk!

"You started from an erroneous, but very common idea: That there are two kinds of knowledge, an 'outside' one and an 'inside' one. Seers, on the other hand, say that knowledge is one thing; and that which does not bring you to freedom is not worthwhile.

"For seers, the truth is the opposite of what you say: The dark sorcery of the ancients is associated with secrets, while transparency is the characteristic of the new seers."

I responded, saying, "Then, Carlos, do you deny the existence of any initiated knowledge inside the Mexican tradition?"

Instead of answering, Carlos demanded that I define the term 'initiated'. This got me in trouble, since in fact I did not have a very clear idea about this. Making an effort, I explained to him that initiates are people who, thanks to their merits, become recipients of a particular traditional knowledge the rest of their fellow men do not share.

While I spoke, Carlos agreed gravely. When I finished, he commented, saying, "That definition is a portrait of the importance you grant yourself".

He maintained that classifying human beings for what they know is a mere arrangement of the collective inventory of the masses; something like making distinctions among a line of ants because some are slightly darker than others.

Carlos explained, "The ironic thing is that we human beings are in fact divided into two groups: Those who dissipate their energy, and those who conserve it. You can call the last ones whatever you want: sorcerers, Toltecs, initiated; and it is the same whether they have a teacher or not. Their luminous reality is such that they are a step away from freedom.

"What nobody can teach them, warriors obtain by themselves by listening to the silent commands of the spirit.

"To open up to power is a natural process. No man can tell another, 'You are already open!'-- unless he is a charlatan. Nor are there any shortcuts that will automatically bring us to freedom.

"Secrets of initiation are symbols of the arrogance of the old seers: They are keys without a door. They will get you nowhere. You can spend your life pursuing them, and when you finally obtain them, you will discover you have nothing.

"You believe that what differentiates knowledge is the way it is transmitted, whether by books or by oral tradition. It has not occurred to you that both methods are the same, because both belong to our everyday agreements.

"What could be important about the way you receive information? That which matters is that you become convinced to act.

"The method of sorcerers is the systematic saving of energy. They state that what separates men is not what they know, but how much energy they possess.

"Therefore, the true way to transmit knowledge is while in increased states of awareness. The appointment of sorcerers is not with a book or a ceremony, but with dreaming. When a warrior learns how to capture experience through his dreams, it does not matter under which label the teachings are presented. Since a seer's perception is pure, and he can corroborate knowledge with his seeing."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 41. Bringing The Teachings To The Masses.

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Part 2 - Chapter 41. Bringing The Teachings To The Masses.

In another of our conversations Carlos told me that, although it was antithetical in many aspects, there was one thing neither the old nor the new seers had questioned: The need to keep their knowledge hidden.

The old seers transformed the Toltec language into a forest of metaphors, where almost anything could be said with almost any combination of words. And it was also they who sank pre-Hispanic societies under an unbearable load of rituals, procedures, and secret passwords. As a result, instead of strengthening sorcery, this weakened it.

Carlos explained, saying, "The heritage of secrecy still burdens some groups of knowledge, although I have tried to shake it."

I asked Carlos why sorcerers try to hide knowledge.

He answered that each cycle of seers had their own reasons for doing it.

Carlos continued, saying, "The old seers started with an understanding that we are transitory, but they allowed themselves to become corrupted by seductive ideas of survival. As a result, they were filled with self-importance and lapsed into exclusivity.

"They were like the pyramids they built: As obvious and attractive as they were secretive and inaccessible. They preferred to keep themselves apart from the average people whom they saw as unworthy and ignorant.

"But, at the same time, they could not do without a court of followers. That contradiction caused long wars for control of the flock and destroyed a great deal of real knowledge.

"Self-importance and its unpleasant relatives, secrecy and exclusivity, feed on the fixation of the assemblage point. For that reason, the old seers had a great interest in generating rigid traditions in order to achieve maximum stability at the core of their societies. In reality, however, their concern for the spirit was very mixed up with their ambitions for temporal power.

"The new seers discontinued all that by giving the fluidity of the assemblage point first priority. They had observed that, as soon as that point moves, the idea of secrecy is idiotic; because in the realm of energy there are no rigid limits between conscious beings.

"As a consequence, what became most important for the new seers was to get rid of all speculation, and emphasize the practical side of their path.

"However, they soon came into contact with a bitter reality, and that was that ordinary people did not understand them: On the contrary, ordinary people were afraid and tried to destroy the new seers whenever they saw them. The secrecy of the new seers was not motivated by the feelings of superiority that moved their predecessors, but rather, secrecy was adopted for strategic reasons. They had to endure extreme persecution and were forced to protect themselves.

"It is an historical irony that, in spite of the legitimacy of their original motives, after a time the new seers secretive strategy caused the same ill effects as the arrogant secrecy of the old seers. After centuries of secrecy, all of the new seers' energy went into hiding their knowledge, and many ended up forgetting why it was they had hidden.

"At present, the modality of our time is changing quickly. In consequence, something else which seemed immovable is also changing: The way the teachings are transmitted. Naguals nowadays are forced to find new channels for the energy, even if it means to eradicate the most entrenched customs."

I asked Carlos, "Why is this change happening?"

He answered, "Because circumstances have moved ahead of tradition. To maintain the knowledge hidden is no longer a vital demand. There are those who will criticize you for disclosing it, but nobody will kill you for that reason today. So to continue the practice of censoring portions of knowledge has become catastrophic for the total objective of sorcery, because those portions ferment inside us and serve as food to any deep-seated sense of importance.

"My first task as a nagual was to put an end to the secrecy of my predecessors. The choice of modern warriors is freedom. Today, we can say whatever we want-- giving our listeners the choice to take it or leave it. This has led to an extraordinary consequence which previous naguals could never enjoy: Mass practicing.

"Mass practicing is our security valve. You can deceive people's minds, because after all their minds are not their own. But you can not confuse the luminous mass of hundreds or thousands of intents focused collectively on the goal of freedom.

"Mass is energy, and energy allows us to break out of the stagnation of attention. Through the collective practice of the magical passes, I have witnessed a true energetic manifestation around the world; something that for the first time has allowed me to believe in the feasibility of my task. My cohorts and I are so excited with what is happening that we do not have words to describe it."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 42. The Magical Passes.

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Part 2 - Chapter 42. The Magical Passes.

For some years, Carlos had been teaching some movements that he called 'magical passes' to small groups, because, according to him, the magical passes served to prevent energy from stagnating and forming 'balls'.

'The Play of the Drum' was one of the passes: 'The Arrow to the Right and Left', and 'The Dynamo' were among the others. He said Don Juan would practice them at any time of the day, wherever he happened to be. Mostly, he would do them before or after carrying something, or when he had been in the same position for a long while.

The matter interested me a lot, because I myself practiced some oriental postures, and was generally inclined towards physical exercises. Therefore, at the first opportunity that presented itself, I asked Carlos where he had learned the magical passes.

He answered, saying, "They are the heritage of the ancient seers."


At that time, Carlos was not often seen in public. But, little by little, his secrecy had become less rigid, and large groups of people began to approach him. As he began to teach the passes in public, Carlos began to change them somewhat; making them more complicated, and dividing them into categories. He ended up giving them a name taken from architecture-- Tensegrity-- which, he told us, was the combination of the two terms, tension and integrity.

From the very first, there were some detractors, resentful people who-- without stopping to appreciate the practical side of these exercises-- began to spread the word that Carlos had just invented them.

When I mentioned that I was worried about this, he firmly said, "Tensegrity is my intent! A nagual has authority, and this is my gift to the world.

"Don Juan and his warriors taught their apprentices many specific movements which filled us with energy and well-being, and helped free us from the yoke of the predatory foreign-mind. My role has been to modify them slightly, taking them out of the sphere of the personal, and adapting them to people in general so that they become useful to a wider group of practitioners."

Carlos told me that the method he had chosen in the beginning-- of teaching the magical passes in a limited form-- was in certain ways a failure, since those who were moved to practice them were too few to accumulate enough 'energetic mass'. So, in this new phase, he had created a system able to impact on the awareness of multitudes.

Carlos said to me, "My cohorts and I will open a great door in man's energy. That fissure is so powerful that it will last for ages, and those who approach it to look inside will be swallowed into another world. With Tensegrity, what I seek is to train those who are interested so that they can support that transition. Those who do not have enough discipline, will perish in the intent.

"The plan of disclosing the teachings is the summary of thirty years of practices and experiments. As a man and as a nagual I have done as much as I have been able to do to make it work because I know that the collective mass of many warriors can cause a commotion in the modality of our time."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 43. The End of the Lineage.

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Part 2 - Chapter 43. The End of the Lineage.

On various occasions, Carlos affirmed that don Juan Matus' lineage ended with him. But when I wanted to know more about it, he insisted that, for now, he could not give me any more details.

Carlos said to me, "I can not know exactly what the design of power will be: Who am I to determine something like that? I know the traditional form of the lineage which I belong to ends with me, but whether a new format will continue into the future or not is something that is determined by a superior force."

He told me he had spent years waiting for signs of continuity-- concretely, a person that had the luminous characteristics to be the new nagual-- but those signs did not appear. Consequently, he had decided to act in an impeccable way, as if he were the last nagual on earth. From that came his urgency to tell everything.

Carlos insisted, saying, "Take advantage of me! I am liquidating all that was given to me."

With sadness, I asked if it meant that, after him, there would be no more teaching of the knowledge.

He answered, saying, "No, that is not what I mean. My destiny is to close a line, nothing more. I am sure the spirit will find the way of continuing ahead, because the current of knowledge can not stop.

"The extinction of a lineage of sorcerers or the birth of another are constant incidents in the flow of energy. I know several parties of warriors living now, getting ready for the final jump, and I can also foresee the beginning of a new cycle corresponding to the renewal of cultural paradigms for the next millennium."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 44. The Evolution of the Path.

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Part 2 - Chapter 44. The Evolution of the Path.

One morning, Carlos asked me to choose my question carefully, because he did not have much time to talk to me before catching his plane.

I said that I had been reading in his books about the cycles of warriors he called old and new seers, but I could not catch the difference between them.

He replied that I had chosen a good topic for conversation, since understanding that difference was a basic requirement to make sure one avoided the errors of the old seers.

He explained that, like everything in this universe, the path of sorcerers is evolutionary. For that reason, a nagual is always forced to refer to the teachings in new ways. As a consequence of that strategy, nagualism as a total system of practices is divided into breeds or cycles.

Carlos explained, saying, "Ever since man's adventure in search of the spirit began, and up until today, there have been three breeds of sorcerers at least: those of the first period; the ancient seers; and the new seers. The first sorcerers lived a long time ago, and were very different from us. Today we hardly understand their vision of the world, but we know that they survived under very difficult conditions where any one of us would have easily succumbed.

"The ancient seers were a refinement of that original kind. They adapted to America's soil and knew how to create real civilizations. They were formidable men, who used intent at a level that is incomprehensible to us. They were intoxicated with power. They could move gigantic stones, fly, or transform themselves at will. They cohabited with inorganic beings, and created a culture befitting them; replete with fabulous stories.

"Legends describe them best. Those sorcerers are the heroes of our mythology. What they sought was to live at any price, and they got it.

"The ancient seers began to move their assemblage points through the consumption of power plants. After that, their inorganic teachers told them how to do things. The ancient seers only needed to focus their interest in order to understand what this world is, and that interest made them design the most extraordinary techniques for the exploration of awareness.

"But do not think that the old seers were just men of action. They were, also very profound thinkers who took the art of comprehending to the limits of attention. Compared to them, we are beasts. Nowadays, modern man is not interested in the reason why he is alive; which is why he finds no peace and can not find himself. We have a lot we could learn from those precursors who found the answers which could bring modern man out of the dead-end we are facing."

I asked Carlos, "What dead-end are you talking about?"

Carlos replied, "Our vision is of a world of objects. That vision has been very useful; but at the same time is the worst among our calamities. Modern man's concerns are the same as those of an animal: Use, possess, annihilate. But this animal, man, has been domesticated, and is condemned to live inside a material inventory. Since every one of the objects he uses has a long history, modern man lives his life lost inside his own creation.

"In contrast, what concerned the ancient seers was the relationship between the cosmos and them: the beings that are going to die. They were able to acquire their own vision. They did not stop at one of the stations along the way, and forget that they were travelers."

I asked him why, if their vision was correct, there came a moment when the old seers were substituted by the cycle of new seers.

Carlos answered, saying, "Seeing is no guarantee of impeccability. The old seers could not separate a great dose of self-importance from their practices.

"Since they enjoyed having power over their fellow men, they were never able to focus clearly on the proposal of total freedom; and although they were unbeatable seers, it was impossible for them to foresee that their enthusiasm to discover the world would end up involving them in commitments that would trap them.

"Most of today's sorcerers scattered around the world are the heirs of the old seers. But because they generally ignore the warrior's principles, they have devalued the knowledge of the old seers. They have become storytellers, herbalists, healers, or dancers; but they have lost control of the assemblage point. In many cases, they do not even know that the assemblage point exists.

"In contrast, the new seers tried to stop the ancient seers ways. The new seers took what they could use from the vision of the ancients, but the new seers were wiser and more moderate. They cultivated an unbending intent, and turned all their attention towards the way of the warrior. In that way they changed the entire intent of the ancient practices. Upon completing their energy, some of them glimpsed a goal higher than the adventure of the second attention: They pondered the possibility of being free.

"Then, through their seeing, the new seers discovered something horrifying: That the enthusiasm of the old seers served as nutrition to certain conscious entities who were energy parasites.

"In the beginning, the contract between these beings and humans seemed very beneficial: We gave them part of our energy and they rewarded us with what was then a novelty: Reason. But in time it became obvious that the contract was a swindle. Reason is only good for making inventories of things, not for understanding them.

"Also, our relationship with the energy parasites has an unpleasant by-product which the new seers see as a membrane covering our luminosity: Self-importance.

"For the new seers, that was intolerable, because they had a goal in mind which had never occurred to the old seers: The possibility of merging with the universe directly, and without using the inorganic beings as intermediaries.

"The new seers were also pragmatic sorcerers; passionate about validation. In their desire to erase from their practices every last vestige of ego, they became distrustful people. Their method was elimination: They suppressed all that did not point directly to their objective of total freedom. The result was that they became able to fixate their intent on intent itself; becoming one with it. Unhappily, that method forced them to abandon enormous portions of their heritage of knowledge.

"So ferocious was their intent that it caused them to close in on themselves. They filled their teaching with secrets. Since social relationships were not important for their objectives, they isolated themselves from society; creating their own, minuscule groups. Almost all of them left to live in the mountains, the forest, or the desert where they remain today acquiring ethnic characteristics. That has certainly not helped them to refine the art of stalking; what's more, in the end it transformed their search for freedom into a purely rhetorical objective."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 45. The Seers of the New Era.

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Part 2 - Chapter 45. The Seers of the New Era.

"The old and the new seers represent two extreme positions facing the same challenge of adapting to very concrete historical circumstances. But today, times have changed.

"By the Eagle's design, at least one of the lineages of the new seers has been able to redirect its task.

"The last twenty-seven naguals of my line have tried to recover the fearless spirit of the old seers, while at the same time maintaining the sobriety of purpose of the new seers. In that way, we were able to gather enough energy to attempt a new and more balanced adaptation of the teachings.

"According to Don Juan, massive changes in energy are happening at the present time, which will inevitably cause the emergence of a new cycle of warriors. To differentiate them from their predecessors, I have called them modern seers; or seers of the new era."

Before continuing with his story, Carlos clarified for me that his concept of the new era had nothing to do with the New Age contemporary mystic movement, but was rather an extension of the old pre-Hispanic belief in a series of eras, following on one after the other in the history of the world.

I asked Carlos why he had not mentioned anything about this new breed of warriors in his books.

He answered, saying, "My books describe a phase of my apprenticeship relative to my benefactor and his cohorts. Although they had conceptualized a new cycle as a strategic need, it was not part of their immediate life. They realized that their own actions departed from the Rule of the new seers when they allowed and even encouraged the popularization of their knowledge. But they left it to me to find the appropriate terms in which to describe what was happening."

I asked Carlos, "At what time did these seers begin to appear?"

Carlos said, "They are barely appearing yet.

"Everything began with the conquest of Mexico. The old seers took that change as a sign, and understood that it was necessary to review and revise their tradition-- which they did.

"And things would still be the same for us as new seers if it had not been for the manifestation in our lineage of a being whom we call 'the death defier'. He returned the sense of adventure and fascination for the unknown to the new seers. Contact with that entity has been decisive for us."

Eagerly, I asked Carlos to tell me more about the death defier-- one of the most extraordinary and incomprehensible characters of his books.

He answered, "The death defier is an entity of supreme awareness. He was born about ten thousand years ago. But he appeared physically in our lineage at the time of the nagual Sebastian, in the year of 1723."

I asked, "Was the death defier a person?"

Carlos replied, "He was a man in other times back when the thirst for knowledge was alive and man-kind surrendered himself to his love for the Earth. He is the typical exponent of that mentality. If you spoke with him, you would notice that we share the same yearning for companionship, and an urge for the expansion of awareness.

"But you would also notice strange things. He lives in another vision. His sense of self is very different from ours, because it embraces a very wide range of sensations. He does not have gender, age, nationality, or a defined language. He does not have friends or relatives; and worse, there is nobody in the world like him. He passes through the world like a ghost, and spends most of his time ensconced in some deep niche of dreaming.

"His contribution to our lineage, as much in techniques as it was in theoretical knowledge, was monumental. That warrior knew all the arts of the ancients, and much more! You can say that it was his appearance on the scene that led to the germination of the cycle of modern seers.

"The second sign which showed that the time of change was near, was the presence of a foreigner in the lineage: The nagual Luhan.

"As you already know, Luhan was Chinese. Although he had received a high education in his own country, his adventurous personality made him become a sailor; and he lived an erratic existence all over the planet until one day his luck put him in the way of power.

"The young Luhan had disembarked in the port of Veracruz, and he was strolling around in search of amusement, when a dangerous incident brought him staggering out from a bar, where he collided head first into the nagual Santiesteban, who did not have time to react. This event, unusual in the life of a sorcerer, was taken as a sign.

"You can imagine the bewilderment of the new seers! The spirit had spoken in an obvious way, and ordered that secrets guarded by generations of warriors should be put in the hands of a stranger. In that way, Luhan was accepted as the new nagual and his knowledge of martial arts became part and parcel of the heritage of our lineage.

"But the confirmation of these signs of change happened two centuries later when I, another nagual whose luminous constitution was not of the conventional kind, came into the hands of a certain strange old man named don Juan Matus. Neither he nor I knew it then, but the destiny of the knowledge of the new seers had been sealed."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 46. Intellectual Preparation.

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Part 2 - Chapter 46. Intellectual Preparation.

In one of the last conversations we had, Carlos characterized the modern seers today as warriors who are distinguished by their frankness. They reject the furtive attitudes that have traditionally distinguished sorcerers; and they have renounced every doctrine that is not crystal clear and based on immediate verification.

Carlos explained, saying, "Another peculiarity which identifies them is that, as opposed to their ancestors, they are collectively guided toward freedom. The old seers thought about freedom as a theoretical goal; something that was beyond their concrete possibilities-- while the new seers saw freedom exclusively as an individual commitment. For the seers of today, however, to be free is the collective purpose of the group of power. Freedom is the essence of their actions and their reason for being.

"Modern warriors are inflexibly committed to each other. They have sacrificed their concerns as individuals for the sake of the group. Their bond of power gives them encouragement and provides a continual challenge to prevent them from lowering their guard: And their oath as warriors is based on the purpose of departing together to the third attention. Closer than ever to freedom, these warriors are more independent and more self-sufficient than their predecessors.

"But the most remarkable thing about modern warriors is their capacity of revision. At this time, seekers of knowledge are forced to thoroughly examine everything that has been said in the past; adapting traditional knowledge to the modality of our time in order for the warrior's way to be truly and finally understood by people.

"The technique which prevents that revision from drifting towards the capricious is 'seeing'. To see the luminous nature of the world permits us to choose, without any possibility of error, the most appropriate symbols to transmit ideas.

"Part of my task as a nagual has been to renew the nomenclature.

"Words wear out. Don Juan himself used terms which, from my point of view, were already archaic, because they were linked to the Mexico of antiquity, not with today's world. However, due to lack of time, I have not dedicated enough attention to this matter. It is a task that I am giving to those who want to assume it.

"The stage of knowledge inaugurated by my books breaks the course of nagualism in two. I have come to put emphasis on: intent, the pursuit of sanity, the sobriety and sense of a group of power; and to abolish the servitude of secrecy and openly reveal the magical passes.

"The goal of modern seers is, more than ever, total freedom; but to achieve it, it is important that the strategies are continually refined. A society that no longer openly persecutes sorcerers does not serve us as a training ground. It is our duty, then, to find new fields where we can exercise and train our potentialities.

"According to Don Juan, the best of those fields is the intellect; and it also functions as a guarantee that strategies of popularization and adaptation will work correctly. Ignorance can no longer be accepted: The time of the wild sorcerers is already past. The sorcerers of the old guard were stagnated in their traditions, and they lost their ticket to eternity: We do not want the same thing to happen to us now.

"Therefore, the Rule for the seers of the new era is preparation: That is their distinctive stamp. They should not only prepare in terms of the arts of sorcery, but also cultivate their minds in order to know and understand everything. The intellect is the comfort of today's Toltec; just as in the past, the comfort was the affection for rituals.

"Don Juan recommended that each warrior of this new cycle should have at least a university degree to take advantage of the defenses against disinformation which modern science has created. That will heighten the chances of survival for the entire party; and in the future this will be even more valuable."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 47. The Task of the Nagual.

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"The movement of the assemblage point of a sufficient number of warriors can change the modality of the time, and that is what I am working towards."


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Part 2 - Chapter 47. The Task of the Nagual.

I asked Carlos, "Could you tell me what task the nagual Juan Matus gave to you?"

Carlos looked at me with a surprised expression.

Usually, he would hide his answers in between his words, or give them out little by little throughout his conversations. But this time he changed tactics.

Carlos told me my question was so extraordinary that the only thing he could do was to take it as an omen; but since his answer was such a personal thing, he could only tell me about it in an appropriate place. Therefore, he suggested that we meet the next day in the Tacuba cafe: one of Don Juan's favorite restaurants.

After breakfast, Carlos told me in a solemn tone that I should silence my internal dialogue, because we were about to visit a sacred place where a famous warrior of antiquity was buried. He added that the day was perfect for it, because since dawn a dark fog had hung over the city.

Carlos continued, saying, "And since everything has became sinister, our omens today will come from the left."

At first, his suggestive efforts made me feel privileged. But as we came closer to the main square, I became more and more apprehensive.

We entered through the small door set in the beautiful side door of the Cathedral of Mexico, and came into the gigantic main part of the church. Immediately, Carlos walked up to the fount of holy water, wet his fingers, and crossed himself. I was struck by the familiarity of his movements, and it seemed like he was used to going to church.

Seeing my curiosity, he explained that a warrior should respect all conventions, particularly those of an institution like the Catholic Church, which has served as a sanctuary for sorcerers for centuries.

We sat down on the pews of the central nave of the church and remained silent for a while. There were very few people there, and the atmosphere was very calm. I noticed that he was sitting up straight and his eyes, neither open nor closed, were lost in the busy mass of decorations of the main altar. The light scent of candles drifted down to our pew, and also the murmur of children's voices that were rehearsing a chorus; or maybe it was a recorded tape.

Little by little I became engrossed in my own thoughts, until I lost track of where I was.

Carlos' voice startled me when he said, "The task which my teacher gave me, and my mission as a nagual for the era which is commencing, is to move the assemblage point of the Earth."

I was expecting anything but that. For a few seconds, my mind did not react. I simply did not have a clue what Carlos was saying.

But suddenly, the monstrosity of his task hit me in the center of my reason, and I found myself thinking that Carlos had either gone crazy, or he was talking about something that I did not have the faintest idea about.

Disconcerting me even further, Carlos seemed to read my thoughts, because he made a little nod of agreement.

Then he murmured, "That is it. You have to be crazy to let yourself commit to something like that, and even crazier to believe that it is possible to do."

I asked him how a man could possibly even think about a feat like that.

Carlos answered, saying, "Just like the other world has its mobile unit-- the inorganic beings-- Earth also has one, and it is us. We are children of the Earth.

"The movement of the assemblage point of a sufficient number of warriors can change the modality of the time, and that is what I am working towards."

Carlos explained that the assemblage point of Earth has changed many times in the past, and will do so in the future. In recent times it has been moving steadily towards the area of reason.

He said, "That is magnificent, because, once it is fixated there, humanity will have an opportunity to move to the other side, and many men and women will become aware. The challenge for the seers of the future will be to maintain that focus for the necessary length of time until it becomes fixated there, becoming a permanent position for the planet, a new center, which we will be able to turn to anytime in a perfectly natural way.

"The refocusing of the Earth's attention is the product of the combined action of many generations of naguals. The new seers conceived of it as a possibility, and discovered that it was part of the Rule. They incubated it with their intent, and determined that now is the time to begin it."

I asked Carlos, "What is the effect of that movement?"

He replied, "To move the fixation of the planet is the only way out from the dramatic state of slavery to which we have been reduced. The course of our civilization has no exit, because we are isolated in a remote location of the cosmos. If we don't learn how to travel along the avenues of awareness, we will come to such a state of frustration and despair that humanity will end up destroying itself. Our options are the way of the warrior, or extinction.

"However, I cannot know what the total effects of my task will be. The Earth's assemblage point is very big: It has an enormous inertia. My mission is to start the fire, but it will take time to get the blaze going. In fact, that task is not mine only, but belongs to all the seers who must come.

"Knowledge of the assemblage point is an unprecedented gift from the spirit to modern man, and it is the catalyst for changing the modality of this era. It is not a Utopia, but a real possibility that is waiting there; just around the corner.

"I do not want to speculate on my chances of being successful with this task: I just persist, because it is all that is left for me to do. Personally, I have no doubts. In my view, the future is luminous, because it belongs to awareness, which for sorcerers means that it belongs to nagualism."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 48. Encounter in the Crypt.

Encounters With The Nagual: Part 2 - Chapter 48. Encounter in the Crypt.

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Part 2 - Chapter 48. Encounter in the Crypt.

After describing his task, Carlos rose from the bench and went closer to the rail around the entrance to the crypt below the church. I followed him.

Pointing at the stairway with his chin, he told me, "You should go down there. Inside, you will see a circle in the floor, which corresponds to the exact center of the main dome of the church. According to tradition, that is the original place where Cuauhtemoc, the last Aztec emperor, was buried."

I asked him how historically accurate that information was.

He replied that he did not know, but that the catacomb was an interesting place, regardless.

He said, "All I want you to do is stand for a while in the center of that circle with your eyes closed; to tune yourself in to the energy of the place. It is a place of power from the sorcerers of antiquity, and it will help you in your task."

Briefly holding my hand, he added that he could not accompany me this time because someone was waiting for him somewhere, and he wished me luck. Without giving me time to react, he turned and left.

Carlos' attitude-- asking me to go down in the crypt, and then his leaving in a hurry-- left me confused. I did not know what to do. With some misgivings, I leaned out over of the narrow stairway and felt a cold, humid breeze. Filled with an irrational apprehension, I went down the stone steps to the entrance door.

The crypt was empty. It had a gloomy air, was poorly lit, and smelled of mold and the dust of centuries; and it was utterly quiet. While I explored the tombs belonging to some privileged families of old Mexico, a chill traveled up and down my back. If it had not been for my desire to fulfill the task Carlos had given me, I would have run out of there.

Trying to control my over-excited imagination, I placed myself in the place Carlos had indicated; a circular space defined by the intersection of two passageways. I closed my eyes and made an effort to silence my mind. After a moment, I realized that my internal dialogue had quieted by itself.

I do not know how much time passed. Suddenly, I felt I was being observed. I opened my eyes quickly, just in time to see, standing a short distance from where I was, a man wearing a hat; a man with indigenous features and a penetrating gaze. He was tall, strong, and quite old. He had a rural appearance: He was dressed in a loose white shirt and sandals, and was carrying a rucksack. When noticing that I had discovered him, he slipped quickly towards an enclosure at the end of the passageway called the 'the bishops' crypt'. His steps did not make the smallest noise.

Although I was very afraid, my curiosity was even greater, and while menially preparing myself to face this strange character, I crossed the short distance which separated us-- about seven or eight meters. When I came into the crypt, my surprise was total. There was nobody there. A quick inspection confirmed that the enclosure had no other exit, nor any space for a person to hide.

This time I panicked. I had goose bumps, and got the hell out of there.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Rule Of The Three-Pronged Nagual.

©2004 by Armando Torres.

  • Chapter 49 - The Rule of the Three-Pronged Nagual Introduction.
  • Chapter 50 - The Omen.
  • Chapter 51 - What Is the Rule?
  • Chapter 52 - The Origin of the Rule.
  • Chapter 53 - An Impersonal Organism.
  • Chapter 54 - Assembling a Party.
  • Chapter 55 - The Structure Of The Party.
  • Chapter 56 - The Purpose of the Rule.
  • Chapter 57 - Three-Pronged Naguals.
  • Chapter 58 - The Portion of the Rule for the Three-Pronged Nagual.
  • Chapter 59 - The Task of the Seers of Today.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 49. The Rule of the Three-Pronged Nagual Introduction.

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Part 3 - Chapter 49. The Rule of the Three-Pronged Nagual Introduction.

From an early age, the reflective bent of my character made me seek an explanation of who I am, and what my purpose in life might be. Knowing of my search, a fellow student came to me once and told me that Carlos Castaneda was giving a private talk in his house, and that I could come if I wanted. I had waited for an opportunity like this for a long time, and I was enchanted by the invitation.

Carlos Castaneda was a famous anthropologist; the author of several books on the culture of the Mexican sorcerers of the ancient past. In his books, he describes how, while still a student at the University of California, he did some work among the Yaqui Indians in northern Mexico; in order to learn about the medicinal plants they used.

On one of these trips, he met an old herbalist, famed as a sorcerer, who called himself Juan Matus. In time, the old man took Carlos on as an apprentice, and introduced him to a completely unknown dimension for modern man: The traditional wisdom of the old Toltec seers, commonly known as 'sorcery' or 'nagualism'.

In a dozen books, Carlos describes a teacher/ apprentice relationship that lasted for thirteen years. In the course of that time, he underwent an arduous training that led him to personally corroborate the foundations of that strange culture. The experiences he acquired during his apprenticeship ended up making the young anthropologist succumb to his fascination with the knowledge, and he was absorbed by the system of beliefs he was studying. This outcome shifted him a great distance away from his original goals.

'Nagualism' was the name sorcerers from pre-Hispanic Mexico gave to their system of belief. According to history, those men were profoundly concerned with their relationship to the universe; to such a degree that they dedicated themselves to the task of investigating the limits of perception through the use of hallucinogenic plants which allowed them to change levels of awareness. After practicing for generations, some of them learned how to see; in other words, to perceive the world, not as an interpretation, but as a constant flow of energy.

Nagualism consists of a group of techniques designed to alter our everyday perception; producing psychic and physical phenomena of extraordinary interest. For example, the Mexican tradition claims that a nagual is able to transform himself into an animal, because he has learned how to dream himself into a form different from than that of a human being. Behind this popular belief is the fact that sorcerers explore their subconscious with the purpose of throwing light on unknown aspects of our being.

Nagualism was a socially accepted practice for thousands of years; comparable to our religion or science. In time, its postulates grew in abstraction and synthesis; becoming a kind of philosophical proposition, the practitioners of which took the name Toltecs.

The Toltecs were not what we ordinarily think of as 'sorcerers'-- that is, individuals who use supernatural forces to damage others-- but rather were extremely disciplined men and women interested in complex aspects of consciousness.

In his books, Carlos made a talented effort to adapt the knowledge of naguals to our time; lifting it out of its rural atmosphere and making it accessible to people with a Western background. Starting from Don Juan's teachings, he defined the premises of the path of the warrior, or the path of impeccable behavior; consistent in control, discipline, and sustained effort. Once internalized, these principles carry the practitioner to other more complex techniques whose object is to perceive the world in a new way.

Having achieved this, the student is in a position to move in a voluntary and conscious way in the environment of dreams in just the same way as he moves in his daily life. This technique is supplemented with what Don Juan called 'the art of stalking', or the art of knowing oneself; and is further supplemented with a daily exercise called 'recapitulation' because it consists of reviewing events of our personal history to find their hidden plot.

Dreaming and recapitulation together make it possible to create what is called 'the energetic double': a practically indestructible entity, able to act on its own accord.

One of the most significant discoveries of the Toltec seers was that human beings possess a luminous configuration, or energy field, around the physical body. They also saw that some people were equipped with a special configuration divided into two parts. These were called naguals, that is, 'duplicated people'. Because of their particular configuration, a nagual has greater resources than most people. The Toltec seers also saw that, because of the naguals' double and exceptional energy, they are natural leaders.

Starting from these discoveries, it was inevitable that seers would settle down according to the commands of energy; organizing harmonious groups whose participants complemented each other. Warriors of these groups were committed to the search for new levels of awareness. In time, they began to realize that behind their practices and organizational forms, there was an impersonal rule.

In their sense of the word, the rule is the description of the design and the means by which various luminous configurations of the human species can become united: eventually to integrate into a single organism called 'the party of the nagual'. The goal of these groups is total freedom: the evolution of their awareness to the point of enabling them to travel through the ocean of cosmic energy, and enabling them to perceive all that is accessible to us.

There is a special section of the rule that describes how generations of warriors are intertwined, forming lineages; and how these lineages are renewed every once in a while.

The fate of Carlos was to live through one of those stages of renewal. However, he did not understand what that meant until he received a message which guided him towards the popularization of the teachings.

When I met Carlos, he still had great reservations about the public domain and tried to keep his distance from people. Our relationship was mainly through talks he gave to small groups, and occasional private conversations between him and myself alone.

Carlos demanded that I should pass unnoticed among the others when in the groups so that I would keep my personal history under a measure of control. Later, he admitted that this request also had a deeper motive: He said I had a task that was a commitment to the spirit, and that I should execute my task four years after his, Carlos', departure.

When I asked him why, he told me that he knew that his work would be obstructed by detractors who would try to frustrate the plan designed by Don Juan for a revolution of awareness. My function would be to give testimony of the message that I had received.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 50. The Omen.

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Part 3 - Chapter 50. The Omen.

One time, after giving a talk in the private dining room of a restaurant where he invited all of us to dine, Carlos asked me to come with him to another place. Minutes later, we both left, while the others were still in the middle of a lively conversation.

On the way, we had to cross a large avenue. To get ahead of the cars, I ran towards a triangular traffic island in the middle of the street, believing that Carlos was right behind me. But when I got there, I realized that he was still waiting on the other side.

Then something unexpected happened; a great gust of wind came rushing down the avenue, so strong that I had to hold on to the metal post of a traffic sign. Before I had time to protect myself, a cloud of dust got into my eyes and throat, making me cough and leaving me blind for a moment.

When I recovered, Carlos was at my side, looking at me with a radiantly happy face. He patted my back and made a very strange comment. He said, "I know what to do with you!"

I looked questioningly at him, and he explained, saying, "That was the same wind. It is after you."

His words made me remember the moment we met, when an autumn wind had forced us to hastily close the windows of the room where a group of friends were waiting for him.

Carlos continued, saying, "On that occasion, you saw it as a strong wind, but I knew that it was the spirit making whirls over your head. It was a sign, and now I know why it pointed you out."

I asked him to explain this enigmatic statement, but his answer was even more obscure. He said, "I am heir to certain information. It is an aspect of the teachings that concerns me so deeply that I can not explain it to the others. It should be said through a messenger. While I was watching how the spirit danced with you on the edge of the avenue, I knew that the messenger is you."

I insisted he must tell me more, but he said this was neither the time nor the appropriate place.





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 51. What Is The Rule?

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Part 3 - Chapter 51. What Is The Rule?

Some time later, Carlos and I were walking to the Alameda park. Near the Palace of Fine Arts, he signaled to me that we should sit down on a bench, miraculously empty, on one side of the square. The bench was made of wrought iron. Its location-- right in front of the main door of an old church built from blocks of red and black lava-- had the virtue of slightly blocking my internal dialogue; which transported me to an oasis of serenity amid the bustle of cars and people passing by.

As it turned out, Carlos had foreseen this impact and its didactic function. He commented that it was Don Juan's favorite bench; which I found very moving. Rubbing his hands together, he assured me that it was time to get to the point.

Carlos asked me, "Do you know what the Rule is?"

Although I had read something about it in one of his books, I had not understood much, so I shook my head no.

He went on, saying, "It is the name that seers have given to the guide of a party of sorcerers; a kind of navigational chart, or a sample book of a warrior's assignments and duties within the framework of his practices.

"After exhaustive verifications, the sorcerers of ancient Mexico came to the conclusion that, just as all live beings possess a defined biological pattern which allows reproducing and evolving, we also have an energy pattern responsible for our development as luminous beings.

"The mold of a species extracts its energy from the rule. The rule is a kind of womb: It contains an evolutionary plan for every living being, not only on Earth, but also in any corner of the universe where there is awareness. Nobody can break away from it. The most we can do is ignore that it exists, in which case we will not reach the stage where we can be what we truly are: a live mass in the service of a purpose that we do not understand.

"Said in sorcerers' terms, the rule is the diagram of the Eagle's commands; an equation which correlates the effectiveness of actions with the saving of energy. In the practical sphere, such a combination can not produce anything but a warrior.

"The rule is complete, and covers all facets of the warrior's way. It describes how a nagual party is created and nurtured, how generations are connected to form a lineage; and it guides them towards freedom. But in order to use it as a key to power, we have to verify it for ourselves."

I asked Carlos, "How can you verify it?"

He replied, "The Rule is self-evident to the sorcerer who sees. For a beginner like you, the best way of attesting its functionality consists of detecting its intrusion in the course of your life."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 52. The Origin of the Rule.

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Part 3 - Chapter 52. The Origin of the Rule.

I asked Carlos how man had come into contact with the rule's matrix.

He replied, "It has always existed. However, seers were its discoverers and are its guardians.

"The rule is the origin of the universal order. Its operation and purpose are largely ignored, not because they are unknown, but because they are not understood. Hundreds of generations of sorcerers in their zeal to elucidate the rule, have devoted their lives-- to developing practical proposals for every one of the rule's conceptual units.

"In the beginning, no man attempted to catch a gleam of this structure, because nobody knew it was there. As the seers of old Mexico came into contact with other aware entities on this Earth-- entities much older and more experienced than the seers themselves-- the seers began acquiring portions of the rule. One day they saw that all those portions fit into each other like a puzzle. That day, they discovered what they called 'the map', and the lineage of the seers of antiquity began.

"Through their seeing, the ancient seers verified each portion related to dreaming. They tested every combination and determined its effects on awareness. They organized exercises of dreaming on seven levels of increasing depth, and they penetrated the innermost twists and turns of the universe. Little by little, they developed the pattern for the nagual party: a structure in the shape of an extremely stable pyramid; capable of expressing the designs of power with transparent clarity.

"But there was one thing the ancients didn't verify: The rule for the stalkers. They viewed stalking as a latent possibility which was not worthwhile to explore in practice."

I asked Carlos, "Why?"

He replied, "Because, in an era when being a sorcerer meant being at the top of the social scale, stalking as an art had no purpose. It would have been a poor investment. But when the modality of the time changed, that line of reasoning brought the old seers almost to the edge of extinction.

"It was not until the appearance of the Toltecs that the other great portion of the rule revealed its extraordinary content. Lineages who were able to apply it were the only ones who survived. The rest were dissolved, and got lost in the vortex; which signified the fall of the old seers' regime.

"The incorporation of stalking determined the birth of the new seers, and with them the rule of the nagual was completely elucidated."

I asked Carlos, "When did that happen?"

He answered, "The period of the new seers began about five thousand years ago, and reached its peak in the times of Tula. Through stalking, the fundamental contribution of those warriors to sorcery was the notion of impeccability."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 53. An Impersonal Organism.

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Part 3 - Chapter 53. An Impersonal Organism.

Carlos explained, "The objective of the Rule of the nagual is to generate parties; that is, self-aware organisms capable of flying into the immensity out there. Such organisms are made up by the sum of a group of warriors who have harmonized their individual intents. The purpose of that design is to perpetuate a non-human dimension of awareness."

I asked, "Non-human?"

Carlos answered, "That is it. A dimension in which personality is no longer the aim.

"Human beings are unable to enter and remain for any extended length of time inside the realm of cosmic awareness-- the state which Don Juan called 'the third attention'. Either we leave the third attention and forget, or we stay in it and melt into that unfathomable sea.

"But the power that governs us has found the way to get around this limitation by creating organisms in which individual entities work as members.

"At the core of these organisms a radically new kind of attention is generated: an intent oriented towards exploring the unknown; investigating in teams what we otherwise cannot know. Feelings of individuality are no longer their operative center, because they have been substituted by something much more intense: living as part of the whole. This is an energy state that no ordinary man can even conceive of. There are no routines, there is no ego, there is no ignorance, and there is no interpretation. That kind of organism is only one stage on the infinite path of awareness, but for us human beings, that stage is final."

I asked him how the awareness of a party operates.

He gave me an analogy of the physical body.

He explained, "Although only in a hazy way, each one of our cells is conscious of their unity; and, within certain limits, each one can act independently. However, each cell's individual intent is subordinate to a superior purpose, which is to form the whole, which we call 'me'.

"When we finally arrive at the incredible achievement of realizing the global purpose, we can discern a superior evolutionary line. We perceive the possibility of being integrated with our complementary energetic beings, creating a form of life whose purposes are as far from the concerns of the daily world as the awareness of a single cell is from our totality. New seers call that life-form 'the party of the nagual'."

I asked, "Who are our complementary energetic beings?"

Carlos answered, "Human beings who possess luminous characteristics that complement each other.

"Energy is recurrent: It generates patterns that we all share. In general terms, it can be said that there are four basic luminous patterns with twelve variants synthesized by the nagual man and nagual woman. As a tonal approaches the ideal luminosity for its type, it manifests a superior degree of awareness.

"When ideal models meet, they combine. The feelings of attraction among human beings can be explained as a result of the fusion of their energy molds. Normally, such a fusion is partial, but sometimes a sudden and inexplicable wave of sympathy occurs: A seer would say that an act of energy reciprocity has taken place.

"The warriors of a party combine in such a way that their relationship produces optimal results in the sense of gaining and accumulating power.

"It is difficult for a nagual to find other individuals whose characteristic luminous bodies who are available for his task: The usual is to find individuals whose tonals are deformed by the life in the world.

"But when a nagual is able to integrate his party, the energy of his warriors will fuse. They sacrifice their individuality for a superior goal, and returning to their previous isolation is no longer possible: It would only mean death for them. You may say that a party is not composed of individuals, but is rather is a single, living organism, with capabilities that are not human."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 54. Assembling a Party.

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Part 3 - Chapter 54. Assembling a Party.

I asked Carlos, "What awareness of the objective of the party does each member have?"

He answered me, saying, "Full awareness. Each one of them knows the tales of power pertinent to their specialty, and they know that their function is part of a purpose that transcends them.

"The relationship between the rule and the party is expressed in their tasks. For example, when the female warriors of a group receive the command of tracking energy in space until they find possible candidates for a new generation of sorcerers, they concentrate on that task as their avenue to freedom. They are not interested in anything else. If the discipline of that intent cracks, the result can be chaotic."

Carlos gave me an example of the effect of a personal concern slipped inside a sorcerer's task.

He explained, saying, "Soon after I started my apprenticeship, and although nobody asked me to do it, I offered to help Don Juan establish the new party. Every time a beautiful girl paid attention to me, I saw in her my complementary energetic being, and tried to 'sell her' to Don Juan, eulogizing her qualities.

"At first, the warriors took it as a joke. But little by little they got pissed off, and one day when I brought my new 'nagual woman' to introduce to them, I could not find them. They had all moved out of the house. To feel lonely helped me to recover my sobriety.

"The party is a self-conscious being that overcomes us thoroughly. To participate in its intent is something so exceptional that as soon as an apprentice glimpses its totality, his ego position just melts. That does not imply that he automatically becomes impeccable; for years, he will still have to make an effort to temper his character and to extinguish his self-importance, as well as the obsession of power.

"Only the nagual man and woman have a total vision of the functioning of the party. Continuing the analogy, they would tell you that they are the nerve cells of the party; the units which direct the process of perpetuation. The other members serve as support, and they carry out the concrete tasks of duplicating the group.

"The work of the male nagual is exhausting. He has to have perfect control of the arts of stalking and dreaming, he has to learn to see and to develop his capacity of manipulation to the maximum, and he has to serve as an example of sobriety in order to maintain the cohesion of the group. If they are allowed to be carried away by their emotions, the result is disintegration."

I asked Carlos why.

He replied, "Because the party is an organism of critical mass. If any one of its components goes astray from the goal, the resulting dysfunction causes a collapse, and everything would have to be restarted. That is why the male nagual is obliged to demand from his warriors that they give all of themselves; and he must distribute their tasks so that all of them can participate with optimism and trust. The oil of the party is the impeccability of its members, and its fuel is the yearning for total freedom."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 55. The Structure Of The Party.

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Part 3 - Chapter 55. The Structure Of The Party.

I asked Carlos, "How many warriors make up a group?"

He answered, "The normal structure of a party is quadripartite, that is, based on the number four, since the Rule has a pyramid form. Its formation and growth are carried out in accordance with that basic structure. As in the pyramids, the architecture of the group consists of a base with four corners, each corner made up of three warriors: One female dreamer, one female stalker, and one male assistant. The corners are connected to each other through messengers, and the nagual couple is above them all.

"The Rule manifests itself to a double man or woman by means of a vision, and they have to accept it to be considered naguals. Following that acceptance, the naguals are joined by their warriors little by little, always following the signs of the spirit. The nagual couple's capacity to lead is natural and indisputable, because, being double, they reflect each one of the energetic types in their party.

"Naguals can be defined as a man and a woman of extraordinary energy, involved in an act of fertilization of an infinitely greater scope than anything within human recognition. As long as they remain together, they are usually presented in society as husband and wife.

"The ability of the nagual man is to find and use the most appropriate words to express things with accuracy, intellectual clarity, fluency, and beauty.

"Among the seers of the lineage to which Don Juan's group belonged, the omen for occupying the position of the male nagual was that they were originally found close to dying. All their leaders, except for me, were found under such conditions."

I asked Carlos, "Why was your case different?"

He replied, "Because, properly speaking, I am a surplus nagual. I did not come to continue the lineage, but to seal it."

I asked, "And what is the Rule for the nagual woman?"

He replied, "The nagual woman is the light that guides all effort; the true mother. Normally, she leaves before the rest of the group and stays fluctuating between the first and the second attention; visiting the apprentices in dreams. She functions as a lighthouse, and if necessary she can return from the second attention to sow a new generation of seers.

"Regarding the other female warriors of the group, they come in two bands: stalkers and dreamers. They have two kinds of functions: as portals, and as guardians.

"The female stalkers, as portals, belong to the direction of the south. They are the strainer or filter through which apprentices must pass. They determine whether a warrior stays or leaves, and they have the main influence on how new members of the team are provided. They are also the organizers of power meetings.

"The female dreamers, as guardians, are a kind of an external version of the portals: There is a white one and a black one. They are in charge of watching over the smooth functioning of the group, which means they are alert to possible external attacks; and they also stand ready to solve any internal problems.

"Among the new seers, women are in charge of all these functions."

I asked, "Why is it that?"

Carlos replied, "Because women have greater mobility and more energy than men. Practically the entire universe is feminine by nature, and teams of witches travel through it as if they were at home in their own house. That capacity to circulate without interference from the dark energy makes them the battery of the group.

"On the other hand, we men are detected at once, because our energy is bright, and betrays us. Also, since we were not made to give birth, we do not have a specialized organ for dreaming. Except for the nagual, the male elements of a party do not carry much sparkle.

"Nevertheless, the rule dictates that there are four male warriors dedicated to organize, explore, and understand. For this purpose, they fix their assemblage points in very specific energetic locations. Their presence serves to stabilize the group, neutralizing the frequent explosions of power staged by the female warriors. If not for them, the structure would explode as soon as the women achieve some degree of efficiency. So the men function as anchors: They fix the group until a maximum of power is reached.

"Due to its form, Don Juan called the party 'the organization of the snake'. It is a concept that he inherited from the old seers, referring to the pattern of squares on the skin of the rattlesnake. He affirmed that the head of the animal, with its fixed and hypnotic eyes, represents the nagual couple. The chest corresponds to the warrior dreamers whose function is to inhale visions and distribute them to the whole group. The stomach represents the stalkers; able to digest any conceivable situation. The tail is the assistants who are in charge of giving mobility to the group. The warriors' party is a very fluid disposition."

I asked Carlos, "Are there any parties which are organized differently?"

He answered, "The warriors are largely the result of the implacable manipulation of the nagual. I am sure you can see how, after years under this constant pressure, the form of a group-- including the particular hue adopted by the luminosity of each member-- becomes very specific. This is why so many lineages of sorcerers exist. But all of them have, basically, the same kind of pyramid-shaped parties which I have described to you, since experience has shown that this is the most stable formula."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 56. The Purpose of the Rule.

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Part 3 - Chapter 56. The Purpose of the Rule.

I asked Carlos, "What is the purpose of a sorcerers' party?"

He explained, "From the Eagle's point of view: To explore, to verify, and to expand the rule. Each generation of warriors should leave their print on it, because the rule is accumulative. The heritage of the lineage consists of a series of positions of the assemblage point, to which successive parties go; adding their own acquisitions. It is normal that lineages make a 'journal' of incidents where the naguals note their discoveries.

"The basic interest of an organism is to reproduce itself. Therefore, one way of defining the rule would be to say that it is the recipe for a reproductive process. What it seeks is the perpetuation of awareness; something which, beyond a certain point, cannot be accomplished through individual channels. The resources that each warrior personally acquires during his training are secondary achievements.

"From the sorcerers' point of view, the object of grouping themselves is to ensure their passage to another level of attention, since without energy mass there is no flight."

I asked, "Do you mean that solitary warriors do not have a chance?"

Carlos replied, "No. What I am saying is that a party can go further.

"Imagine that you live in a colony of gregarious caterpillars who are in a state of metamorphosis. Suddenly, one of the cocoons breaks open, and its resident leaves in a momentary explosion of light and color. The sensation you are left with is that the caterpillar disappeared. For the caterpillar itself, on the other hand, its true life as a butterfly will have begun. Now then: A solitary caterpillar is more likely to end up in the stomach of a bird.

"In the same way, the ulterior objective of warriors is the definitive jump to the third attention; the liberation from all forms of interpretation. The quantity of energy that is necessary for this can only be achieved by means of a special consensus of critical mass, in order to generate the necessary agreements to compact the energy.

"However, since many parties are not able to reach the completion of their energy, naguals have built an inhabitable oasis inside the second attention; an enormous edifice of intent in a remote region of dreaming, where seers go alone or in small groups. I call it 'the dome of intent', because its visible form is dome-shaped, but Don Juan preferred to call it 'the cemetery of the naguals'."

I asked, "Why did he call it that?"

Carlos replied, "Because staying in that space to live implies the sorcerer's literal death. In a sense, not at all allegorical, it is a cemetery. Although those who choose that destiny have achieved the expansion of awareness for an enormous period of time, they will have to do without it when the moment arrives.

"So, for many sorcerers, the immediate goal of the party is the dome of the naguals; in the hope of being able to use it as a transit port where they can accumulate provisions for a great expedition. To get there, it is not necessary that the whole group leave at the same time. Sometimes, warriors choose to go one by one. In that case, they can partially return as long as the totality of the group's energetic structure has not been completed.

"As you can see, the challenges warriors are involved in during their human existence are barely the prelude: The really tremendous stuff comes later. Do not ask what they dedicate themselves to while they remain in that world: It would sound like a fairy tale to you. The important thing is: All their activities are governed by the Rule."

I commented that, keeping in mind the goal of the party, the rule could be interpreted as the pre-Hispanic equivalent of what other cultures called 'divine laws'; that is, a group of normative regulations designed for man's salvation.

Carlos replied, "It is not the same, because the rule does not come from a supreme being. The mechanism of the rule is impersonal: It lacks kindness or compassion. It has no other objective than its own continuity.

"The ancient seers, allowed themselves to be seduced by the analogies; made the error of identifying the rule with their particular interpretations; and wound up worshiping it and erecting temples in its honor.

"The new seers rejected all that. When they explored stalking, they dusted off the essence of sorcery and rediscovered the goal of total freedom-- which does not resemble religious goals in any way. It erased in them the fascination for the human mold; but it had a secondary effect that I have already explained to you: The wild enthusiasm of the old seers was substituted by furtive and suspicious attitudes.

"In the end, the effect stalking had on the nagual parties was to betray their initial motives. In time, the goal of total freedom was reduced to rhetoric. Almost all the sorcerers of Don Juan's lineage preferred the flight to the second attention. With the exception of the nagual Julian Osorio, none of them wanted to be deprived of the adventure and ecstasy of visiting the dome of the naguals; constructed of intent, and located on one of the stars of the constellation of Orion."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 57. Three-Pronged Naguals.

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Part 3 - Chapter 57. Three-Pronged Naguals.

Carlos said to me, "The rule is final, but its design and configuration are in constant evolution. But unlike evolutionists who view the adaptations of life as a haphazard accumulation of genetic mutations, seers know there is nothing random about the rule. They see how a command of the Eagle, in the form of a wave of energy, shakes the lineages of power from time to time; producing new stages in sorcery.

"A more exact way of describing it, is to assume that all possible variations of the rule are contained in a womb of potential, and what changes over time is the degree of knowledge the sorcerers have of that totality, and what emphasis they put on particular portions of it. Such periods of change are recurrent, and they are represented by the number three."

I asked, "Why three?"

Carlos replied, "Because the old Toltecs associated the number three with dynamics and renewal. They discovered that ternary formations- formations based on the number three- announce unexpected changes.

"The rule dictates that, from time to time, a special kind of nagual will appear in the lineages; a nagual whose energy is not divided into four parts, but instead has only three compartments. Seers call them 'three-pronged naguals'."

I asked him how they where different from the others.

He answered, "Their energy is volatile. They are always moving, and because of that they find it difficult to accumulate power. From the point of view of the lineage, their composition is faulty. Three-pronged naguals will never be true naguals. In compensation, they lack the timidity and reservation that characterize the classic naguals, and they possess an unusual capacity to improvise and communicate.

"We can say that three-pronged naguals are like the cuckoo birds incubated in other birds' nests. They are opportunists, but they are necessary. Unlike the naguals of four points who have freedom to pass unnoticed, the naguals of three points are public personalities. They disclose secrets and cause fragmentation of the teachings; but without the three-pronged naguals, the lineages of power would have been extinguished a long time ago.

"Among the new seers, the rule is that a four-point nagual leads a new party as a descendant. Some, due to their enormous energy surpluses, are even able to help organize a second or third generation of seers.

For example, the nagual Elias Ulloa lived long enough to create his successor's party, and to have an influence on the following one. But this does not mean a fork in the lineage since all those groups were part of the same transmission line.

"On the other hand, the three-pronged nagual is authorized to transmit his knowledge radially, which does lead to a diversification of lineages. His luminous cocoon has a disintegrating effect on the group, which breaks the lineal structure of transmission; and foments a desire for change and action in warriors, and an active disposition to be involved with their fellow men."

I asked Carlos, "Was that what happened to you?"

He replied, "That is what happened. Due to my luminous disposition, I do not have any qualms about leaving kernels of knowledge behind wherever I go. I know that I need an enormous quantity of energy to fulfill my task; and that I can only obtain it from masses of people. For that reason I am willing to broadcast the knowledge far and wide, and to transform and redefine its paradigms."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 58. The Portion of the Rule for the Three-Pronged Nagual.

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Part 3 - Chapter 58. The Portion of the Rule for the Three-Pronged Nagual.

The Three-Pronged Nagual

Carlos said, "As you know, my teacher became aware of the rule for the three-pronged nagual when he tried to analyze certain anomalies in the new group. Apparently, I could not get in tune with the rest of the apprentices. Then he paid me sufficient attention to see that I masked my energy configuration."

I asked, "Do you mean that Don Juan's seeing had been mistaken?"

Carlos replied, "Of course not! What was mistaken was his looking. To see is the final form of perception: There are no appearances, so it is not possible to be deceived. However, due to the pressure that he had exerted on me for years, my energy struggled to mold itself to his. That is common among apprentices. Since he was divided into four compartments, I also began to manifest a similar energetic weight in my actions.

"Once I was able to shake off his influence, which took me almost ten years of arduous work, we discovered something astonishing: My luminosity only had three compartments: It did not correspond to an ordinary, modern person who only has two, nor to a nagual who has four. This discovery caused a great commotion in the group of seers since they all saw it as a portent of profound change for the lineage.

"Then Don Juan went back to the tradition of his predecessors, and dusted off a forgotten aspect of the rule. He told me that the election of a nagual cannot in any way be considered as a personal whim, since it is the spirit who chooses the successor of a lineage at all times. Therefore, my energetic anomaly was part of a command. Faced with my urgent questioning, don Juan assured me that a messenger would appear in due time and explain to me the function of my presence as a three-pronged nagual.

"Years later, during a visit to one of the rooms in the National Museum of Anthropology and History, I observed a native dressed in the old-fashioned Tarahumara costume, who seemed to have the most absorbing interest in one of the exhibition pieces. He examined it from all sides and demonstrated such a total concentration that it made me curious, and I went closer to look.

"When he saw me, the man spoke to me and began to explain the meaning of a group of excellent, painstaking drawings sculpted into the stone. Later, while I meditated on what he had told me, I remembered Don Juan's promise, and realized that this man had been an envoy from the spirit, who had passed on to me the portion of the Rule concerning the three-pronged nagual."

I asked Carlos, "And what does that portion say?"

Carlos replied, "It affirms that, just as the party has an energy matrix of the number seventeen (two naguals, four female dreamers, four female stalkers, four male warriors, and three scouts), a lineage, which is formed by a succession of parties, also has a structure of power, of the number fifty-two. The Eagle's command is that every fifty-two generations of four-pointed naguals, there will appear a three-pronged nagual who serves as a cathartic action for the propagation of new four-point lineages.

"The Rule also says that the three-pronged naguals are destructive to the established order, because their nature is neither creative nor nurturing, and they have the tendency to enslave all those who surround them. The Rule adds that, to achieve freedom, these three-pronged naguals should do it alone, because their energy is not tuned to guide groups of warriors.

"Like everything in the world of energy, the block of fifty-two generations is divided into two parts; the first twenty-six concerning themselves with expansion and the creation of new lines, the rest oriented towards conservation and isolation. This pattern of behavior has been repeating itself millennium after millennium, so sorcerers know that it is part of the Rule.

"As a result of the activities of a three-pronged nagual, the knowledge becomes widely known, and new cells of four-point naguals are formed. From that starting point, lineages recapture the tradition of transmitting the teachings in a lineal form."

I asked Carlos, "How often do three-point naguals appear?"

He replied, "Approximately once per millennium. That is the age of my lineage."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 3 - Chapter 59. The Task Of The Seers Of Today.

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Version 2011.07.03

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 3 - Chapter 59. The Task Of The Seers Of Today.

Carlos Castaneda said, "Upon verifying the Rule of the three-pronged nagual, Don Juan deduced that, inevitably, the time of a new breed of warriors was at hand: I have called them the modern seers."

I asked Carlos, "Are there any peculiarities in the luminous composition of those warriors?"

Carlos replied, "No. In every era, man's energy pattern has been very homogeneous, so the organization of the party was the same. However, the warriors of today are experiencing a slide towards green in their luminosity, which means that they are recovering characteristics of the old seers. This is something unforeseen, although it is for sure covered by the rule.

"The true difference between seers of the past and those of today is in their behavior. At the moment, we are not subjected to the same repressions as in previous eras, and therefore sorcerers have fewer restrictions. Clearly, this has a purpose: popularization of the teaching.

"I have lived a moment of renewal. My task is to close the lineage of Don Juan with a golden key, and to open up possibilities for those who come later. That is why I have said that I am the last nagual of my lineage, not in an absolute sense, but in the sense of radical change."

At this point, Carlos took a break in his presentation and reminded me of a conversation we had when we first met.

At that time, I had asked him to tell me tales of power. He replied that he could not refuse what I was asking, but to hand over those stories without any directions would have been to trivialize them.

Carlos said, "I hope what you have seen during these years fulfills your expectations. I did what I could, considering your limitations as well as mine. I know you have already begun to train your dreaming double, and that guarantees that you can continue by yourself: Your double won't leave you alone until you arrive at your totality. The theoretical part is finished, and it is time to give you a last gift."

The tone of Carlos' voice as he spoke these words, somewhere between familiar and solemn, made me concentrate all my attention.

He continued, saying, "The final teaching says that in connection with intent, every person, whoever it may be, who approaches the nagual, has his place inside the total context of the rule. So you are not alone; sorcerers are expecting something from you."

I was a little confused, and asked, "What?"

Carlos explained, "All warriors have a task. Yours is to fulfill what the spirit told you to do. That is your path to power."

I asked him, "And what is that task?"

He replied, "Well, your personal mission is something your benefactor will communicate to you some day. However, in accordance with the Rule of the three-pronged nagual, I am following a long-term strategy devised by Don Juan, which commits you to my teacher's intent.

"What is expected from you is that you say to those who surround you: 'You are free: You can fly by yourselves! You have the necessary information. What are you waiting for? Act impeccably, and see how energy finds a way.'

"Warn everyone that with the culmination of Don Juan's lineage, the knowledge is wide open. Each warrior is responsible for himself, and can provide himself with the minimum opportunity, which is to organize his own party."





Encounters With The Nagual: Part 4 - Old Seers' World Today.

©2004 by Armando Torres.

  • Chapter 60 - The World Of The Old Seers Today.




Encounters With The Nagual: Part 4 - Chapter 60. The World of the Old Seers Today.

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Version 2011.07.03

Encounters With The Nagual © 2004 by Armando Torres:

Part 4 - Chapter 60. The World of the Old Seers Today.

With the permission of the one who has no name, I proceed with my testimony to complete this account and present the truth in its entirety.


One day, very early in the morning, a phone call woke me up. It was Carlos and, frankly, he sounded bad. He said that he was in the Hotel Camino Real in Mexico City, and that he was very sick. He added that he had been unable to sleep that night, and had waited until dawn so that he could call me.

I asked him how I could help him.

He replied that he urgently needed a particular medicine specially prepared for him by an herbalist in a town nearby, and asked if I would go there and get it for him.

I was at his command. He gave me directions and the name of the person who would have the potion.

At that point, Carlos made a comment which seemed odd to me, since it had nothing to do with what we were talking about.

He said, "When Hernan Cortes arrived in Mexico, he gave the order to burn his ships. That was the magical act which guaranteed victory. For him, it meant he had to win, or perish; he had no other option. We should bear in mind that any undertaking could be our last."

Carlos went on to say that he had a bad stomachache, and that those plants were the only thing in the world that could alleviate his pain.

I did not hesitate. Hanging up the phone, I immediately started on my way to Tepoztlan, a picturesque town clinging to a mountainside an hour's bus ride from Mexico City. My intention was to return with the package as soon as possible to help Carlos with his pain.

Today, with the perspective I have gained after all these years, I understand what Carlos meant when he said that any undertaking might be our last.

I got off the bus at Tepoztlan, and went directly to the market. Walking down the street, I could not stop marveling at the beauty of the landscape. High up on the hill above the town I could see the pyramid of Tepozteco.

It was a sunny day and it took me just a few minutes to get to the center of town. In the market, I looked for the herbs section and asked for Don Eladio. Nobody seemed to know him, or maybe they did not want to answer my questions.

I stood there without knowing what to do, until a middle-aged gentleman with indigenous features, and dressed in white with a straw hat and sandals, asked how he could help me.

I replied that I was looking for Don Eladio, the herbalist, and that I came on behalf of Mr. Jose Cortes. His face lit up; with a great smile, he extended his hand to greet me and told me he was Eladio Zamora, and that he was at my service.

I told him that I had come for the medicine Jose had ordered.

He seemed not to know what I meant, but when I told him Mr. Jose Cortes was suffering from a strong stomachache, he reacted as if he had remembered something. In a dramatic tone, he told me that he knew what it was about, but that unfortunately he had been unable to gather the herb in question, and that he did not have it available at that moment to prepare the beverage.

I was alarmed since I knew what happened to those who failed in some task which Carlos had given them. They were simply discarded.

I asked Don Eladio if I could get the plant somewhere else.

He shook his head, and said, "It is useless to look for it. Nobody sells it here."

I insisted that there must be some place where I could find it.

Seeing my despair, he told me that he could not go and get it at this moment, but maybe if I came back on the weekend.

I became very nervous, and told him that if he would describe the plant to me, and the place where it grew, I was willing to go and look for it on my own to enable him to prepare the medicine.

Upon seeing my determination, Don Eladio consented; but warned me that getting to the place where the plant grew was tiring and dangerous.

I exclaimed, "I am willing to do anything!"

He seemed to appreciate my words, because he brought out an old botany book, and after leafing through the pages, he showed me a drawing of the plant. He said that the only place where it grew was in a narrow canyon among the hills a good distance away, and he explained to me how to get there.

I calculated that it would take me a couple of hours to reach the place, so I immediately said goodbye and was on my way.


The beauty of the place was overwhelming. I was filled with joy at the thought that warriors of ancient ages once traveled along those barren paths, thousands of years old.

The hill was further away than it had seemed. When I came to the narrow canyon, I entered it as best as I could among the tall grasses which were growing everywhere. The place in question is formed by the junction of two hills. It is a place where the water from recent rains accumulates in scattered puddles, and flows in a slow, lazy stream.

I looked for the plant for a long time. I finally found it, but as I bent down to pick it, a strong blow hit me on the head, and I lost consciousness.


A penetrating scent woke me up. I was lying on a mat on top of a pile of herbs. I Looked around and discovered that I was in a rustic cabin. The floor was of stamped earth; and wooden beams darkened by smoke supported the tiled roof.

Near a clay oven where a fire was burning sat an old woman dressed in Indian clothes. I noticed that her skin was white.

Seeing that I was awake, she smiled and said, "Well I'll be damned! Welcome back to the land of the living! For a while there I thought you were a goner!"

I did not know what to say. I tried to move and felt a searing pain in my head. My whole body ached.

The old lady hurried closer to me and in an urgent voice ordered me not to move, since I was only alive by a miracle.

Judging by the pain I felt, I could well believe my condition was serious, and I did as she told me.

I asked her what had happened to me.

She replied that she did not know. She thought that I had been attacked by robbers who had beaten me up and left me for dead in the hills. Pointing at the clothes I was wearing, she said I was naked when she found me. At that moment I realized that I was dressed in a white robe embroidered with hummingbirds, like the ones indigenous women use.

The old lady introduced herself. She told me her name was Silvia Magdalena; that she was a devoted herbalist, and that she was healing my injuries.

She remarked that it was a stroke of luck that she had found me, laying as if thrown there in her path, bleeding and almost dead. She added that I had already spent three days unconscious, but that in a couple of days I could get up.

Her words startled me. I tried to get up again, but I was so weak that I fell back on the mat.

I told her how shocked I was by what she told me, and in a moaning voice I explained how I had come there in search of some herbs for a friend; but that I had failed in my task, and because of that I would surely never see him again.

Listening to my complaining, she started to laugh. I did not understand why.

Seeing my confused expression, she said, "Do not mind me! I am just given to fits of laughter."

The following days were the strangest of my life. Every day, I had the opportunity to study how Dona Silvia cured her patients who were suffering from all kinds of illnesses.

When I had recovered a little from my injuries, she even asked me to help her. In that way, without really realizing it, I began working as a healer.

In time, I learned everything connected to the art. Dona Silvia taught me how to clean people's energy, and how to make cures for various kinds of illnesses. She also taught me many chiropractic techniques-- and an immense number of tea recipes.

I soon understood that Dona Silvia Magdalena was a witch, and that I had been taken on as her pupil. The simple fact of being near her was a true delight for me. The humor and drama in everything she did were magnificent, and they reminded me of Carlos' descriptions of his teachers.

I spent almost three months on that mat. The most difficult part had been in the beginning when, I could not move and, the healer's assistants had to come and take me to the bathroom. The bathroom was outside the house, so the situation was all the more difficult.

One day, when I was much better, Dona Silvia told me that at the next full moon, there would be an initiation ceremony for me. I had already learned much of her world, and so I accepted the invitation as a true honor.

Dona Silvia added, "All I can say is that those who participate in these ceremonies are changed forever, and they can never be the same again. There is no return."

Dona Silvia had always used strange expressions, and so, as usual, I did not understand what she meant.

On the appointed day, it was around nine in the evening when she asked me to come with her. We walked in the darkness for nearly an hour until we arrived at a place where some people were sitting around a bonfire. When we came closer, she made a gesture indicating that I should sit down on a particular rock.

The place of the meeting was near a waterfall. I could hear the roar of it, and I felt a humid air wafting up to where we were.

The fire gave enough light to see the other participants. It was a group of fifteen people, most of them young, although there were some old ones like Dona Silvia. I felt a little uncomfortable and apart, because it seemed that I was the only new one present.

I had never been to a ceremony of this kind, and I did not know how to proceed or what was in store. That made me very apprehensive. The participants solemnly chanted something that I could not understand, and yet it filled me with an indefinable yearning.

We waited for a while, and then a man appeared out of the darkness dressed in the skin of a coyote. He approached the fire, dancing in a weird way. He wore the animal's head as a mask, so I could not see his face. From his manners and movements, I immediately understood that he was a sorcerer.

Without saying a word, the man came up to me. With a very skilled gesture, he grabbed my left hand and pressed it against his side with his arm while turning around. I felt a sharp pain between my fingers and wanted to retract my hand, but he held it in a strong grip. When he released me, I saw that he had made a cut between my middle and ring fingers. Blood was flowing freely from the cut.

I was shocked; I would have run away if I had not been paralyzed by terror.

Then the sorcerer squeezed my hand to force out more blood, and poured a little on the ground, some on the fire, and the rest in a clay vessel.

Next, he ordered me to get up, take my clothes off, and keep my eyes closed. There was such a force and authority in his words that I obeyed.

For a long time, the sorcerer prayed and sang around me. Then I felt him blowing on me, and rubbing fragrant herbs all over my body. Finally, he cleansed me with the fire of a torch or something like that.

At one point, I felt a hot and viscous substance being spilled on my head. I was intensely curious, but I did not dare to disobey him and look.

Finally, he ordered me to open my eyes.

What a shock: My body was covered with blood! On a rock in front of me, I saw the headless body of a small, black, male goat. I wanted to protest, but the solemnity of the situation stopped me.

Then they told me to go and clean myself; so I did. I walked nude in front of them all and went to the waterfall. The water was cold, but my body was burning hot, and the cold water felt very good while it washed away the red blood covering my body.

When I came out of the water, somebody was waiting for me with a towel so I could dry myself off. They gave me my clothes and I got dressed, still stunned by these unexpected events. Then I returned to take my place by the fire.

Just as I sat down, those gathered in the circle began to pass around some baskets filled with peyote buttons. Each one took a button and passed the basket to the left. I thought about refusing it, but there was no reason to. I had already made my decision, so I said to myself, "So what?", and surrendered joyfully to participate in the ceremony.

We were eating peyote and singing for most of the night.

At one point, when the effect of the plant had begun to fade, the sorcerer came up to me, stopped in front of me, and took off the mask. I almost fainted with fear. I could have sworn he was the same ghost that I had seen in the crypt of the cathedral!

A chill ran down my back and I wanted to scream, but the sorcerer spoke to me in a strange voice: It was very rough or dry somehow. He told me that his name was Melchor Ramos, and that I was welcome among them.

I did not know what to answer, so I just nodded.

I was in a very special state of awareness, and the clarity I enjoyed at that moment was not customary for me in my daily life.

Near dawn, the assistants made an enormous spiral with embers from the fire. Don Melchor came to me and told me I should look at the spiral until Xolostoc (the devil) revealed himself to me.

With growing apprehension, I did what he bade me, saying to myself that all this was merely symbolic. But after a moment of staring at the embers, I became dizzy and felt as if I was falling through a tunnel, towards a total blackness, where I could no longer recognize myself as me.

Since that night, I have never returned to the world I came from. I understand now everything that has happened to me, and I am thankful for my fabulous good luck which brought me to these magnificent beings who are my teacher and my benefactor.




Thee End - Encounters With The Nagual - © 2004 by Armando Torres



The Active Side of Infinity. © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda.

Version 2011.11.23


The Active Side of Infinity - Front Cover   The Active Side of Infinity - Back Cover.

The Active Side of Infinity. © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda.

"The sorcerers' revolution," Don Juan continued, "is that they refuse to honor agreements in which they did not participate.

"Nobody ever asked me if I would consent to be eaten by beings of a different kind of awareness.

"My parents just brought me into this world to be food, like themselves..."


"The Active Side of Infinity" Abridged Audio Book: Read by Cotter Smith (1998). 2 hours 33 minutes. 64 KillaBytes-Per-Second (64 kbps) - Mono *.MP3 format (~73 MB - 73,191,375 bytes)

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This book is dedicated to the two men who gave me the impetus and the tools to do anthropological fieldwork: Professor Clement Meighan and Professor Harold Garfinkel.

Following their suggestion, I plunged into a field situation from which I never emerged.

If I failed to fulfill the spirit of their teachings, so be it.

I could not help it.

A greater force, which shamans call 'infinity', swallowed me before I could formulate clear-cut social scientists' propositions.

     -Carlos Castaneda



Contents

  • Part 0 - [Preamble].
    • Chapter 01 - Syntax.
    • Chapter 02 - The Other Syntax.
    • Chapter 03 - Introduction.

  • Part 1 - A Tremor in the Air.
    • Chapter 04 - A Journey of Power.
    • Chapter 05 - The Intent of Infinity.
    • Chapter 06 - Who Was Don Juan Matus, Really.

  • Part 2 - The End of an Era.
    • Chapter 07 - The Deep Concerns of Everyday Life.
    • Chapter 08 - The View I Could Not Stand.
    • Chapter 09 - The Unavoidable Appointment.
    • Chapter 10 - The Breaking Point.
    • Chapter 11 - The Measurements of Cognition.
    • Chapter 12 - Saying Thank You.

  • Part 3 - Beyond Syntax.
    • Chapter 13 - The Usher.
    • Chapter 14 - The Interplay of Energy on the Horizon.
    • Chapter 15 - Journeys Through the Dark Sea of Awareness.
    • Chapter 16 - Inorganic Awareness.
    • Chapter 17 - The Clear View.
    • Chapter 18 - Mud Shadows.

  • Part 4 - Starting on the Definitive Journey.
    • Chapter 19 - The Jump into the Abyss.
    • Chapter 20 - The Return Trip.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 0 - [Preamble].

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - [Preamble].

  • Syntax.
  • The Other Syntax.
  • Introduction.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 0 - Chapter 01. Syntax.

Version 2011.06.26


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 01. Syntax.

A man staring at his equations

said that the universe had a beginning.

There had been an explosion.

A bang of bangs, and the universe was born.

And it is expanding.

He had even calculated the length of its life:

ten billion revolutions of the Earth around the sun.

The entire globe cheered.

They found his calculations to be science.

None thought that by proposing that the universe began,

the man had merely mirrored the syntax of his mother tongue;

a syntax which demands

beginnings, like birth,

and developments, like maturation,

and ends, like death,

as statements of facts.

The man said the universe began,

and it is getting old;

and it will die, like all things die.

The man then died after having confirmed mathmatically

the syntax of his mother tongue.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 0 - Chapter 02. The Other Syntax.

Version 2011.06.26


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 02. The Other Syntax.

"Did the universe really begin?";

and, "Is the theory of the big bang true?"

These are not really questions-- although they sound like they are.

The real question is: whether or not

the only syntax that exists

is the syntax that requires,

as statements of fact:

"beginnings", "developments", and "ends".

Other syntaxes exist.

There is one which demands that varieties

of intensity be taken as facts.

Within that syntax, "nothing begins" and "nothing ends".

Therefore, birth, for example, is not a clean, clear-cut event;

but rather, birth is a specific type of intensity;

and so is maturation;

and so is death.

A man of that syntax, looking over his equations,

finds that he has calculated enough varieties of intensity

to say with authority

that the universe never began,

and will never end.

He will conclude that the universe: has gone through, is now going through, and will forever go through,

endless fluctuations of intensity.

A man of that syntax could very well conclude that the universe itself

is the chariot of intensity,

and that a person can board it

to journey through changes without end.

He will conclude all that, and much more,

perhaps without ever realizing

that he is merely confirming

the syntax of his mother tongue.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 0 - Chapter 03. Introduction.

Version 2011.06.26


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Chapter 03. Introduction.

This book is a collection of the memorable events in my life.

I gathered them following the recommendation of don Juan Matus.

Don Juan was a Yaqui Indian shaman nagual from Mexico.

As a teacher, he tried for thirteen years to make me aware of the cognitive world of the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.


Don Juan Matus's suggestion-- that I gather my memorable events-- was made as if it were a casual suggestion; something that occurred to him on the spur of the moment. He presented his suggestion as if it were something no different from any other concern of my everyday life.

That was don Juan's style of teaching. He veiled the importance of certain maneuvers behind the mundane. In this fashion, he hid the sting of finality.


As time went by, Don Juan revealed to me that the shamans of ancient Mexico had conceived of this collection of memorable events as a bona-fide device to stir caches of energy that exist within our-selves.

The ancient shamans explained these caches as being composed of energy that originates in our body itself. However, those caches of energy become displaced and pushed out of our immediate reach by the circumstances of our daily lives.

In this sense, for don Juan and the shamans of his lineage, the collection of memorable events was a means for redeploying their unused energy.

The prerequisite for this collection was the "genuine", and "all-consuming", act of putting together the sum total of my emotions and realizations-- without sparing anything.

According to don Juan, the shamans of his lineage were convinced that the collection of memorable events was a vehicle for the emotional and energetic adjustment necessary for venturing, in terms of perception, into the unknown.

He described the total goal of the shamanistic knowledge that he handled as being the preparation for facing the definitive journey that every human being has to take at the end of his or her life.

Don Juan said, that through their discipline and resolve, shamans were capable of retaining their individual awareness and purpose-- after death.

The vague idealistic state that modern man calls 'life after death', for shamans, is a concrete region filled to capacity with practical affairs; a state that bears a similar functional practicality to the affairs of our daily lives, though of a different order.

Don Juan considered that, for shamans, collecting the memorable events in their lives was the preparation for their entrance into that concrete region the shamans called the active side of infinity.


One afternoon, Don Juan and I were under his ramada. It was a loose structure made of thin poles of bamboo. The ramada looked like a roofed porch, and it provided partial shading from the sun, but it did not provide any protection from the rain.

Under the ramada were some small, sturdy freight boxes there that served as benches. Their freight brands were faded, and appeared to be more ornamentation than identification.

I was sitting on one of the boxes, and my back was against the front wall of the house.

Don Juan was sitting on another box, and he was leaning back against one of the bamboo poles supporting the ramada.

I had just driven in a few minutes earlier after a daylong ride in hot and humid weather. I was nervous, fidgety, and sweaty.

Don Juan began talking to me as soon as I had comfortably settled down on the box. With a broad smile, he commented that overweight people hardly ever know how to fight fatness. The smile that played on his lips gave me an inkling that he was not being facetious. He was just pointing out to me, in a most direct and at the same time indirect way, that I was overweight.

I became so nervous that I tipped over the freight box on which I was sitting and my back banged very hard against the thin wall of the house. The impact shook the house to its foundations.

Don Juan looked at me inquiringly, but instead of asking me if I was all right, he instead assured me that I had not cracked the house.

Then he expansively explained to me that his house was a temporary dwelling for him; that he really lived somewhere else.

When I asked him where he really lived, he stared at me.

His look was not belligerent, but was rather a firm deterrent to improper questions.

But I did not comprehend what he wanted, and I was about to ask the same question again when he stopped me.

Don Juan said firmly, "Questions of that sort are not asked around here. Ask anything you wish about procedures or ideas. However, when, if ever, I am ready to tell you where I live, I will tell you without your having to ask me."

I instantly felt rejected. My face turned red involuntarily. I was definitely offended.

Don Juan's explosion of laughter added immensely to my chagrin. Not only had he rejected me, he had insulted me and then laughed at me.

He went on, saying, "I live here temporarily, because this is a magical center. In fact, I live here because of you."

That statement unraveled me. I could not believe it. I thought that he was probably saying that to ease my irritation at being insulted. Unable to contain my curiosity, I finally asked him, "Are you really living here because of me?"

In an even tone, he said, "Yes. I have to groom you. You are like me. Now I will repeat to you what I have already told you.

"The quest of every nagual, or leader, in every generation of shamans, or sorcerers, is to find a new man or woman who, like himself, shows a double energetic structure.

"I saw this feature in you when we were in the bus depot in Nogales. When I see your energy, I see two balls of luminosity superimposed, one on top of the other, and that feature binds us together. I can not refuse you any more than you can refuse me."

His words caused a most strange agitation in me. An instant before I had been angry, but now I wanted to weep.

He went on, saying that he wanted to start me off on something shamans called the warriors' way, backed by the strength of the area where he lived which was the center of very strong emotions and reactions. Warlike people had lived there for thousands of years, soaking the land with their concern with war.

Don Juan at that time lived in the state of Sonora in northern Mexico, about a hundred miles south of the city of Guaymas. I always went there to visit him under the auspices of conducting my fieldwork.

I was genuinely worried after hearing that the concern with war was something that I would need someday. I had already learned to take everything he said with the utmost seriousness.

I asked, "Do I need to enter into war, don Juan?"

He smiled, and said, "You bet your boots. When you have absorbed all there is to be absorbed in this area, I will move away."

I had no grounds to doubt what he was saying, but I could not conceive of him as living anywhere else. He was absolutely part of everything that surrounded him.

His house, however, seemed indeed to be a temporary dwelling. It was a shack typical of the Yaqui farmers. It was made out of wattle and daub with a flat, thatched roof. It had one big room for eating and sleeping, and had a roofless kitchen in the back.


He said, "It is very difficult to deal with overweight people."

Don Juan's statement seemed to be a non sequitur, but it was not. He was simply going back to the subject he had introduced before I had interrupted him by hitting my back on the wall of his house.

Don Juan shook his head slowly from side to side, and said, "A minute ago, you hit my house like a demolition ball. What an impact! An impact worthy of a portly man."

I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was talking to me from the point of view of someone who had given up on me. I immediately took on a defensive attitude and began talking.

He listened, smirking, to my frantic explanations that my weight was normal for my bone structure.

Don Juan conceded facetiously, "That is right. You have big bones. You could probably carry thirty more pounds with great ease and no one, I assure you, no one would notice. I would not notice."

His mocking smile told me that I was definitely pudgy. He asked me then about my health in general, and I went on talking, desperately trying to get out of any further comment about my weight. He changed the subject himself.


Don Juan, with a dead-pan expression, asked, "What is new with your eccentricities and aberrations?"

I, idiotically, answered that they were okay.

'Eccentricities and aberrations' was how he labeled my interest in being a collector. At that time, I had taken up, with renewed zeal, something that I had enjoyed doing all my life; collecting anything collectible. I collected magazines, stamps, records, World War II paraphernalia such as daggers, military helmets, flags, etc.

I, with the air of a martyr who is being forced to do something odious, said, "All I can tell you, don Juan, about my aberrations, is that I am trying to sell my collections,"

As if he really believed it, don Juan said, "To be a collector is not such a bad idea. The crux of the matter is not that you collect, but what you collect.

"You collect junk; worthless objects that imprison you as surely as your pet dog does. You can not just up and leave if you have your pet to look after, or if you have to worry about what would happen to your collections if you were not around."

I protested, saying, "I am seriously looking for buyers, don Juan, believe me."

He retorted, "No, no. Do not feel that I am accusing you of anything. In fact, I like your collector's spirit. I just do not like your collections, that is all.

"I would like, though, to engage your collector's eye. I would like to propose to you a worthwhile collection."

Don Juan paused for a long moment.

He seemed to be in search of words; or perhaps it was only a dramatic, well-placed hesitation. He looked at me with a deep, penetrating stare.

Then don Juan went on, saying, "Every warrior, as a matter of duty, collects a special album; an album that reveals the warrior's personality; an album that attests to the circumstances of his life."

In an argumentative tone, I asked, "Why do you call this a collection, don Juan? Or an album, for that matter?"

He replied, "Because it is both. But above all, it is like an album of pictures made out of memories; pictures made out of the recollection of memorable events."

I asked, "Are those memorable events memorable in some specific way?"

He replied, "They are memorable because they have a special significance in one's life. My proposal is that you assemble this album by putting in it the complete account of various events that have had profound significance for you."

I said forcefully, "Every event in my life has had profound significance for me, don Juan!"

I instantly felt the impact of my own pomposity.

Don Juan smiled, apparently enjoying my reactions immensely, and said, "Not really. Not every event in your life has had profound significance for you.

"There are a few, however, that I would consider likely to have changed things for you; to have illuminated your path. Ordinarily, events that change our path are impersonal affairs, and yet are extremely personal."

I, knowing I was lying, said, "I am not trying to be difficult, don Juan, but believe me, everything that has happened to me meets those qualifications,"

Immediately after voicing my statement, I wanted to apologize, but don Juan did not pay attention to me. It was as if I had not said a thing.

He said, "Do not think about this album in terms of banalities, or in terms of a trivial rehashing of your life experiences."


I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to quiet my mind. I was talking to myself frantically about my insoluble problem.

I most certainly did not like to visit don Juan at all. In his presence, I felt threatened. He verbally accosted me and did not leave me any room whatsoever to show my worth. I detested losing face every time I opened my mouth. I detested being the fool.

But there was another voice inside me; a voice that came from a greater depth; more distant; almost faint.

In the midst of my barrages of dialogue, I heard myself saying that it was too late for me to turn back.

But it was not really my voice or my thoughts that I was experiencing. It was, rather, like an unknown voice that said I was too far gone into don Juan's world, and that I needed him more than I needed air.

The voice seemed to say to me, "Say whatever you wish, but if you were not the egomaniac that you are, you would not be so chagrined."

Don Juan, just as if he had been listening to, or reading my thoughts, said, "That is the voice of your other mind."

My body jumped involuntarily. My fright was so intense that tears came to my eyes. I confessed to don Juan the whole nature of my turmoil.

He said, "Your conflict is a very natural one, and believe you me, I do not exacerbate you that much. I am not the type.

"I have some stories to tell you about what my teacher, the nagual Julian, used to do to me.

"I detested him with my entire being.

"I was very young, and I saw how women adored him; gave themselves to him like anything. And when I tried to say hello to them, they would turn against me like lionesses ready to bite my head off. They hated my guts and loved him. How do you think I felt?"

I asked with more than genuine interest, "How did you resolve this conflict, don Juan?"

He declared, "I did not resolve anything. It, the conflict or whatever, was the result of the battle between my two minds. Every one of us human beings has two minds.

One is a foreign installation. It brings us conflict, self-assertion, doubts, and hopelessness.

The other mind is totally ours. It is like a faint voice that always brings us order, directness, and purpose."

My fixation on my own mental concatenations was so intense that I completely missed what don Juan had said. I could clearly remember every one of his words, but they had no meaning for me.

Don Juan looked directly into my eyes, and very calmly repeated what he had just said.

I was still incapable of grasping what he meant. I could not focus my attention on his words.

I said, "For some strange reason, don Juan, I can not concentrate on what you are telling me."

Don Juan smiled expansively and said, "I understand perfectly why you can not, and so will you someday at the same time that you resolve the conflict of whether you like me or not; the day you cease to be the me-me-me-me center of the world.

He continued, saying, "In the meantime, let us put the topic of our two minds aside, and go back to the idea of preparing your album of memorable events.


"I should add that such an album is an exercise in discipline and impartiality. Consider this album to be an act of war."

Regarding my both liking and not liking to see him, Don Juan's assertion, that my conflict was going to end whenever I abandoned my ego-centrism, was no solution for me.

In fact, that assertion made me angrier. It frustrated me all the more. And when I heard don Juan speak of the album as an act of war, I lashed out at him with all my poison.

I said in a tone of protest, "The idea that this is a collection of events is already hard to understand. On top of all this, when you call it an album and you say that such an album is an act of war, that is too much for me. It is too obscure. Being obscure makes the metaphor lose its meaning."

Don Juan replied calmly, "How strange! It's the opposite for me. Such an album being an act of war has all the meaning in the world for me. I would not like my album of memorable events to be anything but an act of war."

I wanted to argue my point further and explain to him that I did understand the idea of an album of memorable events, but that I objected to the perplexing way he was describing it. I thought of myself in those days as an advocate of clarity and functionalism in the use of language.

Don Juan did not comment on my belligerent mood. He only nodded his head as if he were fully agreeing with me.

After a while, I either completely ran out of energy, or I got a gigantic surge of it. All of a sudden without any effort on my part, I realized the futility of my outbursts. I felt embarrassed no end.

I asked don Juan in earnest, "What possesses me to act the way I do?"

At that instant I was utterly baffled. I was so shaken by my realization that without any volition on my part, I began to weep.

Don Juan said reassuringly, "Do not worry about stupid details. Every one of us, male and female, is like this."

I asked, "Do you mean, don Juan, that we are naturally petty and contradictory?"

He replied, "No. We are not naturally petty and contradictory. Our pettiness and contradictions are, rather, the result of a conflict that afflicts every one of us. But only sorcerers are painfully and hopelessly aware of the conflict of our two minds."

Don Juan peered at me. His eyes were like two black charcoals.

I said, "You have been telling me on and on about our two minds, but my brain can not register what you are saying. Why?"

He said, "You will get to know why in due time. For the present, it will be sufficient that I repeat to you what I have said before about our two minds.

"One mind we use daily for everything we do is a foreign installation.

"The other is our true mind; the product of all our life experiences; the one that rarely speaks because it has been defeated and relegated to obscurity."

I said, "I think that the crux of the matter is that the concept of the mind being a foreign installation is so outlandish that my mind refuses to take it seriously."

I felt that I had made a real discovery.

Don Juan did not comment on what I had said. He continued explaining the issue of the two minds as if I had not said a word.


He continued by saying, "To resolve the conflict of the two minds is a matter of intending it.

"Intent is a force that exists in the universe. Sorcerers beckon intent by voicing the word intent loud and clear. When sorcerers beckon intent, it comes to them and sets up the path for attainment. In this way, sorcerers always accomplish what they set out to do."

I asked, "Do you mean, don Juan, that sorcerers get anything they want, even if it is something petty and arbitrary?"

He replied, "No. I did not mean that. Intent can be called, of course, for anything, but sorcerers have found out, the hard way, that intent comes to them only for something that is abstract. That is the safety valve for sorcerers; otherwise they would be unbearable.

"In your case, beckoning intent to resolve the conflict of your two minds, or to hear the voice of your true mind is not a petty or arbitrary matter-- quite the contrary. It is ethereal and abstract, and is as vital to you as anything can be."


Don Juan paused for a moment and then he began to talk again about the album.

He said, "My own album, being an act of war, demanded a super-careful selection.

"It is now a precise collection of the unforgettable moments of my life, and everything that led me to those moments. I have concentrated in my collection all that has been and will be meaningful to me. In my opinion, a warrior's album is something most concrete; something so to-the-point that it is shattering."

I had no clue as to what don Juan wanted, and yet I did understand him to perfection.

He advised me to sit down, alone, and let my thoughts, memories, and ideas come to me freely.

He recommended that I make an effort to let the voice from the depths of me speak out and tell me what to select.

Don Juan told me then to go inside the house and lie down on a bed that I had there. It was made of wooden boxes and dozens of empty burlap sacks that served as a mattress. My whole body ached, and when I lay on the bed it was actually extremely comfortable.


I took don Juan's suggestions to heart and began to think about my past; looking for events that had left a mark on me. I soon realized that my assertion, that every event in my life had been meaningful, was nonsense.

As I pressed myself to recollect, I found that I did not even know where to start. Through my mind ran endless disassociated thoughts and memories of events that had happened to me, but I could not decide whether or not they had had any meaning for me.

The impression I got was that nothing had had any significance whatsoever. It looked as if I had gone through life like a corpse; empowered to walk and talk, but not to feel anything.

Having no concentration whatsoever to pursue the subject beyond a shallow attempt, I gave up and fell asleep.


When I woke up hours later, don Juan asked me, "Did you have any success?"

Instead of being at ease after sleeping and resting, I was again moody and belligerent.

I barked, "No, I did not have any success!"

He asked, "Did you hear that voice from the depths of you?"

I lied, saying, "I think I did."

Don Juan inquired in an urgent tone, "What did it say to you?"

I muttered, "I can not think of it, don Juan."

Don Juan patted me forcefully on the back, and said, "Ah, you are back in your daily mind: Your daily mind has taken over again. Let us relax it by talking about your collection of memorable events.

"I should tell you that the selection of what to put in your album is not an easy matter. That is the reason I say that making this album is an act of war. You have to remake yourself ten times over in order to know what to select."

I clearly understood then, if only for a second, that I had two minds. However, the thought was so vague that I lost it instantly.

What remained was just the sensation of an incapacity to fulfill don Juan's requirement. Instead of graciously accepting my incapacity, though, I allowed it to become a threatening affair.

The driving force of my life in those days was to appear always in a good light. To be incompetent was the equivalent of being a loser; something that was thoroughly intolerable to me. Since I did not know how to respond to the challenge don Juan was posing, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I got angry.

I said, "I have got to think a great deal more about this, don Juan. I have got to give my mind some time to settle on the idea."

Don Juan reassured me, saying, "Of course, of course. Take all the time in the world-- but hurry."

Nothing else was said about the subject at that time.


At home, I forgot about the album completely. But one day quite abruptly in the middle of a lecture I was attending, the imperious command to search for the memorable events of my life hit me like a bodily jolt. A nervous spasm shook my entire body from head to toe.

I began to work in earnest. It took me months to rehash experiences in my life that I believed were meaningful to me. However, upon examining my collection, I realized that I was dealing only with ideas that had no substance whatsoever. The events I remembered were just vague points of reference that I remembered abstractly.

Once again, I had the most unsettling suspicion that I had been reared just to act without ever stopping to feel anything.


One of the vaguest events I recalled, but which I wanted to make memorable at any cost, was the day I found out I had been admitted to graduate school at UCLA.

Yet no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember what I had been doing that day. There was nothing interesting or unique that I remembered about that day, except for the idea that it had to be memorable. Entering graduate school should have made me happy or proud of myself, but it did not.

Another sample in my collection was the day I almost got married to Kay Condor. Her last name was not really Condor, but she had changed it because she wanted to be an actress. Her ticket to fame was that she actually looked like Carole Lombard.

That day was memorable in my mind not so much because of the events that took place, but because she was beautiful and wanted to marry me. She was a head taller than I was which made her all the more interesting to me.

I was thrilled with the idea of marrying a tall woman in a church ceremony. I rented a gray tuxedo. The pants were quite wide for my height. They were not bell-bottoms. They were just wide, and that bothered me no end.

Another thing that annoyed me immensely was that the sleeves of the pink shirt I had bought for the occasion were about three inches too long. I had to use rubber bands to hold them up.

Outside of that, everything was perfect until the moment when the guests and I found out that Kay Condor had gotten cold feet, and was not going to show up. Being a very proper young lady, she had sent me a note of apology by motorcycle messenger.

She wrote that she did not believe in divorce, and that she could not commit herself for the rest of her days to someone who did not quite share her views on life. She reminded me that I snickered every time I said the name 'Condor'; something that showed a total lack of respect for her person.

She said that she had discussed the matter with her mother. Both of them loved me dearly, but not enough to make me part of their family. She added that, bravely and wisely, we all had to cut our losses.

My state of mind had been one of total numbness.

When I tried to recollect that day, I could not remember whether I felt horribly humiliated at being left standing in front of a lot of people in my gray, rented tuxedo with the wide-legged pants, or whether I was crushed because Kay Condor did not marry me.


These were the only two events I was capable of isolating with clarity. They were meager examples, but after rehashing them, I had succeeded in re-dressing them as tales of philosophical acceptance. I thought of myself as a being who goes through life with no real feelings, who has only intellectual views of everything.

Taking don Juan's metaphors as models, I even constructed one of my own: I was a being who lives his life vicariously in terms of what it should be.

I believed, for instance, that the day I was admitted to graduate school at UCLA should have been a memorable day. Since it was not, I tried my best to imbue it with an importance I was far from feeling.

A similar thing happened with the day I nearly married Kay Condor. It should have been a devastating day for me, but it was not. At the moment of recollecting it, I knew that there was nothing there and yet I began to work as hard as I could to construct what I thought I should have felt.


The next time I went to don Juan's house, I presented to him my two samples of memorable events as soon as I arrived.

Don Juan declared, "This is a pile of nonsense. None of it will do. The stories are related exclusively to you as a person who thinks, feels, cries, or does not feel anything at all.

"The memorable events of a shaman's album are affairs that will stand the test of time because they have nothing to do with him, and yet he is in the thick of them. He will always be in the thick of them-- for the duration of his life, and perhaps beyond, but not quite personally."

His words left me feeling dejected; totally defeated. I sincerely believed in those days that don Juan was an intransigent old man who found special delight in making me feel stupid.

His manner reminded me of a master craftsman I had met at a sculptor's foundry where I worked while going to art school. The master artisan used to criticize and find flaws with everything his advanced apprentices did, and would demand that they correct their work according to his recommendations.

His apprentices would turn around, and pretend to correct their work. I remember the glee of the master when, upon being presented with the same work, he would say, "Now you have a real thing!"

Don Juan, shaking me out of my recollection, said, "Do not feel bad. In my time, I was in the same spot. For years, not only did I not know what to choose, I thought I had no experiences to choose from. It seemed that nothing had ever happened to me.

"Of course, everything had happened to me, but in my effort to defend the idea of myself, I had no time or inclination to notice anything."

I asked, "Can you tell me, don Juan, specifically, what is wrong with my stories? I know that they are nothing, but the rest of my life is just like that."

He replied, "I will repeat this to you: The stories of a warrior's album are not personal. Your story of the day you were admitted to school is nothing but your assertion about you as the center of everything. You feel, you do not feel; you realize, you do not realize. Do you see what I mean? All of the story is just you."

I asked, "But how can it be otherwise, don Juan?"

He answered, "In your other story, you almost touch on what I want, but you turn it again into something extremely personal. I know that you could add more details, but all those details would be an extension of your person and nothing else."

I protested, saying, "I sincerely cannot see your point, don Juan. Every story seen through the eyes of the witness has to be, perforce, personal."

Don Juan smiled, delighted as usual by my confusion, and said, "Yes, yes, of course, but then they are not stories for a warrior's album. They are stories for other purposes.

"The memorable events we are after have the dark touch of the impersonal. That touch permeates them. I do not know how else to explain this."

I believed then that I had a moment of inspiration, and that I understood what he meant by the dark touch of the impersonal. I thought that he meant something a bit morbid, and darkness meant that for me.

I related to him a story from my childhood.


One of my older cousins was in medical school. He was an intern, and one day he took me to the morgue. He assured me that a young man owed it to himself to see dead people because that sight was very educational. It demonstrated the transitory-ness of life.

He harangued me, on and on, in order to convince me to go. The more he talked about how unimportant we were in death, the more curious I became. I had never seen a corpse, and in the end, my curiosity to see one overwhelmed me and I went with him.

He showed me various corpses and succeeded in scaring me stiff. I found nothing educational or illuminating about them. They were, outright, the most frightening things I had ever seen.

As he talked to me, he kept looking at his watch as if he were waiting for someone who was going to show up at any moment. He obviously wanted to keep me in the morgue longer than my strength permitted. Being the competitive creature that I was, I believed that he was testing my endurance; my manhood.

I clenched my teeth, and made up my mind to stay until the bitter end. The bitter end came in a way that I had not dreamed of.

A corpse that was covered with a sheet actually moved up with a rattle on the marble table where all the corpses were lying as if it were getting ready to sit up. It made a burping sound that was so awful that it burned through me, and will remain in my memory for the rest of my life.

My cousin, the doctor, the scientist, explained that it was the corpse of a man who had died of tuberculosis, and that his lungs had been eaten away by bacilli that had left enormous holes filled with air. He said that in cases like this, when the air changed temperature, it sometimes forced the body to sit up or at least convulse.

Don Juan shook his head from side to side, and said, "No, you have not gotten it yet. That is merely a story about your fear. I would have been scared to death myself. However, being scared like that does not illuminate anyone's path. But I am curious to know what happened to you."

I replied, "I yelled like a banshee. My cousin called me a coward; a yellow-belly, for hiding my face against his chest, and for getting sick to my stomach all over him."


I had definitely hooked on to a morbid strand in my life. I came up with another story about a sixteen year old boy I knew in high school who had a glandular disease and grew to a gigantic height. His heart did not grow at the same rate as the rest of his body and one day he died of heart failure.

I went with another boy to the mortuary out of morbid curiosity. The mortician, who was perhaps more morbid than the two of us, opened the back door, and let us in. He showed us his masterpiece. He had put the gigantic boy, who had been over seven feet, seven inches tall, into a coffin for a normal person by sawing off his legs. He showed us how he had arranged his legs as if the dead boy were holding them with his arms like two trophies.

The fright I experienced then was comparable to the fright I had experienced in the morgue as a child, but this new fright was not a physical reaction. It was a reaction of psychological revulsion.

Don Juan said, "You are almost there. However, your story is still too personal. It is revolting, and it does makes me sick, but I see great potential."

Don Juan and I laughed at the horror found in situations of everyday life. By then I was hopelessly lost in the morbid strands I had caught and released.


I told him then the story of my best friend, Roy Goldpiss. He actually had a Polish surname, but his friends called him Goldpiss because whatever he touched, he turned to gold. He was a great businessman.

His talent for business made him a super-ambitious being. He wanted to be the richest man in the world. However, he found that the competition was too tough.

According to him, doing business alone he could not possibly compete, for instance, with the head of an Islamic sect who got paid his weight in gold every year. The head of the sect would fatten himself as much as his body allowed him before he was weighed.

Then my friend Roy lowered his sights to being the richest man in the United States. However, the competition in this sector was ferocious.

He went down another notch: Perhaps he could be the richest man in California. He was too late for that, too. He gave up hope that with his chains of pizza and ice cream parlors, he could ever rise in the business world to compete with the established families who owned California.

Roy then settled for being the richest man in Woodland Hills, the suburb of Los Angeles where he lived. Unfortunately for him, down the street from his house lived Mr. Marsh, who owned factories that produced A-one quality mattresses all over the United States, and he was rich beyond belief.

Roy's frustration knew no limits. His drive to accomplish was so intense that it finally impaired his health. One day he died from an aneurysm in his brain.

His death brought, as a consequence, my third visit to a morgue or a mortuary. Roy's wife begged me, as his best friend, to make sure that the corpse was properly dressed.

I went to the funeral parlor where I was led by a male secretary to the inner chambers. At the precise moment I arrived, the mortician was at a high marble-topped table working on Roy's corpse which had already entered rigor mortis.

The mortician was forcefully pushing up the corners of the upper lip with the index and little finger of his right hand while he held his middle finger against his palm. As a grotesque smile appeared on Roy's dead face, the mortician half-turned to me, and said in a servile tone, "I hope all this is to your satisfaction, sir."

Roy's wife-- and it will never be known whether she liked him or not-- decided to bury him with all the garishness that, in her opinion, his life deserved. She had bought a very expensive coffin; a custom-made affair that looked like a telephone booth. She had gotten the idea from a movie. Roy was going to be buried sitting, as if he were making a business call on the telephone.

I did not stay for the ceremony. I left in the midst of a most violent reaction; a mixture of impotence and anger; the kind of anger that could not be vented on anyone.


Don Juan laughingly commented, "You certainly are morbid today. But in spite of that, or perhaps because of that, you are almost there. You are touching it."

I never ceased to marvel at the way in which my mood changed every time I went to see don Juan. I always arrived moody, grouchy, filled with self-assertions and doubts. After a while, my mood would mysteriously change, and I would become more expansive by degrees until I was as calm as I had ever been.

However, my new mood was always couched in my old vocabulary, and my usual way of talking then was that of a totally dissatisfied person who is containing himself from complaining out loud, but whose endless complaints are implied at every turn of the conversation.

In my habitual tone of veiled complaint, I asked, "Can you give me an example of a memorable event from your album, don Juan? If I knew the pattern you were after, I might be able to come up with something. As it is, I am whistling hopelessly in the dark."

With a stern look in his eyes, Don Juan said, "Do not explain yourself so much. Sorcerers say that in every explanation there is a hidden apology. So, when you are explaining why you can not do this or that, you are really apologizing for your shortcomings; hoping that whoever is listening to you will have the kindness to understand them."

My most useful maneuver, when I was attacked, had always been to turn my attackers off by not listening to them. Don Juan, however, had the disgusting ability to trap every bit of my attention. No matter how he attacked me, no matter what he said, he always managed to have me riveted to his every word.

On this occasion, what he was saying about me did not please me at all because it was the naked truth.

I avoided his eyes. I felt, as usual, defeated, but it was a peculiar defeat this time. It did not bother me as it would have if it had happened in the world of everyday life, or right after I had arrived at his house.


After a very long silence, don Juan spoke to me again, saying, "I will do better than give you an example of a memorable event from my album. I will give you a memorable event from your own life; one that should go for sure in your collection. Or I should say, if I were you, I would certainly put it in my collection of memorable events."

I thought don Juan was joking and I laughed stupidly.

He said cuttingly, "This is not a laughing matter. I am serious. You once told me a story that fits the bill."

I asked, "What story is that, don Juan?"

He said, "The story of 'figures in front of a mirror'. Tell me that story again, but this time tell it to me in all the detail you can remember."

I began to retell the story in a cursory fashion.

He stopped me and demanded a careful, detailed narration, starting at the beginning.

I tried again, but my second rendition did not satisfy him.

Don Juan proposed, "Let us go for a walk. When you walk, you are much more accurate than when you are sitting down. It is not an idle idea that you should pace back and forth when you try to relate something."

We had been sitting, as we usually did during the day, under the house ramada. I had developed a pattern: Whenever I sat there, I always did it on the same spot with my back against the wall. Don Juan sat in various places under the ramada, but never on the same spot.

We went for a hike at the worst time of the day; noon. He outfitted me with an old straw hat as he always did whenever we went out in the heat of the sun.

We walked for a long time in complete silence. I tried to the best of my ability to force myself to remember all the details of the story. It was mid-afternoon when we sat down under the shade of some tall bushes, and I retold the full story.


Years before, while I was studying sculpture in a fine arts school in Italy, I had a close friend, Eddie; a Scotsman who was studying art in order to become an art critic.

What stood out most vividly in my mind about him, and had to do with the story I was telling don Juan, was the bombastic idea he had of himself. He thought he was the most licentious, lusty, all-around scholar and craftsman; a man of the Renaissance. Licentious he was, but lustiness was something in complete contradiction to his bony, dry, serious person.

He was a vicarious follower of the English philosopher Bertrand Russell, and Eddie dreamed of applying the principles of logical positivism to art criticism. His desire to be an all-around scholar and craftsman was perhaps his wildest fantasy because he was a procrastinator. Work was his nemesis.

His dubious specialty was not art criticism, but rather a personal knowledge of all the prostitutes of the local bordellos of which there were plenty. The colorful and lengthy accounts he used to give me-- in order to keep me, according to him, up to date about all the marvelous things he did in the world of his specialty-- were delightful. It was not surprising to me, therefore, that one day he came to my apartment, all excited, nearly out of breath, and told me that something extraordinary had happened to him and that he wanted to share it with me.

In the Oxford accent he affected every time he talked to me, he excitedly said, "I say, old man, you must see this for yourself!

He paced the room nervously, and said, "It is hard to describe, but I know it is something you will appreciate. It is something the impression of which will last you for a lifetime. I am going to give you a marvelous gift for life. Do you understand?"

I understood that he was a hysterical Scotsman. It was always my pleasure to humor him and tag along. I had never regretted it.

I said to him, "Calm down. Calm down, Eddie. What are you trying to tell me?"

He related to me that he had been in a bordello, where he had found an unbelievable woman who did an incredible thing she called 'figures in front of a mirror'. He assured me repeatedly, almost stuttering, that I owed it to myself to experience this unbelievable event personally.

Since he knew I did not have any money, he said, "I say, do not worry about money! I have already paid the price. All you have to do is go with me. Madame Ludmilla will show you her 'figures in front of a mirror.' It is a blast!"

In a fit of uncontrollable glee, Eddie laughed uproariously, oblivious to his bad teeth, which he normally hid behind a tight-lipped smile or laugh, and said, "I say, it is absolutely great!"

My curiosity mounted by the minute. I was more than willing to participate in his new delight. Eddie drove me to the outskirts of the city.

We stopped in front of a dusty, badly kept building. The paint was peeling off the walls. It had the air of having been a hotel at one time; a hotel that had been turned into an apartment building. I could see the remnants of a hotel sign that seemed to have been ripped to pieces. On the front of the building there were rows of dirty single balconies filled with flowerpots, or draped with carpets put out to dry.

At the entrance to the building were two dark, shady-looking men wearing pointed black shoes that seemed too tight on their feet. They greeted Eddie effusively. They had black, shifty, menacing eyes. Both of them were wearing shiny light-blue suits, also too tight for their bulky bodies.

One of them opened the door for Eddie. They did not even look at me.

We went up two flights of stairs on a dilapidated staircase that at one time must have been luxurious.

Eddie led the way and walked the length of an empty, hotel-like corridor with doors on both sides. All the doors were painted in the same drab, dark, olive green. Every door had a brass number tarnished with age, and barely visible against the painted wood.

Eddie stopped in front of a door. I noticed the number 112 on it. He rapped repeatedly. The door opened, and a round, short woman with bleached-blonde hair beckoned us in without saying a word. She was wearing a red silk robe with feathery, flouncy sleeves and red slippers with furry balls on top. Once we were inside a small hall, and she had closed the door behind us, she greeted Eddie in terribly accented English. "Hallo, Eddie. You brought friend, eh?"

Eddie shook her hand, and then kissed it, gallantly. He acted as if he were most calm, yet I noticed his unconscious gestures of being ill at ease.

"How are you today, Madame Ludmilla?" he said, trying to sound like an American and flubbing it.

I never discovered why Eddie always wanted to sound like an American whenever he was transacting business in those houses of ill repute. I had the suspicion that he did it because Americans were known to be wealthy, and he wanted to establish his rich man's bona fides with them.

Eddie turned to me and said in his phony American accent, "I leave you in good hands, kiddo."

He sounded so awful, so foreign to my ears, that I laughed out loud. Madame Ludmilla didn't seem perturbed at all by my explosion of mirth. Eddie kissed Madame Ludmilla's hand again, and left.

"You speak English, my boy?" she shouted as if I were deaf. "You look Eyipcian, or perhaps Torkish."

I assured Madame Ludmilla that I was neither, and that I did speak English. She asked me then if I fancied her 'figures in front of a mirror'. I didn't know what to say. I just nodded my head affirmatively.

"I give you good show," she assured me. "Figures in front of a mirror is only foreplay. When you are hot and ready, tell me to stop."

From the small hall where we were standing we walked into a dark and eerie room. The windows were heavily curtained. There were some low-voltage light bulbs on fixtures attached to the wall. The bulbs were shaped like tubes and protruded straight out at right angles from the wall.

There was a profusion of objects around the room: pieces of furniture like small chests of drawers, antique tables and chairs, a roll-top desk set against the wall crammed with papers, pencils, rulers, and at least a dozen pairs of scissors. Madame Ludmilla made me sit down on an old stuffed chair.

"The bed is in the other room, darling," she said, pointing to the other side of the room. "This is my antisala. Here I give show to get you hot and ready."

She dropped her red robe, kicked off her slippers, and opened the double doors of two armoires standing side by side against the wall. Attached to the inside of each door was a full-length mirror.

"And now the music, my boy," Madame Ludmilla said, then cranked a Victrola that appeared to be in mint condition, shiny, like new. She put on a record. The music was a haunting melody that reminded me of a circus march.

"And now my show," she said, and began to twirl around to the accompaniment of the haunting melody. The skin of Madame Ludmilla's body was tight, for the most part, and extraordinarily white; though she was not young. She must have been in her well-lived late forties.

Her belly sagged, not a great deal, but a bit, and so did her voluminous breasts. The skin of her face also sagged into noticeable jowls. She had a small nose and heavily painted red lips. She wore thick black mascara. She brought to mind the prototype of an aging prostitute. Yet there was something childlike about her; a girlish abandon and trust; a sweetness that jolted me.

"And now, figures in front of a mirror," Madame Ludmilla announced while the music continued.

"Leg, leg, leg!" she said, kicking one leg up in the air, and then the other, in time with the music. She had her right hand on top of her head, like a little girl who is not sure that she can perform the movements.

"Turn, turn, turn!" she said, turning like a top.

"Butt, butt, butt!" she said then, showing me her bare behind like a cancan dancer.

She repeated the sequence over and over until the music began to fade when the Victrola's spring wound down. I had the feeling that Madame Ludmilla was twirling away into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller as the music faded.

Some despair and loneliness that I didn't know existed in me came to the surface from the depths of my very being. It made me get up and run like a madman out of the room, down the stairs, out of the building, and into the street.

Eddie was standing outside the door talking to the two men in light-blue shiny suits. Seeing me running like that, he began to laugh uproariously.

"Wasn't it a blast?" he said, still trying to sound like an American. "'Figures in front of a mirror is only the foreplay.' What a thing! What a thing!"


The first time I had mentioned the story to don Juan, I had told him that I had been deeply affected by the haunting melody and the old prostitute clumsily twirling to the music; and I had been deeply affected also by the realization of how callous my friend was.

When I had finished retelling my story to don Juan as we sat in the hills of a range of mountains in Sonora, I was shaking; mysteriously affected by something quite undefined.

"That story," don Juan said, "should go in your album of memorable events. Your friend, without having any idea of what he was doing, gave you, as he himself said, something that will indeed last you for a lifetime."

I declared, "I see this as a sad story, don Juan, but that's all."

Don Juan replied, "It is indeed a sad story, just like your other stories; but what makes it different and memorable to me is that it touches every one of us human beings; not just you, like your other tales.

"You see, like Madame Ludmilla, every one of us, young and old alike, is making figures in front of a mirror in one way or another. Tally what you know about people. Think of any human being on this earth, and you will know, without the shadow of a doubt, that no matter who they are, or what they think of themselves, or what they do, the result of their actions is always the same: senseless figures in front of a mirror."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 1 - A Tremor in the Air.

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - A Tremor in the Air.

  • A Journey of Power.
  • The Intent of Infinity.
  • Who Was Don Juan Matus, Really.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 1 - Chapter 04. A Journey of Power.

Version 2006.06.25


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 04. A Journey of Power.

At the time I met don Juan, I was a fairly studious anthropology student, and I wanted to begin my career as a professional anthropologist by publishing as much as possible. I was bent on climbing the academic ladder, and in my calculations, I had determined that the first step was to collect data on the uses of medicinal plants by the Indians of the southwestern United States.


I first asked a professor of anthropology who had worked in that area for advice about my project. He was a prominent ethnologist who had published extensively in the late thirties and early forties on the California Indians and the Indians of the Southwest and Sonora, Mexico. He patiently listened to my exposition.

My idea was to write a paper, call it 'Ethnobotanical Data', and publish it in a journal that dealt exclusively with anthropological issues of the southwestern United States.

I proposed to collect medicinal plants, take the samples to the Botanical Garden at UCLA to be properly identified, and then describe why and how the Indians of the Southwest used them. I envisioned collecting thousands of entries. I even envisioned publishing a small encyclopedia on the subject.

The professor smiled forgivingly at me. "I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm," he said in a tired voice, "but I can't help commenting negatively on your eagerness. Eagerness is welcome in anthropology, but it must be properly channeled. We are still in the golden age of anthropology.

"It was my luck to study with Alfred Krober and Robert Lowie, two pillars of social science. I haven't betrayed their trust. Anthropology is still the master discipline. Every other discipline should stem from anthropology.

"The entire field of history, for example, should be called 'historical anthropology,' and the field of philosophy should be called 'philosophical anthropology.' Man should be the measure of everything. Therefore, anthropology, the study of man, should be the core of every other discipline. Someday, it will."

I looked at him, bewildered. He was, in my estimation, a totally passive, benevolent old professor who had recently had a heart attack. I seemed to have struck a chord of passion in him.

He continued, saying, "Don't you think that you should pay more attention to your formal studies? Rather than doing fieldwork, wouldn't it be better for you to study linguistics? We have in the department here one of the most prominent linguists in the world. If I were you, I'd be sitting at his feet, catching any drift emanating from him.

"We also have a superb authority in comparative religions. And there are some exceptionally competent anthropologists here who have done work on kinship systems in cultures all over the world from the point of view of linguistics, and from the point of view of cognition. You need a lot of preparation. To think that you could do fieldwork now is a travesty. Plunge into your books, young man. That's my advice."


Stubbornly, I took my proposition to another professor; a younger one. He wasn't in any way more helpful. He laughed at me openly. He told me that the paper I wanted to write was a Mickey Mouse paper, and that it wasn't anthropology by any stretch of the imagination.

"Anthropologists nowadays," he said professorially, "are concerned with issues that have relevance. Medical and pharmaceutical scientists have done endless research on every possible medicinal plant in the world. There's no longer any bone to chew on there. Your kind of data collecting belongs to the turn of the nineteenth century. Now it's nearly two hundred years later. There is such a thing as progress, you know."

Then he proceeded to give me a definition and a justification of progress and perfectibility as two issues of philosophical discourse which he said were most relevant to anthropology.

"Anthropology is the only discipline in existence," he continued, "which can clearly substantiate the concept of perfectibility and progress. Thank God that there's still a ray of hope in the midst of the cynicism of our times.

"Only anthropology can show the actual development of culture and social organization. Only anthropologists can prove to mankind beyond the shadow of a doubt the progress of human knowledge. Culture evolves, and only anthropologists can present samples of societies that fit definite cubbyholes in a line of progress and perfectibility.

"That's anthropology for you! Not some puny fieldwork, which is not fieldwork at all, but mere masturbation."


It was a blow on the head to me. As a last resort, I went to Arizona to talk to anthropologists who were actually doing field work there. By then, I was ready to give up on the whole idea. I understood what the two professors were trying to tell me. I couldn't have agreed with them more. My attempts at doing fieldwork were definitely simpleminded.

Yet I wanted to get my feet wet in the field. I didn't want to do only library research.

In Arizona, I met with an extremely seasoned anthropologist who had written copiously on the Yaqui Indians of Arizona as well as those of Sonora, Mexico. He was extremely kind. He didn't run me down, nor did he give me any advice. He only commented that the Indian societies of the Southwest were extremely isolationist, and that foreigners, especially those of Hispanic origin, were distrusted, even abhorred, by those Indians.


A younger colleague of his, however, was more outspoken. He said that I was better off reading herbalists' books. He was an authority in the field, and his opinion was that anything to be known about medicinal plants from the Southwest had already been classified and talked about in various publications.

He went as far as to say that the sources of any Indian curer of the day were precisely those publications rather than any traditional knowledge. He finished me off with the assertion that if there still were any traditional curing practices, the Indians would not divulge them to a stranger.

"Do something worthwhile," he advised me. "Look into urban anthropology. There's a lot of money for studies on alcoholism among Indians in the big city, for example. Now that's something that any anthropologist can do easily. Go and get drunk with local Indians in a bar.

"Then arrange whatever you find out about them in terms of statistics. Turn everything into numbers. Urban anthropology is a real field."


There was nothing else for me to do except to take the advice of those experienced social scientists. I decided to fly back to Los Angeles, but another anthropologist friend of mine named Bill let me know then that he was going to drive throughout Arizona and New Mexico, visiting all the places where he had done work in the past, renewing in this fashion his relationships with the people who had been his anthropological informants.

"You're welcome to come with me," he said. "I'm not going to do any work. I'm just going to visit with them, have a few drinks with them, bullshit with them. I bought gifts for them- blankets, booze, jackets, ammunition for twenty-two caliber rifles. My car is loaded with goodies.

"I usually drive alone whenever I go to see them, but by myself I always run the risk of falling asleep. You could keep me company, keep me from dozing off, or drive a little bit if I'm too drunk."

I felt so despondent that I turned him down.

"I'm very sorry, Bill," I said. "The trip won't do for me, I see no point in pursuing this idea of fieldwork any longer."

"Don't give up without a fight," Bill said in a tone of paternal concern. "Give all you have to the fight, and if it licks you, then it's okay to give up, but not before. Come with me and see how you like the Southwest."

He put his arm around my shoulders. I couldn't help noticing how immensely heavy his arm was. He was tall and husky, but in recent years his body had acquired a strange rigidity. He had lost his boyish quality. His round face was no longer filled, youthful, the way it had been. Now it was a worried face.

I believed that he worried because he was losing his hair, but at times it seemed to me that it was something more than that. And it wasn't that he was fatter. His body was heavy in ways that were impossible to explain. I noticed it in the way that he walked, and got up, and sat down. Bill seemed to me to be fighting gravity with every fiber of his being, in everything he did.

Disregarding my feelings of defeat, I started on a journey with him. We visited every place in Arizona and New Mexico where there were Indians.

One of the end results of this trip was that I found out that my anthropologist friend had two definite facets to his person. He explained to me that his opinions as a professional anthropologist were very measured, and congruous with the anthropological thought of the day, but that as a private person, his anthropological fieldwork had given him a wealth of experiences that he never talked about. These experiences were not congruous with the anthropological thought of the day because they were events that were impossible to catalog.

During the course of our trip, he would invariably have some drinks with his ex-informants, and feel very relaxed afterward. I would take the wheel then and drive as he sat in the passenger seat taking sips from his bottle of thirty year old Ballantine's. It was then that Bill would talk about his uncataloged experiences.

"I have never believed in ghosts," he said abruptly one day. "I never went in for apparitions and floating essences; voices in the dark. You know. I had a very pragmatic, serious upbringing. Science had always been my compass.

"But then, working in the field, all kinds of weird crap began to filter through to me. For instance, I went with some Indians one night on a vision quest. They were going to actually initiate me by some painful business of piercing the muscles of my chest. They were preparing a sweat lodge in the woods.

"I had resigned myself to withstand the pain. I took a couple of drinks to give me strength. And then the man who was going to intercede for me with the people who actually performed the ceremony, yelled in horror, and pointed at a dark, shadowy figure walking toward us.

"When the shadowy figure came closer to me," Bill went on, "I noticed that what I had in front of me was an old Indian dressed in the weirdest getup you could imagine. He had the parapherna of shamans. The man I was with that night fainted shamelessly at the sight of the old man.

"The old man came to me and pointed a finger at my chest. His finger was just skin and bone. He babbled incomprehensible things to me. By then, the rest of the people had seen the old man, and started to rush silently toward me.

"The old man turned to look at them, and every one of them froze. He harangued them for a moment. His voice was something unforgettable. It was as if he were talking from a tube, or as if he had something attached to his mouth that carried the words out of him. I swear to you that I saw the man talking inside his body, and his mouth broadcasting the words as a mechanical apparatus.

"After haranguing the men, the old man continued walking, past me, past them, and disappeared, swallowed by the darkness."

Bill said that the plan to have an initiation ceremony went to pot. It was never performed; and the men, including the shamans in charge, were shaking in their boots. He stated that they were so frightened that they disbanded and left.

"People who had been friends for years," Bill went on, "never spoke to each other again. They claimed that what they had seen was the apparition of an incredibly old shaman, and that it would bring bad luck to talk about it among themselves. In fact, they said that the mere act of setting eyes on one another would bring them bad luck. Most of them moved away from the area."

"Why did they feel that talking to each other or seeing each other would bring them bad luck?" I asked him.

"Those are their beliefs," he replied. "A vision of that nature means to them that the apparition spoke to each of them individually. To have a vision of that nature is, for them, the luck of a lifetime."

"And what was the individual thing that the vision told each of them?" I asked.

"Beats me," he replied. "They never explained anything to me. Every time I asked them, they entered into a profound state of numbness. They hadn't seen anything; they hadn't heard anything.

"Years after the event, the man who had fainted next to me swore to me that he had just faked the faint because he was so frightened that he didn't want to face the old man; and that what the old man had to say was understood by everybody at a level other than language comprehension."

Bill said that in his case, what the apparition voiced to him he understood as having to do with his health and his expectations in life.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked him.

"Things are not that good for me," he confessed. "My body doesn't feel well."

"But do you know what is really the matter with you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said nonchalantly. "Doctors have told me. But I'm not gonna worry about it, or even think about it."

Bill's revelations left me feeling thoroughly uneasy. This was a facet of his person that I didn't know. I had always thought that he was a tough old cookie. I could never conceive of him as vulnerable. I didn't like our exchange. It was, however, too late for me to retreat. Our trip continued.


On another occasion, he confided that the shamans of the Southwest were capable of transforming themselves into different entities, and that the categorization schemes of 'bear shaman', or 'mountain lion shaman', etc., should not be taken as euphemisms or metaphors because they were not.

"Would you believe it," he said in a tone of great admiration, "that there are some shamans who actually become bears, or mountain lions, or eagles? I'm not exaggerating, nor am I fabricating anything when I say that once I witnessed the transformation of a shaman who called himself 'River Man', or 'River Shaman', or 'Proceeding from River: Returning to River.'

"I was out in the mountains of New Mexico with this shaman. I was driving for him. He trusted me, and he was going in search of his origin- or so he said. We were walking along a river when he suddenly got very excited. He told me to move away from the shore to some high rocks, and hide there; put a blanket over my head and shoulders, and peek through it so I would not miss what he was about to do."

"What was he going to do?" I asked him, incapable of containing myself.

"I didn't know," he said. "Your guess would have been as good as mine. I had no way of conceiving of what he was going to do. He just walked into the water, fully dressed. When the water reached him at mid-calf, because it was a wide but shallow river, the shaman simply vanished; disappeared.

"Prior to entering the water, he had whispered in my ear that I should go downstream and wait for him. He told me the exact spot to wait. I, of course, didn't believe a word of what he was saying, so at first I couldn't remember where he had said I had to wait for him, but then I found the spot and I saw the shaman coming out of the water. It sounds stupid to say 'coming out of the water.' I saw the shaman turning into water and then being remade out of the water. Can you believe that?"

I had no comments on his stories. It was impossible for me to believe him, but I could not disbelieve him either. He was a very serious man. The only possible explanation that I could think of was that as we continued our trip he drank more and more every day. He had in the trunk of the car a box of twenty-four bottles of Scotch for only himself. He actually drank like a fish.

"I have always been partial to the esoteric mutations of shamans," he said to me another day. "It's not that I can explain the mutations, or even believe that they take place, but as an intellectual exercise I am very interested in considering that mutations into snakes and mountain lions are not as difficult as what the water shaman did.

"It is at moments like this, when I engage my intellect in such a fashion, that I cease to be an anthropologist and I begin to react, following a gut feeling. My gut feeling is that those shamans certainly do something that can't be measured scientifically or even talked about intelligently.

"For instance, there are cloud shamans who turn into clouds, into mist. I have never seen this happen, but I knew a cloud shaman. I never saw him disappearing or turning into mist in front of my eyes as I saw that other shaman turning into water right in front of me. But I chased that cloud shaman once, and he simply vanished in an area where there was no place for him to hide. Although I didn't see him turning into a cloud, he disappeared. I couldn't explain where he went. There were no rocks or vegetation around the place where he ended up. I was there half a minute after he was, but the shaman was gone.

"I chased that man all over the place for information," Bill went on. "He wouldn't give me the time of day. He was very friendly to me, but that was all."


Bill told me endless other stories about strife and political factions among Indians in different Indian reservations; or stories about personal vendettas, animosities, friendships, etc., etc., which did not interest me in the least.

On the other hand, his stories about shamans' mutations and apparitions had caused a true emotional upheaval in me. I was at once both fascinated and appalled by them. However, when I tried to think about why I was fascinated or appalled, I couldn't tell. All I could have said was that his stories about shamans hit me at an unknown, visceral level.

Another realization brought by this trip was that I verified for myself that the Indian societies of the Southwest were indeed closed to outsiders. I finally came to accept that I did need a great deal of preparation in the science of anthropology, and that it was more functional to do anthropological fieldwork in an area with which I was familiar, or one in which I had an entree.


When the journey ended, Bill drove me to the Greyhound bus depot in Nogales, Arizona, for my return trip to Los Angeles. As we were sitting in the waiting area before the bus came, he consoled me in a paternal manner, reminding me that failures were a matter of course in anthropological fieldwork, and that they meant only the hardening of one's purpose, or the coming to maturity of an anthropologist.

Abruptly, he leaned over and pointed with a slight movement of his chin to the other side of the room. "I think that old man sitting on the bench by the corner over there is the man I told you about," he whispered in my ear. "I am not quite sure because I've had him in front of me, face-to-face, only once."

"What man is that? What did you tell me about him?" I asked.

"When we were talking about shamans and shamans' transformations, I told you that I had once met a cloud shaman."

"Yes, yes, I remember that," I said. "Is that man the cloud shaman?"

"No," he said emphatically. "But I think he is a companion or a teacher of the cloud shaman. I saw both of them together in the distance various times, many years ago."

I did remember Bill mentioning in a very casual manner, although not in relation to the cloud shaman, that he knew about the existence of a mysterious old man who was a retired shaman; an old Indian misanthrope from Yuma who had once been a terrifying sorcerer. The relationship of the old man to the cloud shaman was never voiced by my friend, but obviously it was foremost in Bill's mind to the point where he believed that he had told me about him.

A strange anxiety suddenly possessed me and made me jump out of my seat. As if I had no volition of my own, I approached the old man and immediately began a long tirade on how much I knew about medicinal plants and shamanism among the American Indians of the plains and their Siberian ancestors.

As a secondary theme, I mentioned to the old man that I knew that he was a shaman. I concluded by assuring him that it would be thoroughly beneficial for him to talk to me at length.

"If nothing else," I said petulantly "we could swap stories. You tell me yours and I will tell you mine."

The old man kept his eyes lowered until the last moment. Then he peered at me. "I am Juan Matus," he said, looking me squarely in the eyes.

My tirade shouldn't have ended by any means, but for no reason that I could discern, I felt that there was nothing more I could have said. I wanted to tell him my name. He raised his hand to the height of my lips as if to prevent me from saying it.

At that instant, a bus pulled up to the bus stop. The old man muttered that it was the bus he had to take, then he earnestly asked me to look him up so we could talk with more ease and swap stories. There was an ironic smirk on the comer of his mouth when he said that.

With an incredible agility for a man his age- I figured he must have been in his eighties- he covered, in a few leaps, the fifty yards between the bench where he was sitting and the door of the bus. As if the bus had stopped just to pick him up, it moved away as soon as he had jumped in and the door had closed.

After the old man left, I went back to the bench where Bill was sitting.

"What did he say, what did he say?" he asked excitedly.

"He told me to look him up, and come to his house to visit," I said. "He even said that we could talk there."

"But what did you say to him to get him to invite you to his house?" he demanded.

I told Bill that I had used my best sales pitch, and that I had promised the old man to reveal to him everything I knew from the point of view of my reading about medicinal plants.

Bill obviously didn't believe me. He accused me of holding out on him. "I know the people around this area," he said belligerently, "and that old man is a very strange fart. He doesn't talk to anybody, Indians included. Why would he talk to you; a perfect stranger? You're not even cute!"

It was obvious that Bill was annoyed with me. I couldn't figure out why though. I didn't dare ask him for an explanation. He gave me the impression of being a bit jealous. Perhaps he felt that I had succeeded where he had failed.

However, my success had been so inadvertent that it didn't mean anything to me. Except for Bill's casual remarks, I didn't have any conception of how difficult it was to approach that old man, and I couldn't have cared less. At the time, I found nothing remarkable in the exchange. It baffled me that Bill was so upset about it.

"Do you know where his house is?" I asked him.

"I haven't the foggiest idea," he answered curtly. "I have heard people from this area say that he doesn't live anywhere, that he just appears here and there unexpectedly, but that's a lot of horse-shit. He probably lives in some shack in Nogales, Mexico."

"Why is he so important?" I asked him. My question made me gather enough courage to add, "You seem to be upset because he talked to me. Why?"

Without any ado, he admitted that he was chagrined because he knew how useless it was to try to talk to that man. "That old man is as rude as anyone can be," he added. "At best, he stares at you without saying a word when you talk to him. At other times, he doesn't even look at you. He treats you as if you didn't exist.

"The one time I tried to talk to him, he brutally turned me down. Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'If I were you, I wouldn't waste my energy opening my mouth. Save it. You need it.' If he weren't such an old fart, I would have punched him in the nose."

I pointed out to Bill that to call him an 'old' man was more a figure of speech than an actual description.

The Indian didn't really appear to be that old, although he was definitely old. He possessed a tremendous vigor and agility. I felt that Bill would have failed miserably if he had tried to punch him in the nose. That old Indian was powerful. In fact, he was downright scary.

I didn't voice my thoughts. I let Bill go on telling me how disgusted he was at the nastiness of that old man, and how he would have dealt with him had it not been for the fact that the old man was so feeble.

"Who do you think could give me some information about where he might live?" I asked him.

"Perhaps some people in Yuma," he replied, a bit more relaxed. "Maybe the people I introduced you to at the beginning of our trip. You wouldn't lose anything by asking them. Tell them that I sent you to them."


I changed my plans right then and instead of going back to Los Angeles, I went directly to Yuma, Arizona. I saw the people to whom Bill had introduced me. They didn't know where the old Indian lived, but their comments about him inflamed my curiosity even more.

They said that he was not from Yuma, but from Sonora, Mexico, and that in his youth he had been a fearsome sorcerer who did incantations and put spells on people; but that he had mellowed with age, turning into an ascetic hermit.

They remarked that although he was a Yaqui Indian, he had once run around with a group of Mexican men who seemed to be extremely knowledgeable about bewitching practices. They all agreed that they hadn't seen those men in the area for ages.

One of the men added that the old man was contemporaneous with his grandfather, but that while his grandfather was senile and bedridden, the sorcerer seemed to be more vigorous than ever. The same man referred me to some people in Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, who might know the old man and who might be able to tell me more about him.


The prospect of going to Mexico was not at all appealing to me. Sonora was too far away from my area of interest. Besides, I reasoned that I was better off doing urban anthropology after all, and I went back to Los Angeles. But before leaving for Los Angeles, I canvassed the area of Yuma, searching for information about the old man. No one knew anything about him.

As the bus drove to Los Angeles, I experienced a unique sensation. On the one hand, I felt totally cured of my obsession with fieldwork or my interest in the old man. On the other hand, I felt a strange nostalgia. It was, truthfully, something I had never felt before. Its newness struck me profoundly.

It was a mixture of anxiety and longing, as if I were missing something of tremendous importance. I had the clear sensation as I approached Los Angeles that whatever had been acting on me around Yuma had begun to fade with distance; but its fading only increased my unwarranted longing.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 1 - Chapter 05. The Intent of Infinity.

Version


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 05. The Intent of Infinity.

"I want you", don Juan said to me, "to think deliberately about every detail of what transpired between you and those two men, Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado, who are the ones who really delivered you to me; and then tell me all about it."

I found his request very difficult to fulfill, and yet I actually enjoyed remembering everything those two had said to me. Don Juan wanted every detail possible; something that forced me to push my memory to its limits.


In Yuma, Arizona, I had been given the names and addresses of some people in Mexico who, I was told, might be able to shed light on the mystery of the old man I had met in the bus depot.

The story don Juan wanted me to recollect began in the city of to Guaymas, in Sonora, Mexico.

The people I went to see not only did not know any retired old shaman, they even doubted that such a man had ever existed.

They were all filled to the brim, however, with scary stories about Yaqui shamans, and about the belligerent general mood of the Yaqui Indians.

They insinuated that perhaps in Vicam, a railroad-station town between the cities of Guaymas and Ciudad Obregon, I might find someone who could perhaps steer me in the proper direction.

I asked them, "Is there anyone in particular I could look up?"

One of the men suggested, "Your best bet would be to talk to a field inspector of the official government bank. The bank has a lot of field inspectors. They know all the Indians of the area because the bank is the government institution that buys their crops. Every Yaqui is a farmer, and the proprietor of a parcel of land that he can call his own as long as he cultivates it."

I asked, "Do you know any field inspectors?"

They looked at each other, and smiled apologetically at me. They did not know any, but strongly recommended that I should approach one of those inspectors on my own, and put my case to him.


In Vicam Station, my attempts at making contact with the field inspectors of the government bank were a total disaster. I met three of them, but when I told them what I wanted, every one of them looked at me with utter distrust.

They immediately suspected that I was a spy sent there by the Yankees to cause problems that they could not clearly define, but about which they made wild speculations ranging from political agitation to industrial espionage. It was the unsubstantiated belief of everyone around that there were copper deposits in the lands of the Yaqui Indians, and that the Yankees coveted them.


After this resounding failure, I retreated to the city of Guaymas, and stayed at a hotel that was very close to a fabulous restaurant. I went to the restaurant three times a day. The food was superb. I liked it so much that I stayed in Guaymas for over a week. I practically lived in the restaurant, and became, in this manner, acquainted with the owner, Mr. Reyes.

One afternoon while I was eating, Mr. Reyes came to my table with another man whom he introduced to me as Jorge Campos- a full-blooded Yaqui Indian entrepreneur who had lived in Arizona in his youth, who spoke English perfectly, and who was more American than any American. Mr. Reyes praised him as a true example of how hard work and dedication could develop a person into an exceptional man.

Mr. Reyes left and Jorge Campos sat down next to me, and immediately took over. He pretended to be modest, and denied all praise; but it was obvious that he was as pleased as punch with what Mr. Reyes had said about him.

At first sight, I had the clear impression that Jorge Campos was an entrepreneur of the particular kind that one finds in bars or on crowded corners of main streets trying to sell an idea; or simply trying to find a way to con people out of their savings.

Mr. Campos was very pleasant looking, around six feet tall and lean, but with a high pot belly like a habitual drinker of hard liquor. He had a very dark complexion with a touch of green to it, and wore expensive blue jeans and shiny cowboy boots with pointed toes and angular heels as if he needed to dig them into the ground to stop being dragged by a lassoed steer.

He was wearing an impeccably ironed gray plaid shirt. In its right pocket was a plastic pocket guard into which he had inserted a row of pens. I had seen the same pocket guard among office workers who did not want to stain their shirt pockets with ink.

His attire also included an expensive looking fringed reddish brown suede jacket, and a tall Texas style cowboy hat.

His round face was expressionless. He had no wrinkles even though he seemed to be in his early fifties.

For some unknown reason, I believed that he was dangerous.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Campos," I said in Spanish, extending my hand to him.

"Let's dispense with the formalities," he responded, also in Spanish, shaking my hand vigorously. "I like to treat young people as equals regardless of age differences. Call me Jorge."

He was quiet for a moment, no doubt assessing my reaction. I did not know what to say. I certainly did not want to humor him, nor did I want to take him seriously.

"I am curious to know what you're doing in Guaymas," he went on casually. "You do not seem to be a tourist, nor do you seem to be interested in deep-sea fishing."

"I am an anthropology student," I said, "and I am trying to establish my credentials with the local Indians in order to do some field research."

"And I am a businessman," he said. "My business is to supply information; to be the go-between. You have the need, I have the commodity. I charge for my services. However, my services are guaranteed. If you do not get satisfaction, you do not have to pay me."

"If your business is to supply information," I said, "I will gladly pay you whatever you charge."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "You certainly need a guide; someone with more education than the average Indian here to show you around. Do you have a grant from the United States government or from another big institution?"

"Yes," I lied. "I have a grant from the Esoterical Foundation of Los Angeles."

When I said that, I actually saw a glint of greed in his eyes. "Ah!" he exclaimed again. "How big is that institution?"

"Fairly big," I said.

"My goodness! Is that so?" he said, as if my words were an explanation that he had wanted to hear. "And now, may I ask you, if you do not mind, how big is your grant? How much money did they give you?"

"A few thousand dollars to do preliminary fieldwork," I lied again, to see what he would say.

Relishing his words, he said, "Ah! I like people who are direct. I am sure that you and I are going to reach an agreement. I offer you my services as a guide and as a key that can open many secret doors among the Yaquis. As you can see by my general appearance, I am a man of taste and means."

"Oh, yes, definitely you are a man of good taste," I asserted.

"What I am saying to you," he said, "is that for a small fee, which you will find most reasonable, I will steer you to the right people; people to whom you could ask any question you want. And for some very little more, I will translate their words to you, verbatim, into Spanish or English. I can also speak French and German, but I have the feeling that those languages do not interest you."

"You are right, you are so very right," I said. "Those languages do not interest me at all. But how much would your fees be?"

"Ah! My fees!" he said, and took a leather covered notebook out of his back pocket, and flipped it open in front of my face. He scribbled quick notes on it, flipped it closed again, and put it in his pocket with precision and speed. I was sure that he wanted to give me the impression of being efficient and fast at calculating figures.

"I will charge you fifty dollars a day," he said, "with transportation, plus my meals. I mean, when you eat, I eat. What do you say?"

At that moment, he leaned over to me and, almost in a whisper, said that we should shift into English because he did not want people to know the nature of our transactions. He began to speak to me then in something that wasn't English at all.

I was at a loss. I did not know how to respond. I began to fret nervously as the man kept on talking gibberish with the most natural air. He did not bat an eyelash. He moved his hands in a very animated fashion and pointed around him as if he were instructing me.

I did not have the impression that he was speaking in tongues. I thought perhaps he was speaking the Yaqui language.

When people came around our table and looked at us, I nodded and said to Jorge Campos, "Yes, yes, indeed." At one point I said, "You could say that again," and this sounded so funny to me that I broke into a belly laugh.

He also laughed heartily, as if I had said the funniest thing possible.

He must have noticed that I was finally at my wits' end, and before I could get up and tell him to get lost, he started to speak Spanish again.

"I do not want to tire you with my silly observations," he said. "But if I am going to be your guide, as I think I am going to be, we will be spending long hours chatting. I was testing you just now, to see if you are a good conversationalist. If I am going to spend time with you driving, I need someone by me who could be a good receptor and initiator. I am glad to tell you that you are both."

Then he stood up, shook my hand, and left.


As if on cue, the owner came to my table, smiling and shaking his head from side to side like a little bear.

"Isn't he a fabulous guy?" he asked me.

I did not want to commit myself to a statement.

Mr. Reyes volunteered that Jorge Campos was at that moment a go-between in an extremely delicate and profitable transaction. He said that some mining companies in the United States were interested in the iron and copper deposits that belonged to the Yaqui Indians, and that Jorge Campos was there in line to collect perhaps a five million dollar fee.

I knew then that Jorge Campos was a con man. There were no iron or copper deposits on the lands owned by the Yaqui Indians. If there had been any, private enterprises would have already moved the Yaquis out of those lands and relocated them somewhere else.

I said, "He's fabulous; the most wonderful guy I ever met. How can I get in touch with him again?"

Mr. Reyes said, "Do not worry about that. Jorge asked me all about you. He has been watching you since you came. He'll probably come and knock on your door later today or tomorrow."

Mr. Reyes was right. A couple of hours later, somebody woke me from my afternoon nap. It was Jorge Campos.

I had intended to leave Guaymas in the early evening, and drive all night to California. I explained to him that I was leaving, but that I would come back in a month or so.

"Ah! But you must stay now that I have decided to be your guide," he said.

"I am sorry, but we will have to wait for this because my time is very limited now," I replied.

I knew that Jorge Campos was a crook, yet I decided to reveal to him that I already had an informant who was waiting to work with me, and that I had met him in Arizona. I described the old man and said that his name was Juan Matus, and that other people had characterized him as a shaman.

Jorge Campos smiled at me broadly.

I asked him if he knew the old man.

"Ah, yes, I know him," he said jovially. "You may say that we are good friends." Without being invited, Jorge Campos came into the room and sat down at the table just inside the balcony.

"Does he live around here?" I asked.

"He certainly does," he assured me.

"Would you take me to him?"

"I do not see why not," he said. "I would need a couple of days to make my own inquiries, just to make sure that he is there, and then we will go and see him."

I knew that he was lying, yet I did not want to believe it. I even thought that my initial distrust had perhaps been ill-founded. He seemed so convincing at that moment.

"However," he continued, "in order to take you to see the man, I will charge you a flat fee. My honorarium will be two hundred dollars."

That amount was more than I had at my disposal. I politely declined, and said that I did not have enough money with me.

"I do not want to appear mercenary," he said with his most winning smile, "but how much money can you afford? You must take into consideration that I have to do a little bribing. The Yaqui Indians are very private, but there are always ways. There are always doors that open with a magical key- money."

In spite of all my misgivings, I was convinced that Jorge Campos was my entry not only into the Yaqui world, but to finding the old man who had intrigued me so much. I did not want to haggle over money. I was almost embarrassed to offer him the fifty dollars I had in my pocket.

"I am at the end of my stay here," I said as a sort of apology, "so I have nearly run out of money. I have only fifty dollars left."

Jorge Campos stretched his long legs under the table, and crossed his arms behind his head, tipping his hat over his face.

"I'll take your fifty dollars and your watch," he said shamelessly. "But for that money, I will take you to meet a minor shaman.

"Do not get impatient," he warned me, as if I were going to protest. "We must step carefully up the ladder, from the lower ranks to the man himself who I assure you is at the very top."

"And when could I meet this minor shaman?" I asked, handing him the money and my watch.

"Right now!" he replied as he sat up straight, and eagerly grabbed the money and the watch. "Let's go! There's not a minute to waste!"

We got into my car and he directed me to head off for the town of Potam, one of the traditional Yaqui towns along the Yaqui River.

As we drove, he revealed to me that we were going to meet Lucas Coronado, a man who was known for his sorcery feats, his shamanistic trances, and for the magnificent masks that he made for the Yaqui festivities of Lent.

Then he shifted the conversation to the old man, and what he said was in total contradiction to what others had said to me about the man. While they had described him as a hermit and retired shaman, Jorge Campos portrayed him as the most prominent curer and sorcerer of the area, a man whose fame had turned him into a nearly inaccessible figure.

He paused, like an actor, and then he delivered his blow: He said that to talk to the old man on a steady basis, the way anthropologists like to do, was going to cost me at least two thousand dollars.

I was going to protest such a drastic hike in price, but he anticipated me.

"For two hundred dollars, I could take you to him," he said. "Out of those two hundred dollars, I would clear about thirty. The rest would go for bribes. But to talk to him at length will cost more. You yourself could figure that out. He has actual bodyguards; people who protect him. I have to sweet-talk them and come up with dough for them.

"In the end," he continued, "I will give you a total account with receipts and everything for your taxes. Then you will know that my commission for setting it all up is minimal."

I felt a wave of admiration for him. He was aware of everything, even receipts for income tax. He was quiet for a while as if calculating his minimal profit. I had nothing to say. I was busy calculating myself, trying to figure out a way to get two thousand dollars. I even thought of really applying for a grant.

I asked, "But are you sure the old man would talk to me?"

"Of course," he assured me. "Not only would he talk to you, he's going to perform sorcery for you for what you pay him. Then you could work out an agreement with him as to how much you could pay him for further lessons."

Jorge Campos kept silent again for a while, peering into my eyes.

"Do you think that you could pay me the two thousand dollars?" he asked in a tone so purposefully indifferent that I instantly knew it was a sham.

"Oh, yes, I can easily afford that," I lied reassuringly.

He could not disguise his glee.

"Good boy! Good boy!" he cheered. "We're going to have a ball!"

I tried to ask him some general questions about the old man, but he forcefully cut me off. "Save all this for the man himself. He'll be all yours," he said, smiling.

He began to tell me then about his life in the United States and about his business aspirations; and to my utter bewilderment, since I had already classified him as a phony who did not speak a word of English, he shifted into English.

"You do speak English!" I exclaimed without any attempt at hiding my surprise.

"Of course I do, my boy," he said, affecting a Texan accent, which he carried on for the duration of our conversation. "I told you, I wanted to test you, to see if you are resourceful. You are. In fact, you are quite clever, I may say."

His command of English was superb, and he delighted me with jokes and stories.


In no time at all, we were in Potam. He directed me to a house on the outskirts of town. We got out of the car. He led the way, calling loudly in Spanish for Lucas Coronado.

We heard a voice from the back of the house that said, also in Spanish, "Come over here."

There was a man behind a small shack, sitting on the ground, on a goatskin. He was holding a piece of wood with his bare feet while he worked on it with a chisel and a mallet. By holding the piece of wood in place with the pressure of his feet, he had fashioned a stupendous potter's turning wheel, so to speak. His feet turned the piece as his hands worked the chisel.

I had never seen anything like this in my life. He was making a mask, hollowing it with a curved chisel. His control of his feet in holding the wood and turning it around was remarkable.

The man was very thin. He had a thin face with angular features, high cheekbones, and a dark, copperish complexion. The skin of his face and neck seemed to be stretched to the maximum. He sported a thin, droopy mustache that gave his angular face a malevolent slant. He had an aquiline nose with a very thin bridge, and fierce black eyes. His extremely black eyebrows appeared as if they had been drawn on with a pencil, and so did his jet black hair, combed backward on his head.

I had never seen a more hostile face. The image that came to mind looking at him was that of an Italian poisoner of the era of the Medicis. The words 'truculent' and 'saturnine' seemed to be the most apt descriptions when I focused my attention on Lucas Coronado's face.

I noticed that while he was sitting on the ground holding the piece of wood with his feet, the bones of his legs were so long that his knees came to his shoulders. When we approached him, he stopped working and stood up. He was taller than Jorge Campos, and as thin as a rail. As a gesture of deference to us, I suppose, he put on his guaraches.

"Come in, come in," he said without smiling.

I had a strange feeling then that Lucas Coronado did not know how to smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked Jorge Campos.

"I've brought this young man here because he wants to ask you some questions about your art," Jorge Campos said in a most patronizing tone. "I vouched that you would answer his questions truthfully."

"Oh, that's no problem, that's no problem," Lucas Coronado assured me, sizing me up with his cold stare.

He shifted into a different language then, which I presumed to be Yaqui. He and Jorge Campos got into an animated conversation that lasted for some time. Both of them acted as if I did not exist. Then Jorge Campos turned to me.

"We have a little problem here," he said. "Lucas has just informed me that this is a very busy season for him since the festivities are approaching; so he won't be able to answer all the questions that you ask him, but he will at another time."

"Yes, yes, most certainly," Lucas Coronado said to me in Spanish. "At another time, indeed; at another time."

"We have to cut our visit short," Jorge Campos said, "but I'll bring you back again."

As we were leaving, I felt moved to express to Lucas Coronado my admiration for his stupendous technique of working with his hands and feet. He looked at me as if I were mad, his eyes widening with surprise.

"You've never seen anyone working on a mask?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Where are you from? Mars?"

I felt stupid. I tried to explain that his technique was quite new to me. He seemed ready to hit me on the head.

Jorge Campos said to me in English that I had offended Lucas Coronado with my comments. He had understood my praise as a veiled way of making fun of his poverty. My words had been to him an ironic statement of how poor and helpless he was.

"But it's the opposite," I said. "I think he's magnificent!"

"Do not try to tell him anything like that," Jorge Campos retorted. "These people are trained to receive and dispense insults in a most covert form. He thinks it's odd that you run him down when you do not even know him, and make fun of the fact that he cannot afford a vise to hold his sculpture."

I felt totally at a loss. The last thing I wanted was to foul up my only possible contact. Jorge Campos seemed to be utterly aware of my chagrin.

"Buy one of his masks," he advised me.

I told him that I intended to drive to Los Angeles in one lap, without stopping, and that I had just sufficient money to buy gasoline and food.

"Well, give him your leather jacket," he said matter-of-factly in a confidential, helpful tone. "Otherwise, you're going to anger him, and all he'll remember about you will be your insults. But do not tell him that his masks are beautiful. Just buy one."

When I told Lucas Coronado that I wanted to trade my leather jacket for one of his masks, he grinned with satisfaction. He took the jacket, and put it on. He walked to his house, but before he entered, he did some strange gyrations. He knelt in front of some sort of religious altar, and moved his arms as if to stretch them, and rubbed his hands on the sides of the jacket.

He went inside the house, and brought out a bundle wrapped in newspapers which he handed to me. I wanted to ask him some questions. He excused himself, saying that he had to work; but added that if I wanted, I could come back at another time.

On the way back to the city of Guaymas, Jorge Campos asked me to open the bundle. He wanted to make sure that Lucas Coronado had not cheated me. I did not care to open the bundle. My only concern was the possibility that I could come back by myself to talk to Lucas Coronado. I was elated.

"I must see what you have," Jorge Campos insisted. "Stop the car, please. Not under any conditions, or for any reasons whatsoever would I endanger my clients. You paid me to render some services to you. That man is a genuine shaman, and therefore very dangerous. Because you have offended him, he may have given you a witchcraft bundle. If that's the case, we have to bury it quickly in this area."

I felt a wave of nausea, and stopped the car. With extreme care, I took out the bundle. Jorge Campos snatched it out of my hands, and opened it. It contained three beautifully made traditional Yaqui masks.

Jorge Campos mentioned, in a casual, disinterested tone, that it would be only proper that I give him one of them.

I reasoned that since he had not yet taken me to see the old man, I had to preserve my connection with him. I gladly gave him one of the masks.

"If you allow me to choose, I would rather take that one," he said, pointing.

I told him to go ahead. The masks did not mean anything to me. I had gotten what I was after. I would have given him the other two masks as well, but I wanted to show them to my anthropologist friends.

"These masks are nothing extraordinary," Jorge Campos declared. "You can buy them in any store in town. They sell them to tourists there."

I had seen the Yaqui masks that were sold in the stores in town. They were very rude masks in comparison to the ones I had, and Jorge Campos had indeed picked out the best.

I left him in the city and headed for Los Angeles. Before I said good-bye, he reminded me that I practically owed him two thousand dollars because he was going to start his bribing and working toward taking me to meet the big man.

"Do you think that you could give me my two thousand dollars the next time you come?" he asked daringly.

His question put me in a terrible position. I believed that to tell him the truth, that I doubted it, would have made him drop me. I was convinced then that in spite of his patent greed, he was my usher.

In a noncommittal tone, I said, "I will do my best to have the money."

"You gotta do better than that, boy," he retorted forcefully, almost angrily. "I am going to spend money on my own setting up this meeting, and I must have some reassurance on your part. I know that you are a very serious young man. How much is your car worth? Do you have the pink slip?"

I told him what my car was worth, and that I did have the pink slip, but he seemed satisfied only when I gave him my word that I would bring him the money in cash on my next visit.


Five months later, I went back to Guaymas to see Jorge Campos. Two thousand dollars at that time was a considerable amount of money, especially for a student. I thought that if perhaps he were willing to take partial payments, I would be more than happy to commit myself to pay that amount in installments.

I couldn't find Jorge Campos anywhere in Guaymas. I asked the owner of the restaurant. He was as baffled as I was about his disappearance.

"He has just vanished," he said. "I am sure he went back to Arizona, or to Texas, where he has business."

I took a chance, and went to see Lucas Coronado by myself. I arrived at his house at midday. I couldn't find him either.

I asked his neighbors if they knew where he might be. They looked at me belligerently and did not dignify me with an answer.

I left, but went by his house again in the late afternoon. I did not expect anything at all. In fact, I was prepared to leave for Los Angeles immediately.

To my surprise, Lucas Coronado was not only there, but was extremely friendly to me. He frankly expressed his approval on seeing that I had come without Jorge Campos who he said was an outright pain in the ass. He complained that Jorge Campos, to whom he referred as a renegade Yaqui Indian, took delight in exploiting his fellow Yaquis.

I gave Lucas Coronado some gifts that I had brought him, and bought from him three masks, an exquisitely carved staff, and a pair of rattling leggings made out of the cocoons of some insects from the desert; leggings which the Yaquis used in their traditional dances. Then I took him to Guaymas for dinner.

I saw him every day for the five days that I remained in the area, and he gave me endless amounts of information about the Yaquis, their history and social organization, and the meaning and nature of their festivities. I was having such fun as a field-worker that I even felt reluctant to ask him if he knew anything about the old shaman.

Overcoming second thoughts, I finally asked Lucas Coronado if he knew the old man whom Jorge Campos had assured me was such a prominent shaman. Lucas Coronado seemed perplexed. He assured me that, to his knowledge, no such man had ever existed in that part of the country, and that Jorge Campos was a crook who only wanted to cheat me out of my money.

Hearing Lucas Coronado deny the existence of that old man had a terrible, unexpected impact on me. In one instant, it became evident to me that I really did not give a damn about field-work. I only cared about finding that old man.

I knew then that meeting the old shaman had indeed been the culmination of something that had nothing to do with my desires, aspirations, or even thoughts as an anthropologist.

I wondered more than ever who in the hell that old man was. Without any inhibitory checks, I began to rant and yell in frustration. I stomped on the floor.

Lucas Coronado was quite taken aback by my display. He looked at me, bewildered, and then started to laugh. I had no idea that he could laugh.

I apologized to him for my outburst of anger and frustration. I couldn't explain why I was so out of sorts. Lucas Coronado seemed to understand my quandary.

He said, "Things like that happen in this area."

I had no idea to what he was referring, nor did I want to ask him. I was deadly afraid of the easiness with which he took offense. A peculiarity of the Yaquis was the facility they had to feel offended. They seemed to be perennially on their toes, looking out for insults that were too subtle to be noticed by anyone else.

He continued, saying, "There are magical beings living in the mountains around here, and they can act on people. They make people go veritably mad. People rant and rave under their influence, and when they finally calm down, exhausted, they do not have any clue as to why they exploded."

I asked, "Do you think that's what happened to me?"

"Definitely," he replied with total conviction. "You already have a predisposition to going bonkers at the drop of a hat, but you are also very contained. Today, you weren't contained. You went bananas over nothing."

"It isn't over nothing," I assured him. "I did not know it until now, but to me that old man is the driving force of all my efforts."

Lucas Coronado kept quiet, as if in deep thought. Then he began to pace up and down.

"Do you know any old man who lives around here, but is not quite from this area?" I asked him.

He did not understand my question. I had to explain to him that the old Indian I had met was perhaps like Jorge Campos; a Yaqui who had lived somewhere else.

Lucas Coronado explained that the surname Matus was quite common in that area, but that he did not know any Matus whose first name was Juan. He seemed despondent. Then he had a moment of insight, and stated that because the man was old, he might have another name, and that perhaps he had given me a working name; not his real one.

"The only old man I know," he went on, "is Ignacio Flores's father. He comes to see his son from time to time, but he comes from Mexico City. Come to think of it, he's Ignacio's father, but he doesn't seem that old. But he's old. Ignacio's old, too. His father seems younger, though."

He laughed heartily at his realization. Apparently, he had never thought about the youth of the old man until that moment. He kept on shaking his head, as if in disbelief. I, on the other hand, was elated beyond measure.

"That's the man!" I yelled without knowing why.

Lucas Coronado did not know where Ignacio Flores actually lived, but he was very accommodating. He directed me to drive to a nearby Yaqui town where he found Ignacio Flores for me.


Lucas Coronado had warned me that Ignacio Flores had been a career soldier in his youth, and that he still had the bearing of a military man.

Ignacio Flores was a big, corpulent man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. He had an enormous mustache. That and the fierceness of his eyes made him, for me, the personification of a ferocious soldier. He had a dark complexion. His hair was still jet black in spite of his years.

His forceful, gravelly voice seemed to be trained solely to give commands. I had the impression that he had been a cavalry man.

He walked as if he were still wearing spurs, and for some strange reason impossible to fathom, I heard the sound of spurs when he walked.

Lucas Coronado introduced me to him, and said that I had come from Arizona to see his father whom I had met in Nogales. Ignacio Flores did not seem surprised at all.

"Oh yes," he said. "My father travels a great deal." Without any other preliminaries, he directed us to where we could find his father. He did not come with us; I thought out of politeness. He excused himself and marched away as if he were keeping step in a parade.


I prepared myself to go to the old man's house with Lucas Coronado. Instead, he politely declined. He wanted me to drive him back to his house.

"I think you found the man you were looking for, and I feel that you should be alone," he said.

I marveled at how extraordinarily polite these Yaqui Indians were, and yet at the same time, so fierce. I had been told that the Yaquis were savages who had no qualms about killing anyone. As far as I was concerned, though, their most remarkable feature was their politeness and consideration.

I drove to the house of Ignacio Flores's father, and there I found the man I was looking for.


At the end of my account, I said to don Juan, "I wonder why Jorge Campos lied and told me that he knew you."

"He did not lie to you," don Juan said with the conviction of someone who was condoning Jorge Campos's behavior. "He did not even misrepresent himself. He thought you were an easy mark, and was going to cheat you. He couldn't carry out his plan, though, because infinity overpowered him. Do you know that he disappeared soon after he met you, never to be found?

"Jorge Campos was a most meaningful personage for you," he continued. "You will find in whatever transpired between the two of you a sort of guiding blueprint- because he is the representation of your life."

"Why? I am not a crook!" I protested.

He laughed, as if he knew something that I did not. The next thing I knew, I found myself in the midst of an extensive explanation of my actions, my ideals, and my expectations.

However, a strange thought urged me to consider with the same fervor with which I was explaining myself, that under certain circumstances I might be like Jorge Campos. I found the thought inadmissible, and I used all my available energy to try to disprove it. However, down in the depths of myself, I did not care to apologize if I were like Jorge Campos.

When I voiced my dilemma, don Juan laughed so hard that he choked, many times.

"If I were you," he commented, "I'd listen to my inner voice. What difference would it make if you were like Jorge Campos: a crook! He was a cheap crook. You are more elaborate. This is the power of the recounting. This is why sorcerers use it. It puts you into contact with something that you did not even suspect existed in you."

I wanted to leave right then. Don Juan knew exactly how I felt.

"Do not listen to the superficial voice that makes you angry," he said commandingly. "Listen to that deeper voice that is going to guide you from now on; the voice that is laughing. Listen to it! And laugh with it. Laugh! Laugh!"

His words were like a hypnotic command to me. Against my will, I began to laugh. Never had I been so happy. I felt free; unmasked.

Don Juan said, "Recount to yourself the story of Jorge Campos, over and over. You will find endless wealth in it. Every detail is part of a map. It is the nature of infinity, once we cross a certain threshold, to put a blueprint in front of us."

He peered at me for a long time, but he did not merely glance as before. He gazed intently at me.

He finally said, "One deed which Jorge Campos couldn't avoid performing was to put you in contact with the other man, Lucas Coronado, who is as meaningful to you as Jorge Campos himself; maybe even more.

In the course of recounting the story of those two men, I had realized that I had spent more time with Lucas Coronado than with Jorge Campos; however, our exchanges had not been as intense, and were marked by enormous lagoons of silence. Lucas Coronado was not by nature a talkative man, and by some strange twist, whenever he was silent he managed to drag me with him into that state.

"Lucas Coronado is the other part of your map," don Juan said. "Do not you find it strange that he is a sculptor, like yourself; a super-sensitive artist who was, like yourself at one time, in search of a sponsor for his art? He looked for a sponsor just like you looked for a woman; a lover of the arts, who would sponsor your creativity."

I entered into another terrifying struggle. This time my struggle was between my absolute certainty that I had not mentioned this aspect of my life to him, the fact that all of it was true, and the fact that I was unable to find an explanation for how he could have obtained this information.

Again, I wanted to leave right away. But once more, the impulse was overpowered by a voice that came from a deep place. Without any coaxing, I began to laugh heartily. Some part of me, at a profound level, did not give a hoot about finding out how don Juan had gotten that information. The fact that he had it, and had displayed it in such a delicate but conniving manner was a delightful maneuver to witness. It was of no consequence that the superficial part of me got angry and wanted to leave.

"Very good," don Juan said to me, patting me forcefully on the back, "very good."

He was pensive for a moment, as if he were perhaps seeing things invisible to the average eye.

"Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado are the two ends of an axis," he said. "That axis is you; at one end, a ruthless, shameless, crass mercenary who takes care of himself; hideous, but indestructible. At the other end, a super-sensitive, tormented artist, weak and vulnerable.

"That should have been the map of your life, were it not for the appearance of another possibility; the one that opened up when you crossed the threshold of infinity. You searched for me, and you found me; and so, you did cross the threshold.

"The intent of infinity told me to look for someone like you. I found you, thus I crossed the threshold myself."

The conversation ended at that point. Don Juan went into one of his habitual long periods of total silence.

It was only at the end of the day when we had returned to his house and we were sitting under his ramada cooling off from the long hike we had taken, that he broke his silence.

Don Juan went on, saying, "In your recounting of what happened between you and Jorge Campos, and you and Lucas Coronado, I found, and I hope you did, too, a very disturbing factor.

"For me, it's an omen. It points to the end of an era, meaning that whatever was standing there cannot remain. Very flimsy elements brought you to me. None of them could stand on their own. This is what I drew from your recounting."

I remembered that don Juan had revealed to me one day that Lucas Coronado was terminally ill. He had some health condition that was slowly consuming him.

"I have sent word to him through my son Ignacio about what he should do to cure himself," don Juan went on, "but he thinks it's nonsense and doesn't want to hear it. It isn't Lucas's fault. The entire human race doesn't want to hear anything. They hear only what they want to hear."

I remembered that I had prevailed upon don Juan to tell me what I could say to Lucas Coronado to help him alleviate his physical pain and mental anguish. Don Juan not only told me what to tell him, but asserted that if Lucas Coronado wanted to, he could easily cure himself.

Nevertheless, when I delivered don Juan's message, Lucas Coronado looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Then he shifted into a brilliant, and, had I been a Yaqui, a deeply insulting portrayal of a man who is bored to death by someone's unwarranted insistence. I thought that only a Yaqui Indian could be so subtle.

"Those things do not help me," he finally said defiantly, angered by my lack of sensibility. "It doesn't really matter. We all have to die. But do not you dare believe that I have lost hope. I am going to get some money from the government bank. I will get an advance on my crops, and then I will get enough money to buy something that will cure me, ipso facto. It's name is Vi-ta-mi-nol."

I asked, "What is Vitaminol?"

"It is something that is advertised on the radio," he said with the innocence of a child. "It cures everything. It is recommended for people who do not eat meat or fish or fowl every day. It is recommended for people like myself who can barely keep body and soul together."

In my eagerness to help Lucas Coronado, I committed right then the biggest blunder imaginable in a society of such hypersensitive beings as the Yaquis. I offered to give him the money to buy Vitaminol. His cold stare was the measure of how deeply I had hurt him. My stupidity was unforgivable. Very softly, Lucas Coronado said that he was capable of affording Vitaminol himself.

I went back to don Juan's house. I felt like weeping. My eagerness had betrayed me.

"Do not waste your energy worrying about things like that," don Juan said coldly. "Lucas Coronado is locked in a vicious cycle, but so are you. So is everyone. He has Vitaminol, which he trusts will cure everything, and resolve every one of his problems. At the moment, he can't afford it, but he has great hopes that he eventually will be able to."

Don Juan peered at me with his piercing eyes. "I told you that Lucas Coronado's acts are the map of your life," he said. "Believe you me, they are. Lucas Coronado pointed out Vitaminol to you, and he did it so powerfully and painfully that he hurt you and made you weep."

Don Juan stopped talking then. It was a long and most effective pause. "And do not tell me that you do not understand what I mean," he said. "One way or another, we all have our own version of Vitaminol."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 1 - Chapter 06. Who Was Don Juan Matus, Really?

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - Chapter 06. Who Was Don Juan Matus, Really?

The part of my account of meeting don Juan that he didn't want to hear about was my feelings and impressions on that fateful day when I walked into his house: the contradictory clash between my expectations and the reality of the situation, and the effect that was caused in me by a cluster of the most extravagant ideas I had ever heard.

"That is more in the line of confession than in the line of events," he had said to me once when I tried to tell him about all this.

"You couldn't be more wrong, don Juan," I began, but I stopped. Something in the way he looked at me made me realize that he was right. Whatever I was going to say could have sounded only like lip service, flattery. What had taken place on our first real meeting, however, was of transcendental importance to me, an event of ultimate consequence.


During my first encounter with don Juan, in the bus depot in Nogales, Arizona, something of an unusual nature had happened to me, but it had come to me cushioned in my concerns with the presentation of the self. I had wanted to impress don Juan, and in attempting to do so I had focused all my attention on the act of selling my wares, so to speak. It was only months later that a strange residue of forgotten events began to appear.

One day, out of nowhere, and with no coaxing or coaching on my part, I recollected with extraordinary clarity something that had completely bypassed me during my actual encounter with don Juan. When he had stopped me from telling him my name, he had peered into my eyes and had numbed me with his look. There was infinitely more that I could have said to him about myself. I could have expounded on my knowledge and worth for hours if his look hadn't completely cut me off.

In light of this new realization, I reconsidered everything that had happened to me on that occasion. My unavoidable conclusion was that I had experienced the interruption of some mysterious flow that kept me going; a flow that had never been interrupted before, at least not in the manner in which don Juan had done it.

When I tried to describe to any of my friends what I had physically experienced, a strange perspiration began to cover my entire body; the same perspiration that I had experienced when don Juan had given me that look. I had been, at that moment, not only incapable of voicing a single word, but incapable of having a single thought.

For some time after, I dwelled on the physical sensation of this interruption for which I found no rational explanation. I argued for a while that don Juan must have hypnotized me, but then my memory told me that he hadn't given any hypnotic commands, nor had he made any movements that could have trapped my attention.

In fact, he had merely glanced at me. It was the intensity of that glance that had made it appear as if he had stared at me for a long time. It had obsessed me, and had rendered me discombobulated at a deep physical level.


When I finally had don Juan in front of me again, the first thing I noticed about him was that he didn't look at all as I had imagined him during all the time I had tried to find him. I had fabricated an image of the man I had met at the bus depot, which I perfected every day by allegedly remembering more details.

In my mind, he was an old man, still very strong and nimble, yet almost frail. The man facing me was muscular and decisive. He moved with agility, but not nimbleness. His steps were firm, and, at the same time, light. He exuded vitality and purpose.

My composite memory was not at all in harmony with the real thing. I thought he had short, white hair and an extremely dark complexion. His hair was longer, and not as white as I had imagined. His complexion was not that dark either. I could have sworn that his features were birdlike, because of his age. But that was not so either. His face was full, almost round. In one glance, the most outstanding feature of the man looking at me was his dark eyes, which shone with a peculiar, dancing glow.

Something that had bypassed me completely in my prior assessment of him was the fact that his total countenance was that of an athlete. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat. He seemed to be planted firmly on the ground. There was no feebleness to his knees, no tremor in his upper limbs. I had imagined detecting a slight tremor in his head and arms, as if he were nervous and unsteady. I had also imagined him to be about five feet six inches tall, three inches shorter than his actual height.

Don Juan had not seemed surprised to see me. I wanted to tell him how difficult it had been for me to find him. I would have liked to be congratulated by him on my titanic efforts, but he just laughed at me, teasingly.

"Your efforts are not important," he said. "What's important is that you found my place. Sit down, sit down," he said, enticing me, pointing to one of the freight boxes under his ramada, and patting me on my back; but it wasn't a friendly pat.

It felt like he had slapped me on the back although he never actually touched me. His quasi-slap created a strange, unstable sensation, which appeared abruptly and disappeared before I had time to grasp what it was.

What was left in me as a result was a strange peace. I felt at ease. My mind was crystal clear. I had no expectations; no desires. My usual nervousness and sweaty hands- the marks of my existence- were suddenly gone.

"Now you will understand everything I am going to say to you," don Juan said to me, looking into my eyes as he had done in the bus depot.

Ordinarily, I would have found his statement perfunctory, perhaps rhetorical, but when he said it, I could only assure him repeatedly and sincerely that I would understand anything he said to me. He looked me in the eyes again with a ferocious intensity.

"I am Juan Matus," he said, sitting down on another freight box, a few feet away, facing me. "This is my name, and I voice it because, with it, I am making a bridge for you to cross over to where I am."

He stared at me for an instant before he started talking again.

"I am a sorcerer," he went on. "I belong to a lineage of sorcerers that has lasted for twenty-seven generations. I am the 'nagual' of my generation."

He explained to me that the leader of a party of sorcerers like himself was called the nagual, and that this was a generic term applied to a sorcerer in each generation who had some specific energetic configuration that set him apart from the others- not in terms of superiority or inferiority, or anything of the like, but in terms of the capacity to be responsible.

"Only the nagual," he said, "has the energetic capacity to be responsible for the fate of his cohorts. Every one of his cohorts knows this, and they accede. The nagual can be a man or a woman. In the time of the sorcerers who were the founders of my lineage, women were, by rule, the naguals. Their natural pragmatism-- the product of their femaleness-- led my lineage into pits of practicalities from which they could barely emerge. Then, the males took over, and led my lineage into pits of imbecility from which we are barely emerging now.

"Since the time of the nagual Lujan, who lived about two hundred years ago," he went on, "there has been a joint nexus of effort, shared by a man and a woman. The nagual man brings sobriety; the nagual woman brings innovation."

I wanted to ask him at this point if there was a woman in his life who was the nagual, but the depth of my concentration didn't allow me to formulate the question. Instead, he himself formulated it for me.

"Is there a nagual woman in my life?" he asked. "No, there isn't any. I am a solitary sorcerer. I have my cohorts, though. At the moment, they are not around."

A thought came with uncontainable vigor into my mind. At that instant, I remembered what some people in Yuma had told me about don Juan running with a party of Mexican men who seemed to be very versed in sorcery maneuvers.

"To be a sorcerer," don Juan continued, "doesn't mean to practice witchcraft, or to work to affect people, or to be possessed by demons. To be a sorcerer means to reach a level of awareness that makes inconceivable things available.

The term 'sorcery' is inadequate to express what sorcerers do, and so is the term 'shamanism.' The actions of sorcerers are exclusively in the realm of the abstract; the impersonal. Sorcerers struggle to reach a goal that has nothing to do with the quests of an average man. Sorcerers' aspirations are to reach infinity, and to be conscious of it."

Don Juan continued, saying that the task of sorcerers was to face infinity, and that they plunged into it daily, as a fisherman plunges into the sea. It was such an overwhelming task that sorcerers had to state their names before venturing into it. He reminded me that, in Nogales, he had stated his name before any interaction had taken place between us. He had, in this manner, asserted his individuality in front of the infinite.

I understood with unequaled clarity what he was explaining. I didn't have to ask him for clarifications. My keenness of thought should have surprised me, but it didn't at all.

I knew at that moment that I had always been crystal clear, merely playing dumb for someone else's benefit.

"Without you knowing anything about it," he continued, "I started you on a traditional quest. You are the man I was looking for. My quest ended when I found you, and yours when you found me now."

Don Juan explained to me that, as the nagual of his generation, he was in search of an individual who had a specific energetic configuration, adequate to ensure the continuity of his lineage. He said that at a given moment, the nagual of each generation for twenty-seven successive generations had entered into the most nerve-racking experience of their lives: the search for succession.

Looking me straight in the eyes, he stated that what made human beings into sorcerers was their capacity to perceive energy directly as it flows in the universe, and that when sorcerers perceive a human being in this fashion, they see a luminous ball, or a luminous egg-shaped figure.

His contention was that human beings are not only capable of seeing energy directly as it flows in the universe, but that they actually do see it, although they are not deliberately conscious of seeing it.

He made right then the most crucial distinction for sorcerers; the distinction between the general state of being aware, and the particular state of being deliberately conscious of something.

He categorized all human beings as possessing awareness, in a general sense, which permits them to see energy directly, and he categorized sorcerers as the only human beings who were deliberately conscious of seeing energy directly.

He then defined awareness as 'energy', and energy as constant flux; a luminous vibration that was never stationary, but always moving of its own accord.

He asserted that when a human being was seen, he was perceived as a conglomerate of energy fields held together by the most mysterious force in the universe: a binding, agglutinating, vibratory force that holds energy fields together in a cohesive unit.

He further explained that the nagual was a specific sorcerer in each generation whom the other sorcerers were able to see, not as a single luminous ball but as a set of two spheres of luminosity fused, one over the other.

"This feature of doubleness," he continued, "permits the nagual to perform maneuvers that are rather difficult for an average sorcerer. For example, the nagual is a connoisseur of the force that holds us together as a cohesive unit. The nagual could place his full attention, for a fraction of a second, on that force, and numb the other person.

"I did that to you at the bus depot because I wanted to stop your barrage of me, me, me, me, me, me, me. I wanted you to find me, and cut the crap.

"The sorcerers of my lineage maintained," don Juan went on, "that the presence of a double being-a nagual- is sufficient to clarify things for us. What's odd about it, is that the presence of the nagual clarifies things in a veiled fashion. It happened to me when I met the nagual Julian, my teacher. His presence baffled me for years because every time I was around him, I could think clearly, but when he moved away, I became the same idiot that I had always been.

"I had the privilege," don Juan went on, "of actually meeting and dealing with two naguals.

"For six years, at the request of the nagual Elias, who was the teacher of the nagual Julian, I went to live with him. The nagual Elias is the one who reared me, so to speak. It was a rare privilege. I had a ringside seat for watching what a nagual really is.

"The nagual Elias and the nagual Julian were two men of tremendously different temperaments. The nagual Elias was quieter, and lost in the darkness of his silence.

"The nagual Julian was bombastic; a compulsive talker. It seemed that he lived to dazzle women. There were more women in his life than one would care to think about.

"Yet both of them were astoundingly alike in that there was nothing inside them. They were empty. The nagual Elias was a collection of astounding, haunting stories of regions unknown. The nagual Julian was a collection of stories that would have anybody in stitches, sprawled on the ground laughing.

"Whenever I tried to pin down 'the man' in them, the real man, the way I could pinpoint 'the man' in my father, or 'the man' in everybody I knew, I found nothing. Instead of a real person inside them, there was a bunch of stories about persons unknown. Each of the two men had his own flair, but the end result was just the same: emptiness; an emptiness that reflected not the world, but infinity."

Don Juan went on explaining that the moment one crosses a peculiar threshold in infinity, either deliberately or, as in my case, unwittingly, everything that happens to one from then on is no longer exclusively in one's own domain, but enters into the realm of infinity.

"When we met in Arizona, both of us crossed a peculiar threshold," he continued. "And this threshold was not decided by either one of us, but by infinity itself.

"Infinity is everything that surrounds us." He said this and made a broad gesture with his arms. "The sorcerers of my lineage call it infinity, the spirit, the dark sea of awareness, and say that it is something that exists out there and rules our lives."

I was truly capable of comprehending everything he was saying, and yet I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. I asked if crossing the threshold had been an accidental event, born of unpredictable circumstances ruled by chance.

He answered that his steps and mine were guided by infinity, and that circumstances that seemed to be ruled by chance were in essence ruled by the active side of infinity. He called it intent.

"What put you and me together," he went on, "was the intent of infinity. It is impossible to determine what this intent of infinity is, yet it is there, as palpable as you and I are.

"Sorcerers say that it is a tremor in the air. The advantage of sorcerers is to know that the tremor in the air exists, and to know to acquiesce to it without any further ado. For sorcerers, there's no pondering, wondering, or speculating.

"They know that all they have is the possibility of merging with the intent of infinity, and they just do it."


Nothing could have been clearer to me than those statements. As far as I was concerned, the truth of what he was telling me was so self-evident that it didn't permit me to ponder how such absurd assertions could have sounded so rational. I knew that everything that don Juan was saying was not only a truism, but I could corroborate it by referring to my own being. I knew about everything that he was saying. I had the sensation that I had lived every twist of his description.

Our interchange ended then. Something seemed to deflate inside me.

It was at that instant that the thought crossed my mind that I was losing my marbles. I had been blinded by weird statements and had lost every conceivable sense of objectivity. Accordingly, I left don Juan's house in a real hurry, feeling threatened to the core by an unseen enemy. Don Juan walked me to my car, fully cognizant of what was going on inside me.

"Don't worry," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. You're not going crazy. What you felt was a gentle tap of infinity."

As time went by, I was able to corroborate what don Juan had said about his two teachers. Don Juan Matus was exactly as he had described those two men to be. I would go as far as saying that he was an extraordinary blend of both of them; on the one hand, extremely quiet and introspective; on the other, extremely open and funny.

The most accurate statement about what a nagual is, which he voiced the day I found him, was that a nagual is empty, and that that emptiness doesn't reflect the world, but reflects infinity.

Nothing could have been more true than this in reference to don Juan Matus. His emptiness reflected infinity. There was no boisterousness on his part, or assertions about the self. There was not a speck of a need to have either grievances or remorse.

His was the emptiness of a 'warrior-traveler', seasoned to the point where he doesn't take anything for granted; a warrior traveler who doesn't underestimate or overestimate anything; a quiet, disciplined fighter whose elegance is so extreme that no one, no matter how hard they try to look, will ever find the seam where all that complexity has come together.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - The End of an Era.

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - The End of an Era.

  • The Deep Concerns Of Everyday Life.
  • The View I Could Not Stand.
  • The Unavoidable Appointment.
  • The Breaking Point.
  • The Measurements of Cognition.
  • Saying Thank You.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 07. The Deep Concerns of Everyday Life.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 07. The Deep Concerns of Everyday Life.

I went to Sonora to see don Juan. I had to discuss with him the most serious event of that moment in my life. I needed his advice.

When I arrived at his house, I barely went through the formality of greeting him. I sat down and blurted out my turmoil.

"Calm down, calm down," don Juan said. "Nothing can be that bad!"

"What's happening to me, don Juan?" I asked. It was a rhetorical question on my part.

"It is the workings of infinity," he replied. "Something happened to your way of perceiving the day you met me. Your sensation of nervousness is due to the subliminal realization that your time is up.

"You are aware of it, but not deliberately conscious of it. You feel the absence of time, and that makes you impatient.

"I know this, for it happened to me and to all the sorcerers of my lineage. At a given time, a whole era in my life or their lives ended. Now it's your turn. You have simply run out of time."

He demanded then a total account of whatever had happened to me. He said that it had to be a full account, sparing no details. He wasn't after sketchy descriptions. He wanted me to air the full impact of what was troubling me.

"Let's have this talk, as they say in your world, by the book," he said. "Let us enter into the realm of formal talks."


Don Juan explained that the shamans of ancient Mexico had developed the idea of formal versus informal talks, and used both of them as devices for teaching and guiding their disciples. Formal talks were, for them, summations that they made from time to time of everything that they had taught or said to their disciples. Informal talks were daily elucidations in which things were explained without reference to anything but the phenomenon itself under scrutiny.

"Sorcerers keep nothing to themselves," he continued. "To empty themselves in this fashion is a sorcerers' maneuver. It leads them to abandon the fortress of the self."


I began my story, telling don Juan that the circumstances of my life had never permitted me to be introspective. As far back in my past as I ccould remember, my daily life had been filled to the brim with pragmatic problems that had clamored for immediate resolution.

I remembered that my favorite uncle had told me that he was appalled at having found out that I had never received a gift for Christmas or for my birthday. I had come to live in my father's family's home not too long before my uncle made that statement. He commiserated with me about the unfairness of my situation. He even apologized, although it had nothing to do with him.

"It is disgusting, my boy," he said, shaking with feeling. "I want you to know that I am behind you one hundred percent whenever the moment comes to redress wrongdoings."

He insisted over and over that I had to forgive the people who had wronged me. From what he said, I formed the impression that he wanted me to confront my father with his finding and accuse him of indolence and neglect, and then, of course, forgive him.

My uncle failed to see that I didn't feel wronged at all. What he was asking me to do required an introspective nature that would make me respond to the barbs of psychological mistreatment once they were pointed out to me. I assured my uncle that I was going to think about it, but not at the moment; because, at that very instant my girlfriend was signaling me desperately to 'hurry up' from the living room where she was waiting for me.

I never had the opportunity to think about it, but my uncle must have talked to my father because I got a gift from him; a package neatly wrapped up with ribbon and all, and a little card that said "Sorry." I curiously and eagerly ripped the wrappings.

There was a cardboard box, and inside it there was a beautiful toy; a tiny boat with a winding key attached to the steam pipe. It could be used by children to play with while they took baths in the bathtub. My father had thoroughly forgotten that I was already fifteen years old, and was for all practical purposes a man.


Then, as I reached my adult years, I was still incapable of serious introspection. So it was quite a novelty when one day, years later, I found myself in the throes of a strange emotional agitation which seemed to increase as time went by. I discarded it, attributing it to natural processes of the mind or the body; processes that enter into action periodically for no reason at all, or are perhaps triggered by biochemical processes within the body itself. I thought nothing of it.

However, the agitation increased and its pressure forced me to believe that I had arrived at a moment in life when what I needed was a drastic change. There was something in me that demanded a rearrangement of my life. This urge to rearrange everything was familiar. I had felt it in the past, but it had been dormant for a long time.

I was committed to studying anthropology, and this commitment was so strong that not to study anthropology was never part of my proposed drastic change. It didn't occur to me to drop out of school and do something else. The first thing that came to mind was that I needed to change schools, and go somewhere else far away from Los Angeles.

Before I undertook a change of that magnitude, I wanted to test the waters, so to speak. I enrolled in a full summer load of classes at a school in another city. The most important course, for me, was a class in anthropology taught by a foremost authority on the Indians of the Andean region. It was my belief that if I focused my studies on an area that was emotionally accessible to me, I would have a better opportunity to do anthropological field-work in a serious manner when the time came. I considered my knowledge of South America as giving me a better entree into any given Indian society there.

At the same time that I registered for school, I got a job as a research assistant to a psychiatrist who was the older brother of one of my friends. He wanted to do a content analysis of excerpts from some innocuous tapes of 'question and answer' sessions with young men and women about their problems arising from overwork in school, unfulfilled expectations, not being understood at home, frustrating love affairs, etc. The tapes were over five years old and were going to be destroyed, but before they were, random numbers were allotted to each reel, and following a table of random numbers, reels were picked by the psychiatrist and his research assistants, and were scanned for excerpts that could be analyzed.

On the first day of class in the new school, the anthropology professor talked about his academic bona fides and dazzled his students with the scope of his knowledge and his publications. He was a tall, slender man in his mid-forties, with shifty blue eyes. What struck me the most about his physical appearance was that his eyes were rendered enormous behind glasses for correcting far-sightedness, and each of his eyes gave the impression that it was rotating in an opposite direction from the other when he moved his head as he spoke. I knew that that could not be true. It was, however, a very disconcerting image. He was extremely well dressed for an anthropologist, who in my day were famous for their super-casual attire. Archaeologists, for example, were described by their students as creatures lost in carbon-14 dating who never took a bath.

However, for reasons unbeknownst to me, what really set him apart was not his physical appearance, or his erudition, but his speech pattern. He pronounced every word as clearly as anyone I had ever heard, and emphasized certain words by elongating them. He had a markedly foreign intonation, but I knew that it was an affectation. He pronounced certain phrases like an Englishman and others like a revivalist preacher.

He fascinated me from the start despite his enormous pomposity. His self-importance was so blatant that it ceased to be an issue after the first five minutes of his class; classes which were always bombastic displays of knowledge cushioned in wild assertions about himself. His command of the audience was sensational. None of the students I talked to felt anything but supreme admiration for this extraordinary man. I earnestly thought that everything was moving along nicely, and that this move to another school in another city was going to be easy and uneventful, but thoroughly positive. I liked my new surroundings.

At my job, I became completely engrossed in listening to the tapes to the point where I would sneak into the office, and listen not to excerpts, but to entire tapes. What fascinated me beyond measure, at first, was the fact that I heard myself speaking in every one of those tapes.

As the weeks went by and I heard more tapes, my fascination turned to sheer horror. Every line that was spoken, including the psychiatrist's questions, was mine. Those people were speaking from the depths of my own being.

The revulsion that I experienced was something unique for me. Never had I dreamed that I could be repeated endlessly in every man or woman I heard speaking on the tapes. My sense of individuality, which had been ingrained in me from birth, tumbled down hopelessly under the impact of this colossal discovery.

I began then an odious process of trying to restore myself. I unconsciously made a ludicrous attempt at introspection. I tried to wriggle out of my predicament by endlessly talking to myself. I rehashed in my mind all the possible rationales that would support my sense of uniqueness, and then I talked out loud to myself about them. I even experienced something quite revolutionary to me; waking myself up many times by my loud talking in my sleep, discoursing about my value and distinctiveness.

Then, one horrifying day, I suffered another deadly blow. In the wee hours of the night, I was woken up by an insistent knocking on my door. It wasn't a mild, timid knock, but what my friends called a 'Gestapo knock'. The door was about to come off its hinges. I jumped out of bed and opened the peephole. The person who was knocking on the door was my boss, the psychiatrist. My being his younger brother's friend seemed to have created an avenue of communication with him. He had befriended me without any hesitation, and there he was on my doorstep. I turned on the light and opened the door.

"Please come in," I said. "What happened?"

It was three o'clock in the morning, and by his livid expression, and his sunken eyes, I knew that he was deeply upset. He came in and sat down. His pride and joy, his black mane of longish hair, was falling all over his face. He didn't make any effort to comb his hair back, the way he usually wore it. I liked him very much because he was an older version of my friend in Los Angeles, with black, heavy eyebrows, penetrating brown eyes, a square jaw, and thick lips. His upper lip seemed to have an extra fold inside, which at times, when he smiled in a certain way, gave the impression that he had a double upper lip. He always talked about the shape of his nose, which he described as an impertinent, pushy nose. I thought he was extremely sure of himself, and opinionated beyond belief. He claimed that in his profession those qualities were winning cards.

"What happened!" he repeated with a tone of mockery, his double upper lip trembling uncontrollably. "Anyone can tell that everything has happened to me tonight."

He sat down in a chair. He seemed dizzy, disoriented, looking for words. He got up and went to the couch, slumping down on it.

"It is not only that I have the responsibility of my patients," he went on, "but my research grant, my wife and kids, and now another fucking pressure has been added to it, and what burns me up is that it was my own fault, my own stupidity for putting my trust in a stupid cunt!

"I will tell you, Carlos," he continued, "there is nothing more appalling, disgusting, fucking nauseating than the insensitivity of women. I am not a woman hater, you know that! But at this moment it seems to me that every single cunt is just a cunt! Duplicitous and vile!"

I did not know what to say. Whatever he was telling me did not need affirmation or contradiction. I would not have dared to contradict him anyway. I did not have the ammunition for it. I was very tired. I wanted to go back to sleep, but he kept on talking as if his life depended on it.

"You know Theresa Manning, do you not?" he asked me in a forceful, accusatory manner.

For an instant, I believed that he was accusing me of having something to do with his young, beautiful, student secretary. Without giving me time to respond, he continued talking.

"Theresa Manning is an asshole. She's a schnook! A stupid, inconsiderate woman who has no incentive in life other than balling anyone with a bit of fame and notoriety. I thought she was intelligent and sensitive. I thought she had something, some understanding, some empathy, something that one would like to share, or hold as precious all to oneself. I do not know, but that is the picture that she painted for me, when in reality she is lewd and degenerate, and, I may add, incurably gross."

As he kept on talking, a strange picture began to emerge. Apparently, the psychiatrist had just had a bad experience involving his secretary.

"Since the day she came to work for me," he went on, "I knew that she was attracted to me sexually, but she never came around to saying it. It was all in the innuendos and the looks. Well, fuck it! This afternoon I got sick and tired of pussyfooting around, and I came right to the point. I went up to her desk and said, 'I know what you want, and you know what I want.'"

He went into a great, elaborate rendition of how forcefully he had told her that he expected her in his apartment across the street from school at 11:30 P.M., and that he did not alter his routines for anybody; that he read and worked and drank wine until one o'clock, at which time he retired to the bedroom. He kept an apartment in town as well as the house he and his wife and children lived in in the suburbs.

"I was so confident that the affair was going to pan out; turn into something memorable," he said and sighed. His voice acquired the mellow tone of someone confiding something intimate. "I even gave her the key to my apartment," he said, and his voice cracked.

"Very dutifully, she came at eleven-thirty," he went on. "She let herself in with her own key, and sneaked into the bedroom like a shadow. That excited me terribly. I knew that she wasn't going to be any trouble for me. She knew her role. She probably fell asleep on the bed. Or maybe she watched TV. I became engrossed in my work, and I didn't care what the fuck she did. I knew that I had her in the bag.

"But the moment I came into the bedroom," he continued, his voice tense and constricted, as if he were morally offended, "Theresa jumped on me like an animal and went for my dick. She didn't even give me time to put down the bottle and the two glasses I was carrying. I had enough presence of mind to put my two Baccarat glasses on the floor without breaking them. The bottle flew across the room when she grabbed my balls as if they were made out of rocks. I wanted to hit her. I actually yelled in pain, but that didn't faze her. She giggled insanely, because she thought I was being cute and sexy. She said so, as if to placate me."

Shaking his head with contained rage, he said that the woman was so friggin' eager and utterly selfish that she didn't take into account that a man needs a moment's peace, he needs to feel at ease, at home, in friendly surroundings. Instead of showing consideration and understanding, as her role demanded, Theresa Manning pulled his sexual organs out of his pants with the expertise of someone who had done it hundreds of times.

"The result of all this shit," he said, "was that my sensuality retreated in horror. I was emotionally emasculated. My body abhorred that fucking woman, instantly. Yet my lust prevented me from throwing her out in the street."

He said that he decided then that instead of losing face by his impotence, miserably, the way he was bound to, he would have oral sex with her, and make her have an orgasm- put her at his mercy- but his body had rejected the woman so thoroughly that he couldn't do it.

"The woman was not even beautiful anymore," he said, "but plain. Whenever she's dressed up, the clothes that she wears hide the bulges of her hips. She actually looks okay. But when she's naked, she's a sack of bulging white flesh! The slenderness that she presents when she's clothed is fake. It doesn't exist."

Venom poured out of the psychiatrist in ways that I would never have imagined. He was shaking with rage. He wanted desperately to appear cool, and kept on smoking cigarette after cigarette.

He said that the oral sex was even more maddening and disgusting, and that he was just about to vomit when the friggin' woman actually kicked him in the belly, rolled him out of his own bed onto the floor, and called him an impotent faggot.

At this point in his narration, the psychiatrist's eyes were burning with hatred. His mouth was quivering. He was pale.

"I have to use your bathroom," he said. "I want to take a bath. I am reeking. Believe it or not, I have pussy breath."

He was actually weeping, and I would have given anything in the world not to be there. Perhaps it was my fatigue, or the mesmeric quality of his voice, or the inanity of the situation that created the illusion that I was listening not to the psychiatrist but to the voice of a male supplicant on one of his tapes complaining about minor problems turned into gigantic affairs by talking obsessively about them. My ordeal ended around nine o'clock in one morning. It was time for me to go to class and time for the psychiatrist to go and see his own shrink.

I went to class then, highly charged with a burning anxiety and a tremendous sensation of discomfort and uselessness. There, I received the final blow; the blow that caused my attempt at a drastic change to collapse. No volition of my own was involved in its collapse. It just happened; not only as if it had been scheduled, but as if its progression had been accelerated by some unknown hand.

The anthropology professor began his lecture about a group of Indians from the high plateaus of Bolivia and Peru, the Aymara. He called them the "ey-MEH-ra," elongating the name as if his pronunciation of it was the only accurate one in existence. He said that the making of chicha- which is pronounced "CHEE-cha," but which he pronounced "CHAHI-cha," an alcoholic beverage made from fermented corn- was in the realm of a sect of priestesses who were considered semidivine by the Aymara. He said, in a tone of revelation, that those women were in charge of making the cooked corn into a mush ready for fermentation by chewing and spitting it, adding in this manner an enzyme found in human saliva. The whole class shrieked with contained horror at the mention of human saliva.

The professor seemed to be tickled pink. He laughed in little spurts. It was the chuckle of a nasty child. He went on to say that the women were expert chewers, and he called them the "chahi-cha chewers." He looked at the front row of the classroom, where most of the young women were sitting, and he delivered his punch line.

"I was p-r-r-rivileged," he said with a strange quasi-foreign intonation, "to be asked to sleep with one of the chahi-cha chewers. The art of chewing the chahi-cha mush makes them develop the muscles around their throat and cheeks to the point that they can do wonders with them."

He looked at his bewildered audience and paused for a long time, punctuating the pause with his giggles. "I'm sure you get my drift," he said, and went into fits of hysterical laughter.

The class went wild with the professor's innuendo. The lecture was interrupted by at least five minutes of laughter and a barrage of questions that the professor declined to answer, emitting more silly giggles.

I felt so compressed by the pressure of the tapes, the psychiatrist's story, and the professor's "chahi-cha chewers" that in one instantaneous sweep I quit the job, quit school, and drove back to L.A.


"Whatever happened to me with the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology," I said to don Juan, "has plunged me into an unknown emotional state. I can only call it introspection. I've been talking to myself without stop."

"Your malady is a very simple one," don Juan said, shaking with laughter.

Apparently my situation delighted him. It was a delight I could not share, because I failed to see the humor in it.

"Your world is coming to an end," he said. "It is the end of an era for you. Do you think that the world you have known all your life is going to leave you peacefully- without any fuss or muss? No! It will wriggle underneath you, and hit you with its tail."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 08. The View I Could Not Stand.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 08. The View I Could Not Stand.

Los Angeles had always been home for me. My choice of Los Angeles had not been volitional. To me, staying in Los Angeles has always been the equivalent of having been born there, perhaps even more than that. My emotional attachment to it has always been total. My love for the city of Los Angeles has always been so intense, so much a part of me, that I have never had to voice it. I have never had to review it or renew it, ever.

I had, in Los Angeles, my family of friends. They were to me part of my immediate milieu, meaning that I had accepted them totally, the way I had accepted the city. One of my friends made the statement once, half in fun, that all of us hated each other cordially. Doubtless, they could afford feelings like that themselves, for they had other emotional arrangements at their disposal, like parents and wives and husbands. I had only my friends in Los Angeles.

For whatever reason, I was each one's confidant. Every one of them poured out to me their problems and vicissitudes. My friends were so close to me that I had never acknowledged their problems or tribulations as anything but normal. I could talk for hours to them about the very same things that had horrified me in the psychiatrist and his tapes.

Furthermore, I had never realized that every one of my friends was astoundingly similar to the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology. I had never noticed how tense my friends were. All of them smoked compulsively, like the psychiatrist, but it had never been obvious to me because I smoked just as much myself and was just as tense.

Their affectation in speech was another thing that had never been apparent to me, although it was there. They always affected a twang of the western United States, but they were very aware of what they were doing.

Nor had I ever noticed their blatant innuendos about a sensuality that they were incapable of feeling, except intellectually.

The real confrontation with myself began when I was faced with the dilemma of my friend Pete. He came to see me, all battered. He had a swollen mouth, and a red and swollen left eye that had obviously been hit and was turning blue already. Before I had time to ask him what had happened to him, he blurted out that his wife, Patricia, had gone to a real estate brokers' convention over the weekend, in relation to her job, and that something terrible had happened to her. The way Pete looked, I thought that perhaps Patricia had been injured, or even killed, in an accident.

"Is she all right?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

"Of course she's all right," he barked. "She's a bitch and a whore, and nothing happens to bitch whores except that they get frigged, and they like it!"

Pete was rabid. He was shaking, nearly convulsing. His bushy, curly hair was sticking out every which way. Usually, he combed it carefully and slicked his natural curls into place. Now, he looked as wild as a Tasmanian devil.

"Everything was normal until today," my friend continued. "Then, this morning, after I came out of the shower, she snapped a towel at my naked butt, and that's what made me aware of her shit! I knew instantly that she'd been frigging someone else."

I was puzzled by his line of reasoning. I questioned him further. I asked him how snapping a towel could reveal anything of this sort to anybody.

"It wouldn't reveal anything to assholes!" he said with pure venom in his voice. "But I know Patricia, and on Thursday, before she went to the brokers' convention, she could not snap a towel! In fact, she has never been able to snap a towel in all the time we've been married. Somebody must have taught her to do it, while they were naked! So I grabbed her by the throat and choked the truth out of her! Yes! She's frigging her boss!"

Pete said that he went to Patricia's office to have it out with her boss, but the man was heavily protected by bodyguards. They threw him out into the parking lot. He wanted to smash the windows of the office, throw rocks at them, but the bodyguards said that if he did that, he'd land in jail, or even worse, he'd get a bullet in his head.

"Are they the ones who beat you up, Pete?" I asked him.

"No," he said, dejected. "I walked down the street and went into the sales office of a used car lot. I punched the first salesman who came to talk to me. The man was shocked, but he didn't get angry. He said, 'Calm down, sir, calm down! There's room for negotiation.' When I punched him again in the mouth, he got pissed off. He was a big guy, and he hit me in the mouth and the eye and knocked me out.

"When I came to my senses," Pete continued, "I was lying on the couch in their office. I heard an ambulance approaching. I knew they were coming for me, so I got up and ran out. Then I came to see you."

He began to weep uncontrollably. He got sick to his stomach. He was a mess. I called his wife, and in less than ten minutes she was in the apartment. She kneeled in front of Pete, and swore that she loved only him; that everything else she did was pure imbecility and that theirs was a love that was a matter of life or death: The others were nothing. She didn't even remember them.

Both of them wept to their hearts' content, and of course they forgave each other. Patricia was wearing sunglasses to hide the hematoma by her right eye where Pete had apparently hit her: Pete was left-handed. Both of them were oblivious to my presence, and when they left, they didn't even know I was there. They just walked out, leaving the door open, hugging each other.

Life seemed to continue for me as it always had. My friends acted with me as they always did. We were, as usual, involved in going to parties, or the movies, or just simply 'chewing the fat', or looking for restaurants where they offered 'all you can eat' for the price of one meal.

However, despite this pseudo-normality, a strange new factor seemed to have entered my life. As the subject who was experiencing it, it appeared to me that, all of a sudden, I had become extremely narrow-minded. I had begun to judge my friends in the same way I had judged the psychiatrist and the professor of anthropology. Who was I, anyway, to set myself up in judgment of anyone else?

I felt an immense sense of guilt. To judge my friends created a mood previously unknown to me. But what I considered to be even worse was that not only was I judging them, I was finding their problems and tribulations astoundingly banal.

I was the same man. They were my same friends. I had heard their complaints and renditions of their situations hundreds of times, and I hadn't ever felt anything except a deep identification with whatever I had been listening to. My horror at discovering this new mood in myself was staggering.

The aphorism that 'when it rains it pours' could not have been more true for me at that moment in my life.

The total disintegration of my way of life came when my friend Rodrigo Cummings asked me to take him to the Burbank airport. From there he was going to fly to New York. It was a very dramatic and desperate maneuver on his part. He considered it his damnation to be caught in Los Angeles.

For the rest of his friends, it was a big joke, and a fact, that he had tried to drive across country to New York various times; and every time he had tried to do it, his car had broken down. Once, he had gone as far as Salt Lake City before his car collapsed. It needed a new motor and he had to junk it there. Most of the time, his cars petered out in the suburbs of Los Angeles.

"What happens to your cars, Rodrigo?" I asked him once, driven by truthful curiosity.

"I don't know," he replied with a veiled sense of guilt. And then, in a voice worthy of the professor of anthropology in his role of revivalist preacher, he said, "Perhaps it is because when I hit the road, I accelerate because I feel free. I usually open all my windows. I want the wind to blow on my face. I feel that I'm a kid in search of something new."

It was obvious to me that his cars, which were always jalopies, were no longer capable of speeding, and he just simply burned their motors out.

From Salt Lake City, Rodrigo had returned to Los Angeles, hitchhiking. Of course, he could have hitchhiked to New York, but it had never occurred to him. Rodrigo seemed to be afflicted by the same condition that afflicted me: an unconscious passion for Los Angeles which he wanted to refuse at any cost.

Another time, his car was in excellent mechanical condition. It could have made the whole trip with ease, but Rodrigo was apparently not in any condition to leave Los Angeles. He drove as far as San Bernadino, where he went to see a movie- The Ten Commandments. This movie, for reasons known only to Rodrigo, created in him an unbeatable nostalgia for L.A. He came back, and wept, telling me how the shagging city of Los Angeles had built a fence around him that didn't let him go through. His wife was delighted that he hadn't gone.

His girlfriend, Melissa, was even more delighted, although also chagrined because she had to give back the dictionaries that he had given her.

His last desperate attempt to reach New York by plane was rendered even more dramatic because he borrowed money from his friends to pay for the ticket. He said that in this fashion, since he didn't intend to repay them, he was making sure that he wouldn't come back.

I put his suitcases in the trunk of my car and headed with him for the Burbank airport. He remarked that the plane didn't leave until seven o'clock. It was early afternoon, and we had plenty of time to go and see a movie. Besides, he wanted to take one last look at Hollywood Boulevard; the center of our lives and activities.

We went to see an epic in Technicolor and Cinerama. It was a long, excruciating movie that seemed to rivet Rodrigo's attention. When we got out of the movie, it was already getting dark. I rushed to Burbank in the midst of heavy traffic. He demanded that we go on surface streets rather than the freeway, which was jammed at that hour. The plane was just leaving when we reached the airport. That was the final straw. Meek and defeated, Rodrigo went to a cashier and presented his ticket to get his money back. The cashier wrote down his name and gave him a receipt and said that his money would be sent within six to twelve weeks from Tennessee, where the accounting offices of the airline were located.

We drove back to the apartment building where we both lived. Since he hadn't said good-bye to anybody this time, for fear of losing face, nobody had ever noticed that he had tried to leave one more time. The only drawback was that he had sold his car. He asked me to drive him to his parents' house, because his dad was going to give him the money he had spent on the ticket.

His father had always been, as far back as I could remember, the man who had bailed Rodrigo out of every problematic situation that he had ever gotten into. The father's slogan was 'Have no fear, Rodrigo Senior is here!' After he heard Rodrigo's request for a loan to pay his other loan, the father looked at my friend with the saddest expression that I had ever seen. He was having terrible financial difficulties himself.

Putting his arm around his son's shoulders, he said, "I can't help you this time, my boy. Now you should have fear, because Rodrigo Senior is no longer here."

I wanted desperately to identify with my friend, to feel his drama the way I always had, but I couldn't. I only focused on the father's statement. It sounded to me so final that it galvanized me.

I sought don Juan's company avidly. I left everything pending in Los Angeles and made a trip to Sonora. I told him about the strange mood that I had entered into with my friends. Sobbing with remorse, I said to him that I had begun to judge them.

"Don't get so worked up over nothing," don Juan said calmly. "You already know that a whole era in your life is coming to an end, but an era doesn't really come to an end until the king dies."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"

"You are the king, and you are just like your friends. That is the truth that makes you shake in your boots. One thing you can do is to accept it at face value, which, of course, you can't do. The other thing you can do is to say, 'I am not like that, I am not like that,' and repeat to yourself that you are not like that. I promise you, however, that a moment will come when you will realize that you are like that."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 09. The Unavoidable Appointment.

Version Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 09. The Unavoidable Appointment.

There was something that kept nagging at me in the back of my mind: I had to answer a most important letter I'd received, and I had to do it at any cost. My anthropologist friend who was responsible for my meeting don Juan Matus had written me a letter a couple of months earlier. He wanted to know how I was doing in my studies of anthropology, and urged me to pay him a visit.

What had prevented me from doing it was a mixture of indolence and a deep desire to please. I composed three long letters. On rereading each of them, I found them so trite and obsequious that I tore them up.

I could not express in them the depth of my gratitude; the depth of my feelings for him. I rationalized my delay in answering with a genuine resolve to go to see him, and tell him personally what I was doing with don Juan Matus; but I kept postponing my imminent trip because I wasn't sure what it was that I was doing with don Juan. I wanted someday to show my friend real results. As it was, I had only vague sketches of possibilities, which, in his demanding eyes, wouldn't have been anthropological fieldwork anyway.

One day I found out that he had died. His death brought to me one of those dangerous silent depressions. I had no way to express what I felt because what I was feeling was not fully formulated in my mind. It was a mixture of dejection, despondency, and abhorrence at myself for not having answered his letter; for not having gone to see him.

I paid a visit to don Juan Matus soon after that. On arriving at his house, I sat down on one of the crates under his ramada and tried to search for words that would not sound banal to express my sense of dejection over the death of my friend. For reasons incomprehensible to me, don Juan knew the origin of my turmoil, and the overt reason for my visit to him.

"Yes," don Juan said dryly. "I know that your friend, the anthropologist who guided you to meet me, has died. For whatever reasons, I knew exactly the moment he died. I saw it."

His statements jolted me to my foundations.

"I saw it coming a long time ago. I even told you about it, but you disregarded what I said. I'm sure that you don't even remember it."


I remembered every word he had said, but it had no meaning for me at the time he had said it.

Don Juan had stated that a detail deeply related to our meeting, but not part of it, was the fact that he had seen my anthropologist friend as a dying man.

"I saw death as an outside force already opening your friend," he had said to me. "Every one of us has an energetic fissure, an energetic crack below the navel. That crack, which sorcerers call the gap, is closed when a man is in his prime."

He had said that, normally, all that is discernible to the sorcerer's eye is a tenuous discoloration in the otherwise whitish glow of the luminous sphere. But when a man is close to dying, that gap becomes quite apparent. He had assured me that my friend's gap was wide open.

"What is the significance of all this, don Juan?" I had asked perfunctorily.

"The significance is a terminal one," he had replied. "The spirit was signaling to me that something was coming to an end. I thought it was my life that was coming to an end, and I accepted it as gracefully as I could.

It dawned on me much, much later that it wasn't my life that was coming to an end, but my entire lineage."


I didn't know what he was talking about. But how could I have taken all that seriously? As far as I was concerned, it was, at the time he said it, like everything else in my life; just talk.

"Your friend himself told you, though not in so many words, that he was dying," don Juan said. "You acknowledged what he was saying just as you acknowledged what I said; but in both cases, you chose to bypass it."

I had no comments to make. I was overwhelmed by what he was saying. I wanted to sink into the crate I was sitting on; to disappear, swallowed up by the earth.

"It's not your fault that you bypass things like this," he went on. "It's youth. You have so many things to do, so many people around you. You are not alert. You never learned to be alert, anyway."

In the vein of defending the last bastion of myself-- my idea that I was watchful-- I pointed out to don Juan that I had been in life and death situations that required my quick wit and vigilance. It was not that I lacked the capacity to be alert, but that I lacked the orientation for setting an appropriate list of priorities. Therefore, everything was either important or unimportant to me.

"To be alert does not mean to be watchful," don Juan said. "For sorcerers, to be alert means to be aware of the true underlying fabric of the everyday world that seems extraneous to the interaction of the moment.

"On the trip that you took with your friend before you met me, you noticed only the details that were obvious. You didn't notice how his death was absorbing him, and yet something in you knew it."

I began to protest, to tell him that what he was saying was not true.

"Don't hide yourself behind banalities," he said in an accusing tone. "Stand up, if only for the moment you are with me. Assume responsibility for what you know.

"Do not get lost in the extraneous threads of the world around you; or in unimportant distractions from what is really going on in the fabric around you.

If you had not been so concerned with yourself and your problems, you would have known that that was his last trip. You would have noticed that he was closing his accounts; seeing the people who helped him; saying good-bye to them.

"Your anthropologist friend had talked to me once," don Juan went on. "I remembered him so clearly that I wasn't surprised at all when he brought you to me at that bus depot.

"I couldn't help him when he had talked to me. He wasn't the man I was looking for, but I wished him well from my sorcerer's emptiness, from my sorcerer's silence.

"For this reason, I know that on his last trip, he was saying thank you to the people who counted in his life."

I admitted to don Juan that he was so very right, that there had been so many details that I had been aware of, but that they hadn't meant a thing to me at the time; such as, for instance, my friend's ecstasy in watching the scenery around us. He would stop the car just to watch, for hours on end, the mountains in the distance, or the riverbed, or the desert.

I discarded this as the idiotic sentimentality of a middle-aged man. I even made vague hints to him that perhaps he was drinking too much. He told me that in dire cases a drink would allow a man a moment of peace and detachment, a moment long enough to savor something unrepeatable.

"That was, for a fact, the trip for his eyes only," don Juan said. "Sorcerers take such a trip, and, in it, nothing counts except what their eyes can absorb. Your friend was unburdening himself of everything superfluous."

I confessed to don Juan that I had disregarded what he had said to me about my dying friend because, at an unknown level, I had known that it was true.

"Sorcerers never say things idly," he said. "I am most careful about what I say to you or to anybody else. The difference between you and me is that I don't have any time at all, and I act accordingly. You, on the other hand, believe that you have all the time in the world, and you act accordingly. The end result of our individual behaviors is that I measure everything I do and say, and you don't."

I conceded that he was right, but I assured him that whatever he was saying did not alleviate my turmoil, or my sadness. I blurted out then, uncontrollably, every nuance of my confused feelings. I told him that I wasn't in search of advice. I wanted him to prescribe a sorcerer's way to end my anguish. I believed I was really interested in getting from him some natural relaxant, an organic Valium, and I said so to him. Don Juan shook his head in bewilderment.

"You are too much," he said. "Next you're going to ask for a sorcerer's medication to remove everything annoying from you, with no effort at all on your part- just the effort of swallowing whatever is given. The more awful the taste, the better the results. That's your Western man's motto. You want results- one potion and you're cured.

"Sorcerers face things in a different way," don Juan continued. "Since they don't have any time to spare, they give themselves fully to what's in front of them.

"Your turmoil is the result of your lack of sobriety. You didn't have the sobriety to thank your friend properly. That happens to every one of us. We never express what we feel, and when we want to, it's too late, because we have run out of time.

"It's not only your friend who ran out of time. You, too, ran out of it.

"You should have thanked him profusely in Arizona. He took the trouble to take you around, and whether you understand it or not, in the bus depot he gave you his best shot. But the moment when you should have thanked him, you were angry with him- you were judging him: He was nasty to you, or whatever.

"And then you postponed seeing him. In reality, what you did was to postpone thanking him. Now you're stuck with a ghost on your tail. You'll never be able to pay what you owe him."

I understood the immensity of what he was saying. Never had I faced my actions in such a light. In fact, I had never thanked anyone, ever.

Don Juan pushed his barb even deeper. "Your friend knew that he was dying," he said. "He wrote you one final letter to find out about your doings. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, or to you, you were his last thought."

The weight of don Juan's words was too much for my shoulders. I collapsed. I felt that I had to lie down. My head was spinning. Maybe it was the setting. I had made the terrible mistake of arriving at don Juan's house in the late afternoon. The setting sun seemed astoundingly golden, and the reflections on the bare mountains to the east of don Juan's house were gold and purple. The sky didn't have a speck of a cloud. Nothing seemed to move. It was as if the whole world were hiding, but its presence was overpowering. The quietness of the Sonoran desert was like a dagger. It went to the marrow of my bones. I wanted to leave, to get in my car and drive away. I wanted to be in the city; to get lost in its noise.

"You are having a taste of infinity," don Juan said with grave finality. "I know it, because I have been in your shoes. You want to run away, to plunge into something human, warm, contradictory, stupid, who cares? You want to forget the death of your friend.

"But infinity won't let you." His voice mellowed. "It has gripped you in its merciless clutches."

"What can I do now, don Juan?" I asked.

"The only thing you can do," don Juan said, "is to keep the memory of your friend fresh; to keep it alive for the rest of your life and perhaps even beyond. Sorcerers express, in this fashion, the thanks that they can no longer voice. You may think it is a silly way, but that's the best sorcerers can do."

It was my own sadness, doubtless, which made me believe that the typically ebullient don Juan was as sad as I was. I discarded the thought immediately. That could not be possible.

"Sadness, for sorcerers, is not personal," don Juan said, again erupting into my thoughts. "It is not quite sadness. It is a wave of energy that comes from the depths of the cosmos, and hits sorcerers when they are receptive; when they are like radios capable of catching radio waves.

"The sorcerers of olden times, who gave us the entire format of sorcery, believed that there is sadness in the universe, as a force, or a condition; like light; like intent. And that this perennial force acts especially on sorcerers- particularly because they no longer have any defensive shields. They cannot hide behind their friends or their studies. They cannot hide behind love, or hatred, or happiness, or misery. They can't hide behind anything.

"The condition of sorcerers," don Juan went on, "is that sadness, for them, is abstract. It doesn't come from coveting or lacking something, or from self-importance. It doesn't come from me. It comes from infinity. The sadness you feel for not thanking your friend is already leaning in that direction.

"My teacher, the nagual Julian," he went on, "was a fabulous actor. He actually worked professionally in the theater. He had a favorite story that he used to tell in his theater sessions. He used to push me into terrible outbursts of anguish with it. He said that it was a story for warriors who had everything and yet felt the sting of the universal sadness. I always thought he was telling it for me, personally."


Don Juan then paraphrased his teacher, telling me that the story referred to a man suffering from profound melancholy.

The man went to see the best doctors of his day and every one of those doctors failed to help him. He finally came to the office of a leading doctor, a healer of the soul.

The doctor suggested to his patient that perhaps he could find solace, and the end of his melancholy, in love. The man responded that love was no problem for him, that he was loved perhaps like no one else in the world.

The doctor's next suggestion was that maybe the patient should undertake a voyage and see other parts of the world. The man responded that, without exaggeration, he had been in every corner of the world.

The doctor recommended hobbies like the arts, sports, etc. The man responded to every one of his recommendations in the same terms: He had done that and had had no relief.

The doctor suspected that the man was possibly an incurable liar. He couldn't have done all those things, as he claimed. But being a good healer, the doctor had a final insight.

"Ah!" the doctor exclaimed. "I have the perfect solution for you, sir. You must attend a performance of the greatest comedian of our day. He will delight you to the point where you will forget every twist of your melancholy. You must attend a performance of the Great Garrick!"

Don Juan said that the man looked at the doctor with the saddest look you can imagine, and said, "Doctor, if that's your recommendation, I am a lost man and have no cure. I am Garrick."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 10. The Breaking Point.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 10. The Breaking Point.

Inner silence is a state of profound quietude.

Don Juan defined inner silence as a state of being in which thoughts were canceled out, and I could function from a level other than that of daily awareness. He stressed that inner silence meant the suspension of the perennial companion of thoughts; the suspension of my internal dialogue.

"The old sorcerers," don Juan said, "called this state inner silence because it is a state in which perception does not depend on using the senses as we are accustomed to. What is at work during inner silence is another faculty that man has; the faculty that makes him a magical being; the very faculty that has been curtailed- not by man himself, but by some extraneous influence."

"What is this extraneous influence that curtails the magical faculty of man?" I asked.

"That," don Juan replied, "is the topic for a future explanation, and is not a subject of our present discussion, even though it is indeed a most serious aspect of the sorcery of the shamans of ancient Mexico.

"Inner silence," he continued, "is the stand from which everything stems in sorcery. In other words, everything we do leads to that stand, which, like everything else in the world of sorcerers, doesn't reveal itself unless something gigantic shakes us."


Don Juan said that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico devised endless ways to shake themselves, or other sorcery practitioners at their foundations in order to reach that coveted state of inner silence. They considered the most farfetched acts, which may seem totally unrelated to the pursuit of inner silence- such as jumping into waterfalls or spending nights hanging upside down from the top branch of a tree- to be key methods that brought inner silence into being.

Following the rationale of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, don Juan stated categorically that inner silence is accrued; accumulated.

In my case, he struggled to guide me to construct a core of inner silence in myself, and then add to it, second by second on every occasion I practiced it. He explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico discovered that each individual had a different threshold of inner silence in terms of time; meaning that inner silence must be kept by each one of us for the length of time of our specific threshold before it can work.

"What did those sorcerers consider the sign that inner silence is working, don Juan?" I asked.

"Inner silence works from the moment you begin to accrue it," he replied. "What the old sorcerers were after was the final, dramatic, end result of reaching that individual threshold of silence. Some very talented practitioners need only a few minutes of silence to reach that coveted goal. Others, less talented, need long periods of silence, perhaps more than one hour of complete quietude, before they reach the desired result. The desired result is what the old sorcerers called stopping the world; the moment when everything around us ceases to be what it's always been.

"This is the moment when sorcerers return to the true nature of man," don Juan went on. "The old sorcerers also called it total freedom. It is the moment when 'man the slave' becomes 'man the free being' capable of feats of perception that defy our linear imagination."

Don Juan assured me that inner silence is the avenue that leads to a true suspension of judgment- to a moment when sensory data emanating from the universe at large ceases to be interpreted by the senses; a moment when cognition ceases to be the force which, through usage and repetition, decides the nature of the world.

"Sorcerers need a breaking point for the workings of inner silence to set in," don Juan said. "The breaking point is like the mortar that a mason puts between bricks. It's only when the mortar hardens that the loose bricks become a structure."

From the beginning of our association, don Juan had drilled into me the value and the necessity of inner silence. I did my best to follow his suggestions by accumulating inner silence second by second. I had no means to measure the effect of this accumulation, nor did I have any means to judge whether or not I had reached any threshold. I simply aimed doggedly at accruing it, not just to please don Juan, but because the act of accumulating it had become a challenge in itself.


One day, don Juan and I were taking a leisurely stroll in the main plaza of Hermosillo. It was the early afternoon of a cloudy day. The heat was dry, and actually very pleasant. There were lots of people walking around. There were stores around the plaza. I had been to Hermosillo many times, and yet I had never noticed the stores. I knew that they were there, but their presence was not something I had been consciously aware of. I couldn't have made a map of that plaza if my life depended on it. That day, as I walked with don Juan, I was trying to locate and identify the stores. I searched for something to use as a mnemonic device that would stir my recollection for later use.

"As I have told you before, many times," don Juan said, jolting me out of my concentration, "every sorcerer I know, male or female, sooner or later arrives at a breaking point in their lives."

"Do you mean that they have a mental breakdown or something like that?" I asked

"No, no," he said, laughing. "Mental breakdowns are for persons who indulge in themselves. Sorcerers are not persons. What I mean is that at a given moment, the continuity of their lives has to break in order for inner silence to set in and become an active part of their structures.

"It's very, very important," don Juan went on, "that you yourself deliberately arrive at that breaking point, or that you create it artificially, and intelligently."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?" I asked, caught in his intriguing reasoning.

"Your breaking point" he said, "is to discontinue your life as you know it. You have done everything I told you, dutifully and accurately. If you are talented, you never show it. That seems to be your style. You're not slow, but you act as if you were. You're very sure of yourself, but you act as if you were insecure. You're not timid, and yet you act as if you were afraid of people. Everything you do points at one single spot; your need to break all that, ruthlessly."

"But in what way, don Juan? What do you have in mind?" I asked, genuinely frantic.

"I think everything boils down to one act," he said. "You must leave your friends. You must say good-bye to them, for good. It's not possible for you to continue on the warriors' path carrying your personal history with you, and unless you discontinue your way of life, I won't be able to go ahead with my instruction."

"Now, now, now, don Juan," I said, "I have to put my foot down. You're asking too much of me. To be frank with you, I don't think I can do it. My friends are my family; my points of reference."

"Precisely, precisely," he remarked. "They are your points of reference. Therefore, they have to go. Sorcerers have only one point of reference: infinity."

"But how do you want me to proceed, don Juan?" I asked in a plaintive voice. His request was driving me up the wall.

"You must simply leave," he said matter-of-factly. "Leave any way you can."

"But where would I go?" I asked.

"My recommendation is that you rent a room in one of those chintzy hotels you know," he said. "The uglier the place, the better. If the room has drab green carpet, and drab green drapes, and drab green walls, so much the better- a place comparable to that hotel I showed you once in Los Angeles."

I laughed nervously at my recollection of a time when I was driving with don Juan through the industrial side of Los Angeles, where there were only warehouses and dilapidated hotels for transients. One hotel in particular attracted don Juan's attention because of its bombastic name: Edward the Seventh. We stopped across the street from it for a moment to look at it.

"That hotel over there," don Juan said, pointing at it, "is to me the true representation of life on Earth for the average person. If you are lucky, or ruthless, you will get a room with a view of the street, where you will see this endless parade of human misery. If you're not that lucky, or that ruthless, you will get a room on the inside, with windows to the wall of the next building. Think of spending a lifetime torn between those two views, envying the view of the street if you're inside, and envying the view of the wall if you're on the outside, tired of looking out."

Don Juan's metaphor bothered me no end, for I had taken it all in.

Now, faced with the possibility of having to rent a room in a hotel comparable to the Edward the Seventh, I didn't know what to say or which way to go.

"What do you want me to do there, don Juan?" I asked.

"A sorcerer uses a place like that to die," he said, looking at me with an unblinking stare. "You have never been alone in your life. This is the time to do it. You will stay in that room until you die."

His request scared me, but at the same time, it made me laugh.

"Not that I'm going to do it, don Juan," I said, "but what would be the criteria to know that I'm dead?- unless you want me to actually die physically."

"No," he said, "I don't want your body to die physically. I want your person to die. The two are very different affairs. In essence, your person has very little to do with your body. Your person is your mind, and believe you me, your mind is not yours."

"What is this nonsense, don Juan, that my mind is not mine?" I heard myself asking with a nervous twang in my voice.

"I'll tell you about that subject someday," he said, "but not while you're cushioned by your friends.

"The criteria that indicates that a sorcerer is dead," he went on, "is when it makes no difference to him whether he has company or whether he is alone. The day you don't covet the company of your friends, whom you use as shields, that's the day that your person has died. What do you say? Are you game?"

"I can't do it, don Juan," I said. "It's useless that I try to lie to you. I can't leave my friends."

"It's perfectly all right," he said, unperturbed. My statement didn't seem to affect him in the least. "I won't be able to talk to you anymore, but let's say that during our time together you have learned a great deal. You have learned things that will make you very strong, regardless of whether you come back or you stray away."

He patted me on the back and said good-bye to me. He turned around and simply disappeared among the people in the plaza, as if he had merged with them. For an instant, I had the strange sensation that the people in the plaza were like a curtain that he had opened and then disappeared behind. The end had come, as did everything else in don Juan's world: swiftly and unpredictably. Suddenly, the end of don Juan's world was upon me. I was in the throes of it, and I did not even know how I had gotten into it.

I should have been crushed. Yet I was not. I didn't know why, but I was elated. I marveled at the facility with which everything had ended. Don Juan was indeed an elegant being. There were no recriminations or anger or anything of that sort at all. I got in my car and drove, happy as a lark. I was ebullient. How extraordinary that everything had ended so swiftly, I thought, so painlessly.


My trip home was uneventful. In Los Angeles, being in my familiar surroundings, I noticed that I had derived an enormous amount of energy from my last exchange with don Juan. I was actually very happy, very relaxed, and I resumed what I considered to be my normal life with renewed zest. All my tribulations with my friends, and my realizations about them, everything that I had said to don Juan in reference to this, were thoroughly forgotten. It was as if something had erased all that from my mind. I marveled a couple of times at the facility I had in forgetting something that had been so meaningful; and in forgetting it so thoroughly.

Everything was as expected. There was one single inconsistency in the otherwise neat paradigm of my new old life: I distinctly remembered don Juan saying to me that my departing from the sorcerers' world was purely academic, and that I would be back.

I remembered writting down every word of our exchange. According to my normal linear reasoning and memory, don Juan had never made those statements. How could I remember things that had never taken place? I pondered uselessly. My pseudo-recollection was strange enough to make a case for it, but then I decided that there was no point in reflecting on it. As far as I was concerned, I was out of don Juan's milieu.

Following don Juan's suggestions in reference to my behavior with those who had favored me in any way, I had come to a earthshaking decision for myself: I resolved to honor and to thank my friends before it was too late.

One incident involving my friend Rodrigo, however, toppled my new paradigm and sent it tumbling down to its total destruction.

My attitude toward Rodrigo changed radically when I vanquished my competitiveness with him. I found out that it was the easiest thing in the world for me to project 100 percent into whatever Rodrigo did. In fact, I was exactly like him, but I didn't know it until I stopped competing with him: Then the truth emerged for me with maddening vividness.

One of Rodrigo's foremost wishes was to finish college. Every semester, he registered for school and took as many courses as was permitted. Then, as the semester progressed, he dropped them one by one. Sometimes he would withdraw from school altogether. At other times he would keep one three-unit course all the way through to the bitter end.

During the most recent semester, he had kept a course in sociology because he liked it. The final exam was approaching. He told me that he had three weeks to study; to read the textbook for the course. He thought that that was an exorbitant amount of time to read merely six hundred pages. He considered himself something of a speed reader, with a high level of retention; in his opinion, he had a nearly 100 percent photographic memory.

He thought he had a great deal of time before the exam, so he asked me if I would help him recondition his car for his paper route. He wanted to take the right door off in order to throw the paper through that opening with his right hand instead of over the roof with his left.

I pointed out to him that he was left-handed, to which he retorted that among his many abilities, which none of his friends noticed, was that of being ambidextrous. He was right about that: I had never noticed it myself.

After I helped him to take the door off, he decided to rip out the roof lining, which was badly torn. He said that his car was in optimum mechanical condition, and so he was going to take it to Tijuana, Mexico- which, as a good Angeleno of the day, he called 'TJ'- to have it relined for a few bucks.

"We could use a trip," he said with glee. He even selected the friends he would like to take. "In TJ, I'm sure that you'll go to look for used books, because you're an asshole. The rest of us will go to a bordello. I know quite a few."

It took us a week to rip out all the lining and sand the metal surface to prepare it for its new lining. Rodrigo had two weeks left to study then, and he still considered that to be too much time.

He engaged me then in helping him paint his apartment and redo the floors. It took us over a week to paint it and sand the hardwood floors. He didn't want to paint over the wallpaper in one room. We had to rent a machine that removed wallpaper by applying steam to it.

Naturally, neither Rodrigo nor I knew how to use the machine properly, and we botched the job horrendously. We ended up having to use Topping; a very fine mixture of plaster of paris and other substances that gives a wall a smooth surface.

After all these endeavors, Rodrigo ended up having only two days left to cram six hundred pages into his head. He went frantically into an all-day and all-night reading marathon, with the help of amphetamine.

Rodrigo did go to school the day of the exam, and did sit down at his desk, and did get the multiple-choice exam sheet.

What he didn't do was stay awake to take the exam. His body slumped forward, and his head hit the desk with a terrifying thud.

The exam had to be suspended for a while. The sociology teacher became hysterical, and so did the students sitting around Rodrigo. His body was stiff and icy cold. The whole class suspected the worst: They thought he had died of a heart attack. Paramedics were summoned to remove him. After a cursory examination, they pronounced Rodrigo profoundly asleep and took him to a hospital to sleep the effect of the amphetamines off.


My projection into Rodrigo Cummings was so total that it frightened me. I was exactly like him. The similarity became untenable to me. In an act of what I considered to be total, suicidal nihilism, I rented a room in a dilapidated hotel in Hollywood.

The carpets were green and had terrible cigarette burns that had obviously been snuffed out before they turned into full-fledged fires. It had green drapes and drab green walls. The blinking sign of the hotel shone all night through the window.

I ended up doing exactly what don Juan had requested, but in a roundabout way. I didn't do it to fulfill any of don Juan's requirements or with the intention of patching up our differences. I did stay in that hotel room for months on end, until my person, like don Juan had proposed, died; or at least until it truthfully made no difference to me whether I had company or I was alone.

After leaving the hotel, I went to live alone, closer to school. I continued my studies of anthropology, which had never been interrupted, and I started a very profitable business with a lady partner.

Everything seemed perfectly in order until one day when the realization hit me like a kick in the head that I was going to spend the rest of my life worrying about my business, or worrying about the phantom choice between being an academic or a businessman, or worrying about my partner's foibles and shenanigans.

True desperation pierced the depths of my being. For the first time in my life, despite all the things that I had done and seen, I had no way out. I was completely lost. I seriously began to toy with the idea of the most pragmatic and painless way to end my days.

One morning, a loud and insistent knocking woke me up. I thought it was the landlady, and I was sure that if I didn't answer, she would enter with her passkey.

I opened the door, and there was don Juan! I was so surprised that I was numb. I stammered and stuttered, incapable of saying a word. I wanted to kiss his hand, to kneel in front of him. Don Juan came in and sat down with great ease on the edge of my bed.

"I made the trip to Los Angeles," he said, "just to see you."

I wanted to take him to breakfast, but he said that he had other things to attend to, and that he had only a moment to talk to me. I hurriedly told him about my experience in the hotel. His presence had created such havoc that not for a second did it occur to me to ask him how he had found out where I lived. I told don Juan how intensely I regretted having said what I had in Hermosillo.

"You don't have to apologize," he assured me. "Every one of us does the same thing. Once, I ran away from the sorcerers' world myself, and I had to nearly die to realize my stupidity.

"The important issue is to arrive at a breaking point in whatever way, and that's exactly what you have done. Inner silence is becoming real for you. This is the reason I am here in front of you, talking to you. Do you see what I mean?"

I thought I understood what he meant. I thought that he had intuited or read, the way he read things in the air, that I was at my wits' end and that he had come to bail me out.

"You have no time to lose," he said. "You must dissolve your business enterprise within an hour, because one hour is all I can afford to wait- not because I don't want to wait, but because infinity is pressing me mercilessly. Let's say that infinity is giving you one hour to cancel yourself out.

"For infinity, the only worthwhile enterprise of a warrior is freedom. Any other enterprise is fraudulent. Can you dissolve everything in one hour?"

I didn't have to assure him that I could. I knew that I had to do it. Don Juan told me then that once I had succeeded in dissolving everything, he was going to wait for me at the marketplace in a town in Mexico. In my effort to think about the dissolution of my business, I overlooked what he was saying. He repeated it and, of course, I thought he was joking.

"How can I reach that town, don Juan? Do you want me to drive, to take a plane?" I asked.

"Dissolve your business first," he commanded. "Then the solution will come. But remember, I'll be waiting for you only for an hour."

He left the apartment, and I feverishly endeavored to dissolve everything I had. Naturally, it took me more than an hour, but I didn't stop to consider this because once I had set the dissolution of the business in motion, its momentum carried me.

It was only when I was through that the real dilemma faced me. I knew then that I had failed hopelessly. I was left with no business, and no possibilities of ever reaching don Juan.

I went to my bed and sought the only solace I could think of: quietude; silence. In order to facilitate the advent of inner silence, don Juan had taught me a way to sit down on my bed, with the knees bent and the soles of the feet touching, the hands pushing the feet together by holding the ankles. He had given me a thick dowel that I always kept at hand wherever I went. It was cut to a fourteen-inch length to support the weight of my head if I leaned over and put the dowel on the floor between my feet, and then placed the other end, which was cushioned, on the spot in the middle of my forehead. Every time I adopted this position, I fell sound asleep in a matter of seconds.

I must have fallen asleep with my usual facility because I dreamed that I was in the Mexican town where don Juan had said he was going to meet me. I had always been intrigued by this town. The marketplace was open one day a week, and the farmers who lived in the area brought their products there to be sold.

What fascinated me the most about that town was the paved road that led to it. At the very entrance to the town, it went over a steep hill. I had sat many times on a bench by a stand that sold cheese, and had looked at that hill. I would see people who were coming into town with their donkeys and their loads, but I would see their heads first; as they kept approaching I would see more of their bodies, until the moment they were on the very top of the hill, when I would see their entire bodies. It seemed to me always that they were emerging from the earth, either slowly or very fast, depending on their speed.

In my dream, don Juan was waiting for me by the cheese stand. I approached him.

"You made it from your inner silence," he said, patting me on the back. "You did reach your breaking point. For a moment, I had begun to lose hope. But I stuck around, knowing that you would make it."

In that dream, we went for a stroll. I was happier than I had ever been. The dream was so vivid, so terrifyingly real, that it left me no doubts that I had resolved the problem, even if my resolving it was only a dream-fantasy.

Don Juan laughed, shaking his head. He had definitely read my thoughts. "You're not in a mere dream," he said, "but who am I to tell you that? You'll know it yourself someday- that there are no dreams from inner silence- because you'll choose to know it."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 11. The Measurements of Cognition.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 11. The Measurements of Cognition.

'The end of an era' was, for don Juan, an accurate description of a process that shamans go through in dismantling the structure of the world they know in order to replace it with another way of understanding the world around them. Don Juan Matus, as a teacher, endeavored from the very instant we met to introduce me to the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico.

The term 'cognition' was, for me at that time, a bone of tremendous contention. I understood it as the process by which we recognize the world around us. Certain things fall within the realm of that process and are easily recognized by us all. Other things don't, and remain, therefore, as oddities, things for which we nave no adequate comprehension.

Don Juan maintained, from the start of our association, that the world of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was different from ours; not in a shallow way, but different in the way in which the process of cognition was arranged.

He maintained that in our world, our cognition requires the interpretation of sensory data.

He said that the universe is composed of an infinite number of energy fields that exist in the universe at large as luminous filaments. Those luminous filaments act on man as an organism. The response of the organism is to turn those energy fields into sensory data. Sensory data is then interpreted, and that interpretation becomes our cognitive system.

My understanding of cognition forced me to believe that all humans respond to pressure from the world at large using a universal process; similar to language being a universal process.

I reasoned that, just as there is a different syntax for every language, naturally there must simply be a slightly different arrangement for every system of cognitive interpretation in the world.

What I desperately wanted don Juan to say was that their different cognitive system was the equivalent of having a different language but that it was a language nonetheless.

Don Juan's assertion that the shamans of ancient Mexico had a different cognitive system, however, was for me equivalent to saying that they had a different way of communicating that had nothing to do with language.

'The end of an era' meant to don Juan that the units of a foreign cognition were beginning to take hold. The units of my normal cognition, no matter how pleasant and rewarding I felt they had been for me, were beginning to fade. A grave moment in the life of a thinking man!


Perhaps my most cherished unit was my academic life. Unenlightened as I was, anything that threatened my academia I felt as a threat to the very core of my being; especially if the attack was veiled or unnoticed.

And so it happened with a professor in whom I had put all my trust, Professor Lorca.

I had enrolled in Professor Lorca's course on cognition because he was recommended to me as one of the most brilliant academics in existence.

Professor Lorca was rather handsome, with blond hair neatly combed to the side. His forehead was smooth, wrinkle-free, giving the appearance of someone who had never worried in his life. His clothes were extremely well tailored. He didn't wear a tie; a feature that gave him a boyish look. He would put on a tie only to face important people.

On my memorable first class with Professor Lorca, I was bewildered and nervous at seeing how he paced back and forth for minutes that stretched themselves into an eternity for me. Professor Lorca kept on moving his thin, clenched lips up and down, adding immensities to the tension he was generating in that closed-window, stuffy room. Suddenly, he stopped walking. He stood in the center of the room, a few feet from where I was sitting, and, banging a carefully rolled newspaper on the podium, he began to talk.

"It'll never be known..." he began.

Everyone in the room at once started anxiously taking notes.

"It'll never be known," he repeated, "what a toad is feeling while he sits at the bottom of a pond and interprets the toad world around him." His voice carried a tremendous force and finality. "So, what do you think this thing is?" He waved the newspaper over his head.

He went on to read to the class an article in the newspaper in which the work of a biologist was reported. The scientist was quoted as describing what frogs felt when insects swam above their heads.

"This article shows the carelessness of the reporter, who has obviously misquoted the scientist," Professor Lorca asserted with the authority of a full professor.

"A scientist, no matter how shoddy his work might be, would never allow himself to anthropomorphize the results of his research, unless, of course, he's a nincompoop."

With this as an introduction, he delivered a most brilliant lecture on the insular quality of our cognitive system; or the cognitive system of any organism, for that matter.

He brought to me, in his initial lecture, a barrage of new ideas and made them extremely simple, ready for use.

The most novel idea to me was that every individual of every species on this earth interprets the world around it, using data reported by its specialized senses. He asserted that human beings cannot even imagine what it must be like, for example, to be in a world ruled by echolocation, as in the world of bats, where any inferred point of reference could not even be conceived of by the human mind.

He made it quite clear that, from that point of view, no two cognitive systems could be alike among species.

As I left the auditorium at the end of the hour and a half lecture, I felt that I had been bowled over by the brilliance of Professor Lorca's mind. From then on, I was his confirmed admirer. I found his lectures more than stimulating and thought provoking. His were the only lectures I had ever looked forward to attending. All his eccentricities meant nothing to me in comparison with his excellence as a teacher and as an innovative thinker in the realm of psychology.

When I first attended the class of Professor Lorca, I had been working with don Juan Matus for almost two years. It was a well established pattern of behavior with me, accustomed as I was to routines, to tell don Juan everything that happened to me in my everyday world.

On the first opportunity I had, I related to him what was taking place with Professor Lorca. I praised Professor Lorca to the skies and told don Juan unabashedly that Professor Lorca was my role model. Don Juan seemed very impressed with my display of genuine admiration, yet he gave me a strange warning.

"Don't admire people from afar," he said. "That is the surest way to create mythological beings. Get close to your professor, talk to him, see what he's like as a man. Test him. If your professor's behavior is the result of his conviction that he is a being who is going to die, then everything he does, no matter how strange, must be premeditated and final. If what he says turns out to be just words, he's not worth a hoot."

I was insulted no end by what I considered to be don Juan's callousness. I thought he was a little bit jealous of my feelings for Professor Lorca. Once that thought was formulated in my mind I felt relieved: I understood everything.

"Tell me, don Juan," I said to end the conversation on a different note, "what is a being that is going to die, really? I have heard you talk about it so many times, but you haven't actually defined it for me."

"Human beings are beings that are going to die," he said.

"Sorcerers firmly maintain that the only way to have a grip on our world, and on what we do in it, is by fully accepting that we are beings on the way to dying. Without this basic acceptance, our lives, our doings, and the world in which we live are unmanageable affairs."

"But is the mere acceptance of this so far-reaching?" I asked in a tone of quasi-protest.

"You bet your life!" don Juan said, smiling. "However, it's not the mere acceptance that does the trick. We have to embody that acceptance and live it all the way through. Sorcerers throughout the ages have said that the view of our death is the most sobering view that exists.

What is wrong with us human beings, and has been wrong since time immemorial, is that without ever stating it in so many words, we believe that we have entered the realm of immortality. We behave as if we were never going to die- an infantile arrogance. But even more injurious than this sense of immortality is what comes with it: the sense that we can engulf this inconceivable universe with our minds."

A most deadly juxtaposition of ideas had me mercilessly in its grip: don Juan's wisdom and Professor Lorca's knowledge. Both were difficult, obscure, all-encompassing, and most appealing. There was nothing for me to do except follow the course of events and go with them wherever they might take me.

I followed to the letter don Juan's suggestion about approaching Professor Lorca. I tried for the whole semester to get close to him; to talk to him. I went religiously to his office during his office hours, but he never seemed to have any time for me. But even though I couldn't speak to him, I admired him unbiasedly. I even accepted that he would never talk to me. It didn't matter to me. What mattered were the ideas that I gathered from his magnificent classes.

I reported to don Juan all my intellectual findings. I had done extensive reading on cognition. Don Juan Matus urged me, more than ever, to establish direct contact with the source of my intellectual revolution.

"It is imperative that you speak to him," he said with a note of urgency in his voice. "Sorcerers don't admire people in a vacuum. They talk to them. They get to know them. They establish points of reference. They compare.

"What you are doing is a little bit infantile. You are admiring from a distance. It is very much like what happens to a man who is afraid of women. Finally, his gonads overrule his fear and compel him to worship the first woman who says 'hello' to him."

I tried doubly hard to approach Professor Lorca, but he was like an impenetrable fortress. When I talked to don Juan about my difficulties, he explained that sorcerers viewed any kind of activity with people, no matter how minute or unimportant, as a battlefield. In that battlefield, sorcerers performed their best magic; their best effort.

He assured me that the trick to being at ease in such situations, a thing that had never been my forte, was to face our opponents openly.

He expressed his abhorrence of timid souls who shy away from interaction to the point where even though they interact, they merely infer or deduce, in terms of their own psychological states, what is going on without actually perceiving what is really going on. They interact without ever being part of the interaction.

"Always look at the man who is involved in a tug of war with you," he continued. "Don't just pull the rope. Look up and see his eyes. You'll know then that he is a man, just like you. No matter what he's saying, no matter what he's doing, he's shaking in his boots, just like you. A look like that renders the opponent helpless, if only for an instant. Deliver your blow then."

One day, luck was with me: I cornered Professor Lorca in the hall outside his office.

"Professor Lorca," I said, "do you have a free moment so I could talk to you?"

"Who in the hell are you?" he said with the most natural air, as if I were his best friend and he were merely asking me how I felt that day.

Professor Lorca was as rude as anyone could be, but his words didn't have the effect of rudeness on me. He grinned at me with tight lips, as if encouraging me to leave or to say something meaningful.

"I am an anthropology student, Professor Lorca," I said. "I am involved in a field situation where I have the opportunity to learn about the cognitive system of sorcerers."

Professor Lorca looked at me with suspicion and annoyance. His eyes seemed to be two blue points filled with spite. He combed his hair backward with his hand, as if it had fallen on his face.

"I work with a real sorcerer in Mexico," I continued, trying to encourage a response. "He's a real sorcerer, mind you. It has taken me over a year just to warm him up so he would consent to talk to me."

Professor Lorca's face relaxed. He opened his mouth and, waving a most delicate hand in front of my eyes, as if he were twirling pizza dough with it, he spoke to me. I couldn't help noticing his enameled gold cuff links, which matched his greenish blazer to perfection.

"And what do you want from me?" he said.

"I want you to hear me out for a moment," I said, "and see if whatever I'm doing may interest you."

He made a gesture of reluctance and resignation with his shoulders, opened the door of his office, and invited me to come in. I knew that I had no time at all to waste and I gave him a very direct description of my field situation. I told him that I was being taught procedures that had nothing to do with what I had found in the anthropological literature about shamanism.

He moved his lips for a moment without saying a word. When he spoke, he pointed out that the flaw of anthropologists in general had been that they never allow themselves sufficient time to become fully cognizant of all the nuances of the particular cognitive system used by the people they are studying.

He defined 'cognition' as a system of interpretation, which through usage makes it possible for individuals to utilize, with the utmost expertise, all the nuances of meaning that make up the particular social milieu under consideration.

Professor Lorca's words illuminated the total scope of my field-work. Without gaining command of all the nuances of the cognitive system of the shamans of ancient Mexico, it would have been thoroughly superfluous for me to formulate any idea about that world. If Professor Lorca had not said another word to me, what he had just voiced would have been more than sufficient. What followed was a marvelous discourse on cognition.

"Your problem," Professor Lorca said, "is that the cognitive system of our everyday world with which we are all familiar, virtually from the day we are born, is not the same as the cognitive system of the sorcerers' world."

This statement created a state of euphoria in me. I thanked Professor Lorca profusely, and assured him that there was only one course of action in my case: to follow his ideas through hell or high water.

"What I have told you, of course, is general knowledge," he said as he ushered me out of his office. "Anyone who reads is aware of what I have been telling you."

We parted almost friends. My account to don Juan of my success in approaching Professor Lorca was met with a strange reaction. Don Juan seemed, on the one hand, to be elated, and on the other, concerned.

"I have the feeling that your professor is not quite what he claims to be," he said. "That's, of course, from a sorcerer's point of view. Perhaps it would be wise to quit now, before all this becomes too involved and consuming. One of the high arts of sorcerers is to know when to stop. It appears to me that you've gotten from your professor all you can get from him."

I immediately reacted with a barrage of defenses on behalf of Professor Lorca. Don Juan calmed me down. He said that it wasn't his intention to criticize or judge anybody, but that to his knowledge, very few people knew when to quit, and even fewer knew how to actually utilize their knowledge.

In spite of don Juan's warnings, I didn't quit. Instead, I became Professor Lorca's faithful student, follower, and admirer. He seemed to take a genuine interest in my work, although he felt frustrated no end with my reluctance and inability to formulate clear-cut concepts about the cognitive system of the sorcerers' world.

One day, Professor Lorca formulated for me the concept of the scientist-visitor to another cognitive world. He conceded that he was willing to be open-minded, and as a social scientist toy with the possibility of a different cognitive system.

He envisioned an actual research in which protocols would be gathered and analyzed. Problems of cognition would be devised and given to the shamans I knew to measure, for instance, their capacity to focus their cognition on two diverse aspects of behavior. He thought that the test would begin with a simple paradigm in which they would try to comprehend and retain written text that they read while they played poker. The test would escalate, to measure, for instance, their capacity to focus their cognition on complex things that were being said to them while they slept, and so on. Professor Lorca wanted a linguistic analysis to be performed on the shamans' utterances. He wanted an actual measurement of their responses in terms of their speed and accuracy, and other variables that would become prevalent as the project progressed.

Don Juan veritably laughed his head off when I told him about Professor Lorca's proposed measurements of the cognition of shamans.

"Now, I truly like your professor," he said. "But you can't be serious about this idea of measuring our cognition. What could your professor get out of measuring our responses? He'll get the conviction that we are a bunch of morons, because that's what we are. We cannot possibly be more intelligent, faster than the average man.

"It's not his fault, though, to believe he can make measurements of cognition across worlds. The fault is yours. You have failed to express to your professor that when sorcerers talk about the cognitive world of the shamans of ancient Mexico they are talking about things for which we have no equivalent in the world of everyday life.

"For instance, perceiving energy directly as it flows in the universe is a unit of cognition that shamans live by. They see how energy flows, and they follow its flow.

"If its flow is obstructed, they move away to do something entirely different. Shamans see lines in the universe. Their art, or their job, is to choose the line that will take them perception-wise to regions that have no name. You can say that shamans react immediately to the lines of the universe. They see human beings as luminous balls, and they search in them for their flow of energy. Naturally, they react instantly to this sight. It's part of their cognition."

I told don Juan that I couldn't possibly talk about all this to Professor Lorca because I hadn't done any of the things that he was describing. My cognition had remained the same.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "It's simply that you haven't had the time yet to embody the units of cognition of the shamans' world."

I left don Juan's house more confused than ever. There was a voice inside me that virtually demanded that I end all endeavors with Professor Lorca.

I understood how right don Juan was when he said to me once that the practicalities that scientists were interested in were conducive to building more and more complex machines.

They were not the practicalities that changed an individual's life course from within. They were not geared to reaching the vastness of the universe as a personal, experiential affair.

The stupendous machines in existence, or those in the making, were cultural affairs, the attainment of which had to be enjoyed vicariously, even by the creators of those machines themselves. The only reward for them was monetary.

In pointing out all of that to me, don Juan had succeeded in placing me in a more inquisitive frame of mind. I really began to question the ideas of Professor Lorca, something I had never done before. Meanwhile, Professor Lorca kept spouting astounding truths about cognition. Each declaration was more severe than the preceding one and, therefore, more incisive.

At the end of my second semester with Professor Lorca, I had reached an impasse. There was no way on earth for me to bridge the two lines of thought: don Juan's and Professor Lorca's. They were on parallel tracks.

I understood Professor Lorca's drive to qualify and quantify the study of cognition. Cybernetics was just around the comer at that time, and the practical aspect of the studies of cognition was a reality.

But so was don Juan's world, which could not be measured with the standard tools of cognition. I had been privileged to witness it, in don Juan's actions, but I hadn't experienced it myself. I felt that that was the drawback that made bridging those two worlds impossible.

I told all this to don Juan on one of my visits to him. He said that what I considered to be my drawback, and therefore the factor that made bridging these two worlds impossible, wasn't accurate. In his opinion, the flaw was something more encompassing than one man's individual circumstances.

"Perhaps you can recall what I said to you about one of our biggest flaws as average human beings," he said.

I couldn't recall anything in particular. He had pointed out so many flaws that plagued us as average human beings that my mind reeled.

"You want something specific," I said, "and I can't think of it."

"The big flaw I am talking about," he said, "is something you ought to bear in mind every second of your existence. For me, it's the issue of issues, which I will repeat to you over and over until it comes out of your ears."

After a long moment, I gave up any further attempt to remember.

"We are beings on our way to dying," he said. "We are not immortal, but we behave as if we were. This is the flaw that brings us down as individuals and will bring us down as a species someday."

Don Juan stated that the sorcerers' advantage over their average fellow men is that sorcerers know that they are beings on their way to dying and they don't let themselves deviate from that knowledge. He emphasized that an enormous effort must be employed in order to elicit and maintain this knowledge as a total certainty.

"Why is it so hard for us to admit something that is so truthful?" I asked, bewildered by the magnitude of our internal contradiction.

"It's really not man's fault," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Someday, I'll tell you more about the forces that drive a man to act like an ass."

There wasn't anything else to say. The silence that followed was ominous. I didn't even want to know what the forces were that don Juan was referring to.

"It is no great feat for me to assess your professor at a distance," don Juan went on. "He is an immortal scientist. He is never going to die. And when it comes to any concerns about dying, I am sure that he has taken care of them already. He has a plot to be buried in, and a hefty life insurance policy that will take care of his family. Having fulfilled those two mandates, he doesn't think about death anymore. He thinks only about his work.

"Professor Lorca makes sense when he talks," don Juan continued, "because he is prepared to use words accurately. But he's not prepared to take himself seriously as a man who is going to die. Being immortal, he wouldn't know how to do that.

"It makes no difference what complex machines scientists can build. The machines can in no way help anyone face the unavoidable appointment: the appointment with infinity.

"The nagual Julian used to tell me," he went on, "about the conquering generals of ancient Rome. When they would return home victorious, gigantic parades were staged to honor them.

"Displaying the treasures that they had won, and the defeated people that they had turned into slaves, the conquerors paraded; riding in their war chariots. Riding with them was always a slave whose job was to whisper in their ear that all fame and glory is but transitory.

"If we are victorious in any way," don Juan went on, "we don't have anyone to whisper in our ear that our victories are fleeting.

"Sorcerers, however, do have the upper hand. As beings on their way to dying, they have someone whispering in their ear that everything is ephemeral. The whisperer is death; the infallible advisor; the only one who won't ever tell you a lie."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 2 - Chapter 12. Saying Thank You.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - Chapter 12. Saying Thank You.

"Warrior travelers don't leave any debts unpaid," don Juan said.

"What are you talking about, don Juan?" I asked.

"It is time that you square certain indebtedness you have incurred in the course of your life," he said. "Not that you will ever pay in full, mind you, but you must make a gesture. You must make a token payment in order to atone; in order to appease infinity.

"You told me about your two friends who meant so much to you, Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan. It's time for you to go and find them, and to make to each of them one gift in which you spend everything you have. You have to make two gifts that will leave you penniless. That's the gesture."

"I don't know where they are, don Juan," I said, almost in a mood of protest.

"To find them is your challenge. In your search for them, you will not leave any stone unturned.

"What you intend to do is something very simple, and yet nearly impossible. You want to cross over the threshold of personal indebtedness and in one sweep be free in order to proceed. If you cannot cross that threshold, there won't be any point in trying to continue with me."

"But where did you get the idea of this task for me?" I asked. "Did you invent it yourself because you think it is appropriate?"

"I don't invent anything," he said matter-of-factly. "I got this task from infinity itself. It's not easy for me to say all this to you. If you think that I'm enjoying myself pink with your tribulations, you're wrong.

"The success of your mission means more to me than it does to you. If you fail, you have very little to lose. What? Your visits to me. Big deal. But I would lose you, and that means to me losing either the continuity of my lineage or the possibility of your closing it with a golden key."

Don Juan stopped talking. He always knew when my mind became feverish with thoughts.

"I have told you over and over that warrior travelers are pragmatists," he went on. "They are not involved in sentimentalism, or nostalgia, or melancholy. For warrior travelers, there is only struggle, and it is a struggle with no end.

"If you think that you have come here to find peace, or that this is a lull in your life, you're wrong. This task of paying your debts is not guided by any feelings that you know about. It is guided by the purest sentiment; the sentiment of a warrior traveler who is about to dive into infinity. And just before he does, he turns around to say thank you to those who favored him.

"You must face this task with all the gravity it deserves," he continued. "It is your last stop before infinity swallows you. In fact, unless a warrior traveler is in a sublime state of being, infinity will not touch him with a ten foot pole. So, don't spare yourself. Don't spare any effort. Push it mercilessly, but elegantly, all the way through."


I had met the two people don Juan had referred to as 'my two friends who meant so much to me' while going to junior college. I used to live in the garage apartment of the house belonging to Patricia Turner's parents.

In exchange for room and board, I took care of vacuuming the pool, raking the leaves, putting the trash out, and making breakfast for Patricia and myself. I was also the handyman in the house as well as the family chauffeur. I drove Mrs. Turner to do her shopping, and I bought liquor for Mr. Turner, which I had to sneak into the house and then into his studio.

He was an insurance executive who was a solitary drinker. He had promised his family that he was not going to touch the bottle ever again after some serious family altercations due to his excessive drinking.

He confessed to me that he had tapered off enormously, but that he needed a swig from time to time. His studio was, of course, off limits to everybody except me. I was supposed to go in to clean it, but what I really did was hide his bottles inside a beam that appeared to support an arch in the ceiling in the studio, but that was actually hollow. I had to sneak the bottles in, and sneak the empties out and dump them at the market.

Patricia was a drama and music major in college and a fabulous singer. Her goal was to sing in musicals on Broadway. It goes without saying that I fell head over heels in love with Patricia Turner. She was very slim and athletic, a brunette with angular features, and was about a head taller than I am; my ultimate requisite for going bananas over any woman.

I seemed to fulfill a deep need in her; the need to nurture someone, especially after she realized that her daddy trusted me implicitly. She became my little mommy. I couldn't even open my mouth without her consent. She watched me like a hawk. She even wrote term papers for me, read textbooks, and gave me synopses of them.

And I liked it, but not because I wanted to be nurtured. I don't think that that need was ever part of my cognition. I relished the fact that she did it. I relished her company.

She used to take me to the movies daily. She had passes to all the big movie theaters in Los Angeles that had been given to her father courtesy of some movie moguls. Mr. Turner never used them himself. He felt that it was beneath his dignity to flash movie passes.

The movie clerks always made the recipients of such passes sign a receipt. Patricia had no qualms about signing anything, but sometimes the nasty clerks wanted Mr. Turner to sign. When I went to do that, they were not satisfied with only the signature of Mr. Turner. They demanded a driver's license.

One of them, a sassy young guy, made a remark that cracked him up, and me, too, but which sent Patricia into a fit of fury.

"I think you're Mr. Turd," he said with the nastiest smile you could imagine, "not Mr. Turner."

I could have sloughed off the remark, but then he subjected us to the profound humiliation of refusing us entrance to see Hercules starring Steve Reeves.

Usually, we went everywhere with Patricia's best friend, Sandra Flanagan, who lived next door with her parents. Sandra was quite the opposite of Patricia. She was just as tall, but her face was round, with rosy cheeks and a sensuous mouth. She was healthier than a raccoon.

She had no interest in singing. She was only interested in the sensual pleasures of the body. She could eat and drink anything and digest it; and the feature that finished me off about her was that after she had polished off her own plate, she managed to do the same with mine; a thing that, being a picky eater, I had never been able to do in all my life.

She was also extremely athletic, but in a rough, wholesome way. She could punch like a man and kick like a mule.

As a courtesy to Patricia, I used to do the same chores for Sandra's parents that I did for hers: vacuuming their pool, raking the leaves from their lawn, taking the trash out on trash day, and incinerating papers and flammable trash. That was the time in Los Angeles when the air pollution was increased by the use of backyard incinerators.

Perhaps it was because of the proximity, or the ease of those young women that I ended up madly in love with both of them.

I went to seek advice from a very strange young man who was my friend; Nicholas van Hooten. He had two girlfriends, and he lived with both of them; apparently in a state of bliss. He began by giving me, he said, the simplest advice: how to behave in a movie theater if you had two girlfriends.

He said that whenever he went to a movie with his two girlfriends, all his attention was always centered on whoever sat to his left. After a while, the two girls would go to the bathroom and, on their return, he would have them change the seating arrangement. Anna would sit where Betty had been sitting, and nobody around them was the wiser.

He assured me that this was the first step in a long process of breaking the girls into a matter-of-fact acceptance of the trio situation; Nicholas was rather corny, and he used that trite French expression: menage a trois.

I followed his advice and went to a theater that showed silent movies on Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles with Patricia and Sandy. I sat Patricia to my left and poured all my attention on her. They went to the bathroom, and when they returned I told them to switch places. I started then to do what Nicholas van Hooten had advised, but Patricia would not put up with any nonsense like that. She stood up and left the theater, offended, humiliated, and raving mad. I wanted to run after her and apologize, but Sandra stopped me.

"Let her go," she said with a poisonous smile. "She's a big girl. She has enough money to get a taxi and go home."

I fell for it and remained in the theater kissing Sandra, rather nervously, and filled with guilt. I was in the middle of a passionate kiss when I felt someone pulling me backward by the hair. It was Patricia. The row of seats was loose and tilted backward. Athletic Patricia jumped out of the way before the seats where we were sitting crashed on the row of seats behind. I heard the frightened screams of two movie watchers who were sitting at the end of the row, by the aisle.

Nicholas van Hooten's tip was miserable advice. Patricia, Sandra, and I returned home in absolute silence. We patched up our differences, in the midst of very weird promises, tears- the works.

The outcome of our three sided relationship was that, in the end, we nearly destroyed ourselves. We were not prepared for such an endeavor. We didn't know how to resolve the problems of affection, morality, duty, and social mores.

I couldn't leave one of them for the other, and they couldn't leave me. One day, at the climax of a tremendous upheaval, and out of sheer desperation, all three of us fled in different directions, never to see one another again.

I felt devastated. Nothing of what I did could erase their impact on my life. I left Los Angeles and got busy with endless things in an effort to placate my longing.

Without exaggerating in the least, I can sincerely say that I fell into the depths of hell- I believed- never to emerge again.


If it hadn't been for the influence that don Juan had on my life and my person, I would never have survived my private demons. I told don Juan that I knew that whatever I had done was wrong; that I had no business engaging such wonderful people in such sordid, stupid shenanigans that I had no preparation to face.

"What was wrong," don Juan said, "was that the three of you were lost egomaniacs. Your self-importance nearly destroyed you. If you don't have self-importance, you have only feelings.

"Humor me," he went on, "and do the following simple and direct exercise that could mean the world to you: Remove from your memory of those two girls any statements that you make to yourself such as 'She said this or that to me, and she yelled, and the other one yelled, at me!' and remain at the level of your feelings. If you hadn't been so self-important, what would you have had as the irreducible residue?"

"My unbiased love for them," I said, nearly choking.

"And is it less today than it was then?" don Juan asked.

"No, it isn't, don Juan," I said in truthfulness, and I felt the same pang of anguish that had chased me for years.

"This time, embrace them from your silence," he said. "Don't be a meager asshole. Embrace them totally for the last time. But intend that this is the last time on Earth. Intend it from your darkness. If you are worth your salt," he went on, "when you make your gift to them, you'll sum up your entire life twice. Acts of this nature make warriors airborne, almost vaporous."


Following don Juan's commands, I took the task to heart. I realized that if I didn't emerge victorious, don Juan was not the only one who was going to lose out. I would also lose something, and whatever I was going to lose was as important to me as what don Juan had described as being important to him. I was going to lose my chance to face infinity and be conscious of it.

The memory of Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan put me in a terrible frame of mind. The devastating sense of irreparable loss that had chased me all these years was as vivid as ever. When don Juan exacerbated that feeling, I knew for a fact that there are certain things that can remain with us, in don Juan's terms, for life and perhaps beyond. I had to find Patricia Turner and Sandra Flanagan.

Don Juan's final recommendation was that if I did find them, I could not stay with them. I could have time only to atone; to envelop each of them with all the affection I felt; without the angry voices of recrimination, self-pity, or egomania.

I embarked on the colossal task of finding out what had become of them, where they were. I began by asking questions of the people who knew their parents. Their parents had moved out of Los Angeles, and nobody could give me a lead as to where to find them. There was no one to talk to. I thought of putting a personal ad in the paper. But then I thought that perhaps they had moved out of California. I finally had to hire a private investigator. Through his connections with official offices of records and whatnot, he located them within a couple of weeks.

They lived in New York, a short distance from one other, and their friendship was as close as it had ever been. I went to New York and tackled Patricia Turner first. She hadn't made it to stardom on Broadway the way she had wanted to, but she was part of a production. I didn't want to know whether it was in the capacity of a performer or as management.

I visited her in her office. She didn't tell me what she did. She was shocked to see me. What we did was just sit together and hold hands and weep. I didn't tell her what I did either. I said that I had come to see her because I wanted to give her a gift that would express my gratitude, and that I was embarking on a journey from which I did not intend to come back.

"Why such ominous words?" she asked, apparently genuinely alarmed. "What are you planning to do? Are you ill? You don't look ill."

"It was a metaphorical statement," I assured her. "I'm going back to South America, and I intend to seek my fortune there. The competition is ferocious, and the circumstances are very harsh, that's all. If I want to succeed, I will have to give all I have to it."

She seemed relieved, and hugged me. She looked the same, except much bigger, much more powerful, more mature, very elegant. I kissed her hands and the most overwhelming affection enveloped me. Don Juan was right. Deprived of recriminations, all I had were feelings.

"I want to make you a gift, Patricia Turner," I said. "Ask me anything you want, and if it is within my means, I'll get it for you."

"Did you strike it rich?" she said and laughed. "What's great about you is that you never had anything, and you never will. Sandra and I talk about you nearly every day. We imagine you parking cars, living off women, et cetera, et cetera. I'm sorry, we can't help ourselves, but we still love you."

I insisted that she tell me what she wanted. She began to weep and laugh at the same time.

"Are you going to buy me a mink coat?" she asked me between sobs.

I ruffled her hair and said that I would.

"If you don't like it, you take it back to the store and get the money back," I said.

She laughed and punched me the way she used to. She had to go back to work, and we parted after I promised her that I would come back again to see her, but that if I didn't, I wanted her to understand that the force of my life was pulling me every which way, yet I would keep the memory of her in me for the rest of my life and perhaps beyond.

I did return, but only to see from a distance how they delivered the mink coat to her. I heard her screams of delight.

That part of my task was finished. I left, but I wasn't vaporous, the way don Juan had said I was going to be. I had opened up an old wound and it had started to bleed.

It wasn't quite raining outside: It was a fine mist that seemed to penetrate all the way to the marrow of my bones.

Next, I went to see Sandra Flanagan. She lived in one of the suburbs of New York that is reached by train. I knocked on her door. Sandra opened it and looked at me as if I were a ghost. All the color drained out of her face. She was more beautiful than ever, perhaps because she had filled out and looked as big as a house.

"Why, you, you, you!" she stammered, not quite capable of articulating my name.

She sobbed, and she seemed indignant and reproachful for a moment. I didn't give her the chance to continue. My silence was total. In the end, it affected her. She let me in and we sat down in her living room.

"What are you doing here?" she said, quite a bit calmer. "You can't stay! I'm a married woman! I have three children! And I'm very happy in my marriage."

Shooting her words out rapidly, like a machine gun, she told me that her husband was very dependable, not too imaginative but a good man, that he was not sensual, that she had to be very careful because he tired very easily when they made love, that he got sick easily and sometimes couldn't go to work, but that he had managed to produce three beautiful children, and that after her third child, her husband, whose name seemed to be Herbert, had just simply quit. He didn't have it anymore, but it didn't matter to her.

I tried to calm her down by assuring her over and over that I had come to visit her only for a moment, that it was not my intention to alter her life or to bother her in any way. I described to her how hard it had been to find her.

"I have come here to say good-bye to you," I said, "and to tell you that you are the love of my life. I want to make you a token gift, a symbol of my gratitude and my undying affection."

She seemed to be deeply affected. She smiled openly the way she used to. The separation between her teeth made her look childlike. I commented to her that she was more beautiful than ever, which was the truth to me.

She laughed and said that she was going on a strict diet, and if she had known that I was coming to see her, she would have started her diet a long time ago. But she would start now, and I would find her the next time as lean as she had always been.

She reiterated the horror of our life together and how profoundly affected she had been. She had even thought, in spite of being a devout Catholic, of committing suicide, but she had found in her children the solace that she needed. Whatever we had done were quirks of youth that would never be vacuumed away, but had to be swept under the rug.

When I asked if there was some gift that I could make to her as a token of my gratitude and affection for her, she laughed and said exactly what Patricia Turner had said: that I didn't have a pot to piss in, nor would I ever have one, because that's the way I was made. I insisted that she name something.

"Can you buy me a station wagon where all my children could fit?" she said, laughing. "I want a Pontiac, or an Oldsmobile, with all the trimmings."

She said that knowing in her heart of hearts that I could not possibly make her such a gift. But I did.

I drove the dealer's car, following him as he delivered the station wagon to her the next day, and from the parked car where I was hiding, I heard her surprise.

But congruous with her sensual being, her surprise was not an expression of delight. It was a bodily reaction, a sob of anguish, of bewilderment. She cried, but I knew that she was not crying because she had received the gift. She was expressing a longing that had echoes in me. I crumpled in the seat of the car.

On my train ride to New York, and my flight to Los Angeles, the feeling that persisted was that my life was running out: It was running out of me like clutched sand. I didn't feel in any way liberated or changed by saying thank you and good-bye.

Quite the contrary, I felt the burden of that weird affection more deeply than ever. I felt like weeping. What ran through my mind over and over were the titles that my friend Rodrigo Cummings had invented for books that were never to be written. He specialized in writing titles.

His favorite was "We'll All Die in Hollywood": Another was "We'll Never Change": And my favorite, the one that I bought for ten dollars, was "From the Life and Sins of Rodrigo Cummings." All those titles played in my mind. I was Rodrigo Cummings, and I was stuck in time and space, and I did love two women more than my life, and that would never change. And like the rest of my friends, I would die in Hollywood.

I told don Juan all of this in my report of what I considered to be my pseudo-success. He discarded it shamelessly. He said that what I felt was merely the result of indulging and self-pity, and that in order to say good-bye and thank you, and really mean it and sustain it, sorcerers had to remake themselves.

"Vanquish your self-pity right now," he demanded. "Vanquish the idea that you are hurt and what do you have as the irreducible residue?"

What I had as the irreducible residue was the feeling that I had made my ultimate gift to both of them. Not in the spirit of renewing anything, or harming anyone, including myself, but in the true spirit that don Juan had tried to point out to me- in the spirit of a warrior traveler whose only virtue, as he had said, is to keep alive the memory of whatever has affected him; whose only way to say thank you and good-bye was by this act of magic: of storing in his silence whatever he has loved.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Beyond Syntax.

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Beyond Syntax.

  • The Usher.
  • The Interplay Of Energy On The Horizon.
  • Journeys Through The Dark Sea Of Awareness.
  • Inorganic Awareness.
  • The Clear View.
  • Mud Shadows.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 13. The Usher.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 13. The Usher.

I was in don Juan's house in Sonora, sound asleep in my bed, when he woke me up. I had stayed up practically all night, mulling over concepts that he had explained to me.

"You have rested enough," he said firmly, almost gruffly, as he shook me by the shoulders. "Don't indulge in being fatigued. Your fatigue is more than fatigue. Its a desire not to be bothered. Something in you resents being bothered. But it's most important that you exacerbate that part of you until it breaks down. Let's go for a hike."

Don Juan was right. There was some part of me that resented immensely being bothered. I wanted to sleep for days and not think about don Juan's sorcery concepts anymore. Thoroughly against my will, I got up and followed him. Don Juan had prepared a meal, which I devoured as if I hadn't eaten for days, and then we walked out of the house and headed east, toward the mountains. I had been so dazed that I hadn't noticed that it was early morning until I saw the sun, which was right above the eastern range of mountains. I wanted to comment to don Juan that I had slept all night without moving, but he hushed me. He said that we were going to go on an expedition to the mountains to search for specific plants.

"What are you going to do with the plants you are going to collect, don Juan?" I asked him as soon as we had started off.

"They are not for me," he said with a grin. "They are for a friend of mine, a botanist and pharmacist. He makes potions with them."

"Is he a Yaqui, don Juan? Does he live here in Sonora?" I asked.

"No, he isn't a Yaqui, and he doesn't live here in Sonora. You'll meet him someday."

"Is he a sorcerer, don Juan?"

"Yes, he is," he replied dryly.

I asked him then if I could take some of the plants to be identified at the Botanical Garden at UCLA.

"Surely, surely!" he said.

I had found out in the past that whenever he said "surely," he didn't mean it. It was obvious that he had no intention whatsoever of giving me any specimens for identification. I became very curious about his sorcerer friend, and asked him to tell me more about him, perhaps describe him, telling me where he lived and how he got to meet him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" don Juan said, as if I were a horse. "Hold it, hold it! Who are you? Professor Lorca? Do you want to study his cognitive system?"

We went deep into the arid foothills. Don Juan walked steadily for hours. I thought that the task of the day was going to be just to walk. He finally stopped and sat down on the shaded side of the foothills.

"It is time that you start on one of the biggest projects of sorcery," don Juan said.

"What is this project of sorcery that you're talking about, don Juan?" I inquired.

"It's called the recapitulation," he said. "The old sorcerers used to call it recounting the events of your life, and for them, it started as a simple technique; a device to aid them in remembering what they were doing and saying to their disciples. For their disciples, the technique had the same value: It allowed them to remember what their teachers had said and done to them. It took terrible social upheavals, like being conquered and vanquished several times, before the old sorcerers realized that their technique had far-reaching effects."

"Are you referring, don Juan, to the Spanish conquest?" I asked.

"No," he said. "That was just the icing on the cake. There were other upheavals before that, more devastating. When the Spaniards got here, the old sorcerers didn't exist any longer. The disciples of those who had survived other upheavals were very cagey by then. They knew how to take care of themselves. It is that new crop of sorcerers who renamed the old sorcerers' technique recapitulation.

"There's an enormous premium on time," he continued. "For sorcerers in general, time is of the essence. The challenge I am faced with is that in a very compact unit of time I must cram into you everything there is to know about sorcery as an abstract proposition, but in order to do that I have to build the necessary space in you."

"What space? What are you talking about, don Juan?"

"The premise of sorcerers is that in order to bring something in, there must be a space to put it in," he said. "If you are filled to the brim with the items of everyday life, there's no space for anything new. That space must be built. Do you see what I mean? The sorcerers of olden times believed that the recapitulation of your life made that space. It does, and much more, of course.

"The way sorcerers perform the recapitulation is very formal," he went on. "It consists of writing a list of all the people they have met, from the present to the very beginning of their lives. Once they have that list, they take the first person on it and recollect everything they can about that person. And I mean everything, every detail. It's better to recapitulate from the present to the past, because the memories of the present are fresh, and in this manner, the recollection ability is honed. What practitioners do is to recollect and breathe. They inhale slowly and deliberately, fanning the head from right to left, in a barely noticeable swing, and exhale in the same fashion."

He said that the inhalations and exhalations should be natural. If they were too rapid, one would enter into something that he called tiring breaths; breaths that required slower breathing afterward in order to calm down the muscles.

"And what do you want me to do, don Juan, with all this?" I asked.

"You begin making your list today," he said. "Divide it by years, by occupations, arrange it in any order you want to, but make it sequential, with the most recent person first, and end with Mommy and Daddy. And then, remember everything about them. No more ado than that. As you practice, you will realize what you're doing."

On my next visit to his house, I told don Juan that I had been meticulously going through the events of my life, and that it was very difficult for me to adhere to his strict format and follow my list of persons one by one. Ordinarily, my recapitulation took me every which way. I let the events decide the direction of my recollection.

What I did, which was volitional, was to adhere to a general unit of time. For instance, I had begun with the people in the anthropology department, but I let my recollection pull me to anywhere in time, from the present to the day I started attending school at UCLA.

I told don Juan that an odd thing I'd found out, which I had completely forgotten, was that I had no idea that UCLA existed until one night when my girlfriend's roommate from college came to Los Angeles and we picked her up at the airport. She was going to study musicology at UCLA.

Her plane arrived in the early evening, and she asked me if I could take her to the campus so she could take a look at the place where she was going to spend the next four years of her life. I knew where the campus was, for I had driven past its entrance on Sunset Boulevard endless times on my way to the beach. I had never been on the campus, though.

It was during the semester break. The few people that we found directed us to the music department. The campus was deserted, but what I witnessed subjectively was the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. It was a delight to my eyes. The buildings seemed to be alive with some energy of their own.

What was going to be a very cursory visit to the music department turned out to be a gigantic tour of the entire campus. I fell in love with UCLA. I mentioned to don Juan that the only thing that marred my ecstasy was my girlfriend's annoyance at my insistence on walking through the huge campus.

"What the hell could there be in here?" she yelled at me in protest. "It's as if you have never seen a university campus in your life! You've seen one, you've seen them all. I think you're just trying to impress my friend with your sensitivity!"

I wasn't, and I vehemently told them that I was genuinely impressed by the beauty of my surroundings. I sensed so much hope in those buildings, so much promise, and yet I couldn't express my subjective state.

"I have been in school nearly all my life," my girlfriend said through clenched teeth, "and I'm sick and tired of it! Nobody's going to find shit in here! All you find is guff, and they don't even prepare you to meet your responsibilities in life."

When I mentioned that I would like to attend school here, she became even more furious.

"Get a job!" she screamed. "Go and meet life from eight to five, and cut the crap! That's what life is: a job from eight to five, forty hours a week! See what it does to you! Look at me- I'm super educated now, and I'm not fit for a job."

All I knew was that I had never seen a place so beautiful. I made a promise then that I would go to school at UCLA, no matter what, come hell or high water. My desire had everything to do with me, and yet it was not driven by the need for immediate gratification. It was more in the realm of awe.

I told don Juan that my girlfriend's annoyance had been so jarring to me that it forced me to look at her in a different light, and that to my recollection, that was the first time ever that a commentary had aroused such a deep reaction in me. I saw facets of character in my girlfriend that I hadn't seen before, facets that scared me stiff.

"I think I judged her terribly," I said to don Juan. "After our visit to the campus, we drifted apart. It was as if UCLA had come between us like a wedge. I know that it's stupid to think this way."

"It isn't stupid," don Juan said. "It was a perfectly valid reaction. While you were walking on the campus, I am sure that you had a bout with intent. You intended being there, and anything that was opposed to it you had to let go.

"But don't overdo it," he went on. "The touch of warrior travelers is very light, although it is cultivated. The hand of a warrior traveler begins as a heavy, gripping, iron hand but becomes like the hand of a ghost, a hand made of gossamer. Warrior travelers leave no marks, no tracks. That's the challenge for warrior travelers.'"

Don Juan's comments made me sink into a deep, morose state of recriminations against myself, for I knew, from the little bit of my recounting, that I was extremely heavy-handed, obsessive, and domineering. I told don Juan about my ruminations.

"The power of the recapitulation," don Juan said, "is that it stirs up all the garbage of our lives and brings it to the surface."

Then don Juan delineated the intricacies of awareness and perception, which were the basis of the recapitulation. He began by saying that he was going to present an arrangement of concepts that I should not take as sorcerers' 'theories' under any conditions, because it was an arrangement formulated by the shamans of ancient Mexico as a result of seeing energy directly as it flows in the universe.

He warned me that he would present the units of this arrangement to me without any attempt at classifying them or ranking them by any predetermined standard.

"I'm not interested in classifications," he went on. "You have been classifying everything all your life. Now you are going to be forced to stay away from classifications.

"The other day, when I asked you if you knew anything about clouds, you gave me the names of all the clouds and the percentage of moisture that one should expect from each one of them. You were a veritable weatherman. But when I asked you if you knew what you could do with the clouds personally, you had no idea what I was talking about.

"Classifications have a world of their own," he continued. "After you begin to classify anything, the classification becomes alive, and it rules you. But since classifications never started as energy giving affairs, they always remain like dead logs. They are not trees; they are merely logs."

He explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico saw that the universe at large is composed of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments. They saw zillions of them, wherever they turned to see. They also saw that those energy fields arrange themselves into currents of luminous fibers, streams that are constant, perennial forces in the universe, and that the current or stream of filaments that is related to the recapitulation was named by those sorcerers 'the dark sea of awareness', and also 'the Eagle'.

He stated that those sorcerers also found out that every creature in the universe is attached to the dark sea of awareness at a round point of luminosity that was apparent when those creatures were perceived as energy. On that point of luminosity, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the assemblage point, don Juan said that perception was assembled by a mysterious aspect of the dark sea of awareness.

Don Juan asserted that on the assemblage point of human beings, zillions of energy fields from the universe at large, in the form of luminous filaments, converge and go through it. These energy fields are converted into sensory data, and the sensory data is then interpreted and perceived as the world we know.

Don Juan further explained that what turns the luminous fibers into sensory data is the dark sea of awareness. Sorcerers see this transformation and call it the glow of awareness; a sheen that extends like a halo around the assemblage point. He warned me then that he was going to make a statement which, in the understanding of sorcerers, was central to comprehending the scope of the recapitulation.

Putting an enormous emphasis on his words, he said that what we call the senses in organisms is nothing but degrees of awareness. He maintained that if we accept that the senses are the dark sea of awareness, we have to admit that the interpretation that the senses make of sensory data is also the dark sea of awareness.

He explained at length that to face the world around us in the terms that we do is the result of the interpretation system of mankind with which every human being is equipped. He also said that every organism in existence has to have an interpretation system that permits it to function in its surroundings.

"The sorcerers who came after the apocalyptic upheavals I told you about," he continued, "saw that at the moment of death, the dark sea of awareness sucked in, so to speak, through the assemblage point, the awareness of living creatures. They also saw that the dark sea of awareness had a moment's, let's say, hesitation when it was faced with sorcerers who had done a recounting of their lives. Unbeknownst to them, some had done it so thoroughly that the dark sea of awareness took their awareness in the form of their life experiences, but didn't touch their life force.

Sorcerers had found out a gigantic truth about the forces of the universe: The dark sea of awareness wants only our life experiences, not our life force."

The premises of don Juan's elucidation were incomprehensible to me. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was vaguely and yet deeply cognizant of how functional the premises of his explanation were.

"Sorcerers believe," don Juan went on, "that as we recapitulate our lives, all the debris, as I told you, comes to the surface. We realize our inconsistencies, our repetitions, but something in us puts up a tremendous resistance to recapitulating. Sorcerers say that the road is free only after a gigantic upheaval, after the appearance on our screen of the memory of an event that shakes our foundations with its terrifying clarity of detail. It's the event that drags us to the actual moment that we lived it. Sorcerers call that event the usher, because from then on every event we touch on is relived, not merely remembered.

"Walking is always something that precipitates memories," don Juan went on. "The sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed that everything we live we store as a sensation on the backs of the legs. They considered the backs of the legs to be the warehouse of man's personal history. So, let's go for a walk in the hills now." We walked until it was almost dark.

"I think I have made you walk long enough," don Juan said when we were back at his house, "to have you ready to begin this sorcerers' maneuver of finding an usher: an event in your life that you will remember with such clarity that it will serve as a spotlight to illuminate everything else in your recapitulation with the same, or comparable, clarity.

"Do what sorcerers call recapitulating pieces of a puzzle. Something will lead you to remember the event that will serve as your usher."

He left me alone, giving me one last warning. "Give it your best shot," he said. "Do your best."

I was extremely silent for a moment, perhaps due to the silence around me. I experienced, then, a vibration, a sort of jolt in my chest. I had difficulty breathing, but suddenly something opened up in my chest that allowed me to take a deep breath, and a total view of a forgotten event of my childhood burst into my memory, as if it had been held captive and was suddenly released.


I was at my grandfather's studio, where he had a billiard table, and I was playing billiards with him. I was almost nine years old then. My grandfather was quite a skillful player, and compulsively he had taught me every play he knew until I was good enough to have a serious match with him. We spent endless hours playing billiards. I became so proficient at it that one day I defeated him. From that day on, he was incapable of winning. Many a time I deliberately threw the game, just to be nice to him, but he knew it and would become furious with me. Once, he got so upset that he hit me on the top of the head with the cue.

To my grandfather's chagrin and delight, by the time I was nine years old, I could make carom after carom without stopping. He became so frustrated and impatient in a game with me once that he threw down his cue and told me to play by myself. My compulsive nature made it possible for me to compete with myself and work the same play on and on until I got it perfectly.

One day, a man notorious in town for his gambling connections, the owner of a billiards house, came to visit my grandfather. They were talking and playing billiards as I happened to enter the room. I instantly tried to retreat, but my grandfather grabbed me and pulled me in.

"This is my grandson," he said to the man.

"Very pleased to meet you," the man said. He looked at me sternly, and then extended his hand, which was the size of the head of a normal person.

I was horrified. His enormous burst of laughter told me that he was cognizant of my discomfort. He told me that his name was Falelo Quiroga, and I mumbled my name.

He was very tall, and extremely well dressed. He was wearing a double-breasted blue pinstriped suit with beautifully tapered trousers. He must have been in his early fifties then, but he was trim and fit except for a slight bulge in his midsection. He wasn't fat; he seemed to cultivate the look of a man who is well fed and is not in need of anything. Most of the people in my hometown were gaunt. They were people who labored hard to earn a living and had no time for niceties. Falelo Quiroga appeared to be the opposite. His whole demeanor was that of a man who had time only for niceties.

He was pleasant-looking. He had a bland, well-shaven face with kind blue eyes. He had the air and the confidence of a doctor. People in my town used to say that he was capable of putting anyone at ease, and that he should have been a priest, a lawyer, or a doctor instead of a gambler. They also used to say that he made more money gambling than all the doctors and lawyers in town put together made by working.

His hair was black, and carefully combed. It was obviously thinning considerably. He tried to hide his receding hairline by combing his hair over his forehead. He had a square jaw and an absolutely winning smile. He had big, white teeth, which were well cared for; the ultimate novelty in an area where tooth decay was monumental. Two other remarkable features of Falelo Quiroga, for me, were his enormous feet and his handmade, black patent-leather shoes. I was fascinated by the fact that his shoes didn't squeak at all as he walked back and forth in the room. I was accustomed to hearing my grandfather's approach by the squeak of the soles of his shoes.

"My grandson plays billiards very well," my grandfather said nonchalantly to Falelo Quiroga. "Why don't I give him my cue and let him play with you while I watch?""

"This child plays billiards?" the big man asked my grandfather with a laugh.

"Oh, he does," my grandfather assured him. "Of course, not as well as you do, Falelo. Why don't you try him? And to make it interesting for you, so you won't be patronizing my grandson, let's bet a little money. What do you say if we bet this much?"

He put a thick wad of crumpled-up bills on the table and smiled at Falelo Quiroga, shaking his head from side to side as if daring the big man to take his bet.

"My oh my, that much, eh?" Falelo Quiroga said, looking at me questioningly. He opened his wallet then and pulled out some neatly folded bills. This, for me, was another surprising detail. My grandfather's habit was to carry his money in every one of his pockets, all crumpled up. When he needed to pay for something, he had to straighten out the bills in order to count them.

Falelo Quiroga didn't say it, but I knew that he felt like a highway robber. He smiled at my grandfather and, obviously out of respect for him, he put his money on the table. My grandfather, acting as the arbiter, set the game at a certain number of caroms and flipped a coin to see who would start first. Falelo Quiroga won.

"You better give it all you have, without holding back," my grandfather urged him. "Don't have any qualms about demolishing this twerp and winning my money!"

Falelo Quiroga, following my grandfather's advice, played as hard as he was able, but at one point he missed one carom by a hair. I took the cue. I thought I was going to faint, but seeing my grandfather's glee- he was jumping up and down- calmed me, and besides, it irked me to see Falelo Quiroga about to split his sides laughing when he saw the way I held the cue. I couldn't lean over the table, as billiards is normally played, because of my height. But my grandfather, with painstaking patience and determination, had taught me an alternative way of playing. By extending my arm all the way back, I held the cue nearly above my shoulders, to the side.

"What does he do when he has to reach the middle of the table?" Falelo Quiroga asked, laughing.

"He hangs on the edge of the table," my grandfather said matter-of-factly. "It's permissible, you know."

My grandfather came to me and whispered through clenched teeth that if I tried to be polite and lose he was going to break all the cues on my head. I knew he didn't mean it. This was just his way of expressing his confidence in me.

I won easily. My grandfather was delighted beyond description, but strangely enough, so was Falelo Quiroga. He laughed as he went around the pool table, slapping its edges. My grandfather praised me to the skies. He revealed to Quiroga my best score, and joked that I had excelled because he had found the way to lure me to practice: coffee with Danish pastries.

"You don't say, you don't say!" Quiroga kept repeating. He said good-bye; my grandfather picked up the bet money, and the incident was forgotten. My grandfather promised to take me to a restaurant and buy me the best meal in town, but he never did. He was very stingy. He was known to be a lavish spender only with women.

Two days later, two enormous men affiliated with Falelo Quiroga came to me at the time that I got out from school and was leaving.

"Falelo Quiroga wants to see you," one of them said in a guttural tone. "He wants you to go to his place and have some coffee and Danish pastries with him."

If he hadn't said coffee and Danish pastries, I probably would have run away from them. I remembered then that my grandfather had told Falelo Quiroga that I would sell my soul for coffee and Danish pastries. I gladly went with them. However, I couldn't walk as fast as they did, so one of them, the one whose name was Guillermo Falcon, picked me up and cradled me in his huge arms. He laughed through crooked teeth.

"You better enjoy the ride, kid," he said. His breath was terrible. "Have you ever been carried by anyone? Judging by the way you wriggle, never!" He giggled grotesquely.

Fortunately, Falelo Quiroga's place was not too far from the school. Mr. Falcon deposited me on a couch in an office. Falelo Quiroga was there, sitting behind a huge desk. He stood up and shook hands with me. He immediately had some coffee and delicious pastries brought to me, and the two of us sat there chatting amiably about my grandfather's chicken farm. He asked me if I would like to have more pastries, and I said that I wouldn't mind if I did. He laughed, and he himself brought me a whole tray of unbelievably delicious pastries from the next room.

After I had veritably gorged myself, he politely asked me if I would consider coming to his billiards place in the wee hours of the night to play a couple of friendly games with some people of his choice. He casually mentioned that a considerable amount of money was going to be involved.

He openly expressed his trust in my skill, and added that he was going to pay me, for my time and my effort, a percentage of the winning money. He further stated that he knew the mentality of my family. They would have found it improper that he give me money, even though it was pay. So he promised to put the money in the bank in a special account for me, or more practical yet, he would cover any purchase that I made in any of the stores in town, or the food I consumed in any restaurant in town.

I didn't believe a word of what he was saying. I knew that Falelo Quiroga was a crook, a racketeer. I liked, however, the idea of playing billiards with people I didn't know, and I struck a bargain with him.

"Will you give me some coffee and Danish pastries like the ones you gave me today?" I said.

"Of course, my boy," he replied. "If you come to play for me, I will buy you the bakery! I will have the baker bake them just for you. Take my word."

I warned Falelo Quiroga that the only drawback was my incapacity to get out of my house. I had too many aunts who watched me like hawks, and besides, my bedroom was on the second floor.

"That's no problem," Falelo Quiroga assured me. "You're quite small. Mr. Falcon will catch you if you jump from your window into his arms. He's as big as a house! I recommend that you go to bed early tonight. Mr. Falcon will wake you up by whistling and throwing rocks at your window. You have to watch out, though! He's an impatient man."

I went home in the midst of the most astounding excitation. I couldn't go to sleep. I was quite awake when I heard Mr. Falcon whistling and throwing small pebbles against the glass panes of the window. I opened the window. Mr. Falcon was right below me, on the street.

"Jump into my arms, kid," he said to me in a constricted voice, which he tried to modulate into a loud whisper. "If you don't aim at my arms, I'll drop you and you'll die. Remember that. Don't make me run around. Just aim at my arms. Jump! Jump!"

I did, and he caught me with the ease of someone catching a bag of cotton. He put me down and told me to run. He said that I was a child awakened from a deep sleep, and that he had to make me run so I would be fully awake by the time I got to the billiards house.

I played that night with two men, and I won both games. I had the most delicious coffee and pastries that one could imagine. Personally, I was in heaven. It was around seven in the morning when I returned home. Nobody had noticed my absence. It was time to go to school. For all practical purposes, everything was normal except for the fact that I was so tired that I couldn't keep my eyes open all day.

From that day on, Falelo Quiroga sent Mr. Falcon to pick me up two or three times a week, and I won every game that he made me play. And faithful to his promise, he paid for anything that I bought, including meals at my favorite Chinese restaurant, where I used to go daily. Sometimes, I even invited my friends, whom I mortified no end by running out of the restaurant screaming when the waiter brought the bill. They were amazed at the fact that they were never taken to the police for consuming food and not paying for it.

What was an ordeal for me was that I had never conceived of the fact that I would have to contend with the hopes and expectations of all the people who bet on me. The ordeal of ordeals, however, took place when a crack player from a nearby city challenged Falelo Quiroga and backed his challenge with a giant bet. The night of the game was an inauspicious night. My grandfather became ill and couldn't fall asleep. The entire family was in an uproar. It appeared that nobody went to bed. I doubted that I had any possibility of sneaking out of my bedroom, but Mr. Falcon's whistling and the pebbles hitting the glass of my window were so insistent that I took a chance and jumped from my window into Mr. Falcon's arms.

It seemed that every male in town had congregated at the billiards place. Anguished faces silently begged me not to lose. Some of the men boldly assured me that they had bet their houses and all their belongings.

One man, in a half-joking tone, said that he had bet his wife; if I didn't win, he would be a cuckold that night, or a murderer. He didn't specify whether he meant he would kill his wife in order not to be a cuckold, or me, for losing the game.

Falelo Quiroga paced back and forth. He had hired a masseur to massage me. He wanted me relaxed. The masseur put hot towels on my arms and wrists and cold towels on my forehead. He put on my feet the most comfortable, soft shoes that I had ever worn. They had hard, military heels and arch supports. Falelo Quiroga even outfitted me with a beret to keep my hair from falling in my face, as well as a pair of loose overalls with a belt.

Half of the people around the billiard table were strangers from another town. They glared at me. They gave me the feeling that they wanted me dead.

Falelo Quiroga flipped a coin to decide who would go first. My opponent was a Brazilian of Chinese descent, young, round-faced, very spiffy and confident. He started first, and he made a staggering amount of caroms. I knew by the color of his face that Falelo Quiroga was about to have a heart attack, and so were the other people who had bet everything they had on me.

I played very well that night, and as I approached the number of caroms that the other man had made, the nervousness of the ones who had bet on me reached its peak. Falelo Quiroga was the most hysterical of them all. He yelled at everybody and demanded that someone open the windows because the cigarette smoke made the air unbreathable for me. He wanted the masseur to relax my arms and shoulders. Finally, I had to stop everyone, and in a real hurry, I made the eight caroms that I needed to win. The euphoria of those who had bet on me was indescribable. I was oblivious to all that, for it was already morning and they had to take me home in a hurry.

My exhaustion that day knew no limits. Very obligingly, Falelo Quiroga didn't send for me for a whole week. However, one afternoon, Mr. Falcon picked me up from school and took me to the billiards house. Falelo Quiroga was extremely serious. He didn't even offer me coffee or Danish pastries. He sent everybody out of his office and got directly to the point. He pulled his chair close tome.

"I have put a lot of money in the bank for you," he said very solemnly. "I am true to what I promised you. I give you my word that I will always look after you. You know that! Now, if you do what I am going to tell you to do, you will make so much money that you won't have to work a day in your life. I want you to lose your next game by one carom. I know that you can do it. But I want you to miss by only a hair. The more dramatic, the better."

I was dumbfounded. All of this was incomprehensible to me. Falelo Quiroga repeated his request and further explained that he was going to bet anonymously all he had against me, and that that was the nature of our new deal.

"Mr. Falcon has been guarding you for months," he said. "All I need to tell you is that Mr. Falcon uses all his force to protect you, but he could do the opposite with the same strength."

Falelo Quiroga's threat couldn't have been more obvious. He must have seen in my face the horror that I felt, for he relaxed and laughed.

"Oh, but don't you worry about things like that," he said reassuringly, "because we are brothers."

This was the first time in my life that I had been placed in an untenable position. I wanted with all my might to run away from Falelo Quiroga, from the fear that he had evoked in me. But at the same time, and with equal force, I wanted to stay. I wanted the ease of being able to buy anything I wanted from any store, and above all, the ease of being able to eat at any restaurant of my choice, without paying. I was never confronted, however, with having to choose one or the other.

Unexpectedly, at least for me, my grandfather moved to another area, quite distant. It was as if he knew what was going on, and he sent me ahead of everyone else. I doubted that he actually knew what was taking place. It seemed that sending me away was one of his usual intuitive actions.

Don Juan's return brought me out of my recollection. I had lost track of time. I should have been famished but I wasn't hungry at all. I was filled with nervous energy. Don Juan lit a kerosene lantern and hung it from a nail on the wall. Its dim light cast strange, dancing shadows in the room. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.

I entered then into a state of profound sadness. It was a strangely detached feeling, a far-reaching longing that came from that semidarkness, or perhaps from the sensation of being trapped. I was so tired that I wanted to leave, but at the same time, and with the same force, I wanted to stay.

Don Juan's voice brought me a measure of control. He appeared to know the reason for and the depth of my turmoil, and modulated his voice to fit the occasion. The severity of his tone helped me to gain control over something that could easily have turned into a hysterical reaction to fatigue and mental stimulation.

"To recount events is magical for sorcerers," he said. "It isn't just telling stories. It is seeing the underlying fabric of events. This is the reason recounting is so important and vast."

At his request, I told don Juan the event I had recollected.

"How appropriate," he said, and chuckled with delight. "The only commentary I can make is that warrior travelers roll with the punches. They go wherever the impulse may take them. The power of warrior travelers is to be alert, to get maximum effect from minimal impulse. And above all, their power lies in not interfering.

Events have a force, a gravity of their own, and travelers are just travelers. Everything around them is for their eyes alone. In this fashion, travelers construct the meaning of every situation without ever asking how it happened this way or that way.

"Today, you remembered an event that sums up your total life," he continued. "You are always faced with a situation that is the same as the one that you never resolved. You never really had to choose whether to accept or reject Falelo Quiroga's crooked deal.

"Infinity always puts us in this terrible position of having to choose," he went on. "We want infinity, but at the same time, we want to run away from it. You want to tell me to go and jump in a lake, but at the same time you are compelled to stay. It would be infinitely easier for you to just be compelled to stay."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 14. The Interplay of Energy on the Horizon.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 14. The Interplay of Energy on the Horizon.

The clarity the usher brought a new impetus to my recapitulation. A new mood replaced the old one. From then on, I began to recollect events in my life with maddening clarity. It was exactly as if a barrier had been built inside me that had kept me holding rigidly on to meager and unclear memories, and the usher had smashed it.

My memory faculty had been for me, prior to that event, a vague way of referring to things that had happened, but which I wanted most of the time to forget. Basically, I had no interest whatsoever in remembering anything of my life. Therefore, I honestly saw absolutely no point in this futile exercise of recapitulating, which don Juan had practically imposed on me. For me, it was a chore that tired me instantly and did nothing but point out my incapacity for concentrating.

I had dutifully made, nevertheless, lists of people, and I had engaged in a haphazard effort of quasi-remembering my interactions with them. My lack of clarity in bringing those people into focus didn't dissuade me. I fulfilled what I considered to be my duty, regardless of the way I really felt.

With practice, the clarity of my recollection improved, I thought remarkably. I was able to descend, so to speak, on certain choice events with a fair amount of keenness that was at once scary and rewarding. After don Juan presented me with the idea of the usher, however, the power of my recollection became something for which I had no name.

Following my list of people made the recapitulation extremely formal and exigent, the way don Juan wanted it. But from time to time, something in me got loose; something that forced me to focus on events unrelated to my list; events whose clarity was so maddening that I was caught and submerged in them, perhaps even more intensely than I had been when I had lived the experiences themselves. Every time I recapitulated in such a fashion, I had a degree of detachment which allowed me to see things I had disregarded when I had really been in the throes of them.

The first time in which the recollection of an event shook me to my foundations happened after I had given a lecture at a college in Oregon. The students in charge of organizing the lecture took me and another anthropology friend of mine to a house to spend the night.

I was going to go to a motel, but they insisted, for our comfort, on taking us to this house. They said that it was in the country, and there were no noises, the quietest place in the world, with no telephones, no interference from the outside world. I, like the fool that I was, agreed to go with them. Don Juan had not only warned me to always be a solitary bird, he had demanded that I observe his recommendation, something that I did most of the time, but there were occasions when the gregarious creature in me took the upper hand.

The committee took us to the house, quite a distance from Portland, of a professor who was on sabbatical. Very swiftly, they turned on the lights inside and outside of the house, which was located on a hill with spotlights all around it. With the spotlights on, the house must have been visible from five miles away. After that, the committee took off as fast as they could, some-thing that surprised me because I thought they were going to stay and talk. The house was a wooden A-frame, small, but very well constructed. It had an enormous living room and a mezzanine above it where the bedroom was. Right above, at the apex of the A-frame, there was a life-size crucifix hanging from a strange rotating hinge, which was drilled into the head of the figure. The spotlights on the wall were focused on the crucifix. It was quite an impressive sight, especially when it rotated, squeaking as if the hinge needed oil.

The bathroom of the house was another sight. It had mirrored tiles on the ceiling, the walls, and the floor, and it was illuminated with a reddish light. There was no way to go to the bathroom without seeing yourself from every conceivable angle. I enjoyed all those features of the house, which seemed to me stupendous.

When the time came for me to go to sleep, however, I encountered a serious problem because there was only one narrow, hard, quite monastic bed and my anthropologist friend was close to having pneumonia, wheezing and retching phlegm every time he coughed. He went straight for the bed and passed out. I looked for a place to sleep. I couldn't find one. That house was barren of comforts. Besides, it was cold. The committee had turned on the lights, but not the heater. I looked for the heater. My search was fruitless, as was my search for the switch to the spotlights or to any of the lights in the house, for that matter. The switches were there on the walls, but they seemed to be overruled by the effect of some main switch. The lights were on, and I had no way to turn them off.

The only place I could find to sleep was on a thin throw rug, and the only thing I found with which I could cover myself was the tanned hide of a giant French poodle. Obviously, it had been the pet of the house and had been preserved; it had shiny black-marble eyes and an open mouth with the tongue hanging out. I put the head of the poodle skin toward my knees. I still had to cover myself with the tanned rear end, which was on my neck. Its preserved head was like a hard object between my knees, quite unsettling! If it had been dark, it wouldn't have been as bad. I gathered a bundle of washcloths and used them as a pillow. I used as many as possible to cover the hide of the French poodle the best way I could. I couldn't sleep all night.

It was then, as I lay there cursing myself silently for being so stupid and not following don Juan's recommendation, that I had the first maddeningly clear recollection of my entire life. I had recollected the event that don Juan had called the usher with equal clarity, but my tendency had always been to half disregard what happened to me when I was with don Juan, on the basis that in his presence anything was possible. This time, however, I was alone.

Years before I met don Juan, I had worked painting signs on buildings. My boss's name was Luigi Palma. One day Luigi got a contract to paint a sign, advertising the sale and rental of bridal gowns and tuxedos, on the back wall of an old building. The owner of the store in the building wanted to catch the eye of possible customers with a large display. Luigi was going to paint a bride and groom, and I was going to do the lettering. We went to the flat roof of the building and set up a scaffold.

I was quite apprehensive although I had no overt reason to be so. I had painted dozens of signs on high buildings. Luigi thought that I was beginning to be afraid of heights, but that my fear was going to pass. When the time came to start working, he lowered the scaffold a few feet from the roof and jumped onto its flat boards. He went to one side, while I stood on the other in order to be totally out of his way. He was the artist.

Luigi began to show off. His painting movements were so erratic and agitated that the scaffold moved back and forth. I became dizzy. I wanted to go back to the flat roof, using the pretext that I needed more paint and other painters' paraphernalia. I grabbed the edge of the wall that fringed the flat roof and tried to hoist myself up, but the tips of my feet got stuck in the boards of the scaffold.

I tried to pull my feet and the scaffold toward the wall; the harder I pulled, the farther away I pushed the scaffold from the wall. Instead of helping me untangle my feet, Luigi sat down and braced himself with the cords that attached the scaffold to the flat roof. He crossed himself and looked at me in horror. From his sitting position, he knelt, weeping quietly as he recited the Lord's Prayer.

I held on to the edge of the wall for dear life. What gave me the desperate strength to endure was the certainty that if I was in control, I could keep the scaffold from moving farther and farther away. I wasn't going to lose my grip and fall thirteen floors to my death.

Luigi, being a compulsive taskmaster to the bitter end, yelled to me, in the midst of tears, that I should pray. He swore that both of us were going to fall to our deaths, and that the least we could do was to pray for the salvation of our souls. For a moment, I deliberated about whether it was functional to pray. I opted to yell for help. People in the building must have heard my yelling and sent for the firemen. I sincerely thought that it had taken only two or three seconds after I began to yell for the firemen to come onto the roof and grab Luigi and me and secure the scaffold.

In reality, I had hung on to the side of the building for at least twenty minutes. When the firemen finally pulled me onto the roof, I had lost any vestige of control. I vomited on the hard floor of the roof, sick to my stomach from fear and the odious smell of melted tar. It was a very hot day; the tar on the cracks of the scratchy roofing sheets was melting in the heat.

The ordeal had been so frightening and embarrassing that I didn't want to remember it, and I ended up hallucinating that the firemen had pulled me into a warm, yellow room. They had then put me in a supremely comfortable bed, and I had fallen peacefully asleep, safe, wearing my pajamas, delivered from danger.


My second recollection was another blast of incommensurable force. I was talking amiably to a group of friends when, for no apparent reason I could account for, I suddenly lost my breath under the impact of a thought; a memory which was vague for an instant, and then became an engrossing experience. Its force was so intense that I had to excuse myself and retreat for a moment to a corner.

My friends seemed to understand my reaction. They disbanded without any comments.

What I was remembering was an incident that had taken place in my last year of high school.

My best friend and I used to walk to school, passing a big mansion with a black wrought iron fence at least seven feet high and ending in pointed spikes. Behind the fence was an extensive, well-kept green lawn, and a huge, ferocious German shepherd dog.

Every day, we used to tease the dog and let him charge at us. He stopped physically at the wrought iron fence, but his rage seemed to cross over to us. My friend delighted in engaging the dog every day in a contest of mind over matter. He used to stand a few inches from the dog's snout which protruded between the iron bars at least six inches into the street, and my friend would bare his teeth, just like the dog did.

"Yield, yield!" my friend shouted every time. "Obey! Obey! I am more powerful than you!"

His daily displays of mental power, which lasted at least five minutes, never affected the dog, outside of leaving him more furious than ever. My friend assured me daily, as part of his ritual, that the dog was either going to obey him or die in front of us of heart failure brought about by rage. His conviction was so intense that I believed that the dog was going to drop dead any day.

One morning, when we came around, the dog wasn't there. We waited for a moment, but he didn't show up. Then we saw him, at the end of the extensive lawn. He seemed to be busy there, so we slowly began to walk away. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the dog was running at full speed, toward us. When he was perhaps six or seven feet from the fence, he took a gigantic leap over it. I was sure that he was going to rip his belly on the spikes. He barely cleared them and fell onto the street like a sack of potatoes.

I thought for a moment that he was dead, but he was only stunned. Suddenly, he got up, and instead of chasing after the one who had brought about his rage, he ran after me. I jumped onto the roof of a car, but the car was nothing for the dog. He took a leap and was nearly on top of me. I scrambled down and climbed the first tree that was within reach, a flimsy little tree that could barely support my weight. I was sure that it would snap in the middle, sending me right into the dog's jaws to be mauled to death.

In the tree, I was nearly out of his reach. But the dog jumped again, and snapped his teeth, catching me by the seat of my pants and ripping them. His teeth actually nicked my buttocks. The moment I was safe at the top of the tree, the dog left. He just ran up the street, perhaps looking for my friend.

At the infirmary in school, the nurse told me that I had to ask the owner of the dog for a certificate of rabies vaccination.

"You must look into this," she said severely. "You may have rabies already. If the owner refuses to show you the vaccination certificate, you are within your rights to call the police."

I talked to the caretaker of the mansion where the dog lived. He accused me of luring the owner's most valuable dog, a pedigreed animal, out into the street.

"You better watch out, boy!" he said in an angry tone. "The dog got lost. The owner will send you to jail if you keep on bothering us."

"But I may have rabies," I said in a sincerely terrified tone.

"I don't give a shit if you have the bubonic plague," the man snapped. "Scram!"

"I'll call the police," I said.

"Call whoever you like," he retorted. "You call the police, and we'll turn them against you. In this house, we have enough clout to do that!"

I believed him, so I lied to the nurse and said that the dog could not be found, and that it had no owner.

"Oh my god!" the woman exclaimed. "Then brace yourself for the worst. I may have to send you to the doctor." She gave me a long list of symptoms that I should look for or wait for until they manifested themselves. She said that the injections for rabies were extremely painful, and that they had to be administered subcutaneously on the area of the abdomen.

"I wouldn't wish that treatment on my worst enemy," she said, plunging me into a horrid nightmare.

What followed was my first real depression. I just lay in my bed feeling every one of the symptoms enumerated by the nurse. I ended up going to the school infirmary, and begging the woman to give me the treatment for rabies, no matter how painful. I made a huge scene. I became hysterical. I didn't have rabies, but I had totally lost my control.


I related to don Juan my two recollections in all their detail, sparing nothing. He didn't make any comments. He nodded a few times.

"In both recollections, don Juan," I said, feeling myself the urgency of my voice, "I was as hysterical as anyone could be. My body was trembling. I was sick to my stomach.

"I don't want to say it was as if I were in the experiences, because that's not the truth. I was in the experiences themselves both times. And when I couldn't take them anymore, I jumped into my life now. For me, that was a jump into the future. I had the power of going over time. My jump into the past was not abrupt. The event developed slowly, as memories do. It was at the end that I did jump abruptly into the future: my life now."

"Something in you has begun to collapse for sure," he finally said. "It has been collapsing all along, but it repaired itself very quickly every time its supports failed. My feeling is that it is now collapsing totally."

After another long silence, don Juan explained that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed that, as he had told me already, we had two minds, and only one of them was truly ours. I had always understood don Juan as saying that there were two parts to our minds, and one of them was always silent because expression was denied to it by the force of the other part. Whatever don Juan had said, I had taken as a metaphorical way to explain, perhaps, the apparent dominance of the left hemisphere of the brain over the right, or something of the like.

"There is a secret option to the recapitulation," don Juan said.

"Just like I told you that there is a secret option to dying, an option that only sorcerers take. In the case of dying, the secret option is that human beings could retain their life force and relinquish only their awareness, the product of their lives.

"In the case of the recapitulation, the secret option that only sorcerers take is to choose to enhance their true minds.

"The haunting memory of your recollections," he went on, "could come only from your true mind, whereas, the other mind that we all have and share is, I would say, a cheap model; economy strength; one size fits all.

"But this is a subject that we will discuss later. What is at stake now is the advent of a disintegrating force. But not a force that is disintegrating you- I don't mean it that way.

"It is disintegrating what the sorcerers call the foreign installation, which exists in you and in every other human being. The natural result of the force that is descending on you and is disintegrating your foreign installation is that it pulls a sorcerer out of their syntax."

I had listened carefully to don Juan, but I couldn't say that I had understood what he had said. For some strange reason, which was to me as unknown as the cause of my vivid recollections, I couldn't ask him any questions.

"I know how difficult it is for you," don Juan said all of a sudden, "to deal with this facet of your life. Every sorcerer that I know has gone through it. The males going through it suffer infinitely more damage than the females. I suppose it's the condition of women to be more durable.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico, acting as a group, tried their best to buttress the impact of this disintegrating force. In our day, we have no means of acting as a group, so we must brace ourselves to face in solitude a force that will sweep us away from language because there is no way to describe adequately what is going on."

Don Juan was right in that I was at a loss for explanations or ways of describing the effect that those recollections had had on me. Don Juan had told me that sorcerers face the unknown in the most common incidents one can imagine.

When they are confronted with the unknown, and cannot interpret what they are perceiving, they have to rely on an outside source for direction. Don Juan had called that source infinity, or the voice of the spirit, and had said that if sorcerers don't try to be rational about what can't be rationalized, the spirit unerringly tells them 'what is what'.

Don Juan had guided me to accept the idea that infinity was a force that had a voice, which in a sense is true, but not altogether accurate; and he had guided me to accept that infinity was conscious of itself, which for all practial purposes is accurate.

Consequently, he had prepared me to be ready to listen to that voice and always act efficiently, but without antecedents, using as little as possible the railings of the a priori.


I waited impatiently for the voice of the spirit to tell me the meaning of my recollections, but nothing happened.

Then one day, I was in a bookstore when a girl recognized me and came over to talk to me. She was tall and slim, and had an insecure, little girl's voice. I was trying to make her feel at ease when I was suddenly accosted by an instantaneous energetic change.

It was as if an alarm had been triggered in me, and as it had happened in the past, without any volition on my part whatsoever, I recollected another completely forgotten event in my life.

The memory of my grandparents' house flooded me. It was a veritable avalanche so intense that it was devastating, and once more, I had to retreat to a corner. My body shook, as if I had taken a chill.

I must have been eight years old. My grandfather was talking to me. He had begun by telling me that it was his utmost duty to set me straight. I had two cousins who were my age: Alfredo and Luis. My grandfather demanded mercilessly that I admit that my cousin Alfredo was really beautiful. In my vision, I heard my grandfather's raspy, constricted voice.

"Alfredo doesn't need any introductions," he had said to me on that occasion. "He needs only to be present and the doors will fly open for him because everybody practices the cult of beauty. Everybody likes beautiful people. They envy them, but they certainly seek their company. Take it from me. I am handsome, wouldn't you say?"

I sincerely agreed with my grandfather. He was certainly a very handsome man, small-boned, with laughing blue eyes and an exquisitely chiseled face with beautiful cheekbones. Everything seemed to be perfectly balanced in his face-his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his pointed jaw. He had blond hair growing on his ears, a feature that gave him an elflike appearance. He knew everything about himself, and he exploited his attributes to the maximum. Women adored him; first, according to him, for his beauty, and second, because he posed no threat to them. He, of course, took full advantage of all this.

"Your cousin Alfredo is a winner," my grandfather went on. "He will never have to crash a party because he'll be the first one on the list of guests. Have you ever noticed how people stop in the street to look at him, and how they want to touch him?

"He's so beautiful that I'm afraid he's going to turn out to be an asshole, but that's a different story. Let us say that he'll be the most welcome asshole you have ever met."

My grandfather compared my cousin Luis with Alfredo. He said that Luis was homely, and a little bit stupid, but that he had a heart of gold. And then he brought me into the picture.

"If we are going to proceed with our explanation," he continued, "you have to admit in sincerity that Alfredo is beautiful and Luis is good. Now, let's take you. You are neither handsome nor good. You are a veritable son of a bitch.

Nobody's going to invite you to a party. You'll have to get used to the idea that if you want to be at a party, you will have to crash it. Doors will never be open for you the way they will be open for Alfredo for being beautiful, and for Luis for being good, so you will have to get in through the window."

His analysis of his three grandsons was so accurate that he made me weep with the finality of what he had said. The more I wept, the happier he became. He finished his case with a most deleterious admonition.

"There's no need to feel bad," he said, "because there's nothing more exciting than getting in through the window. To do that, you have to be clever and on your toes. You have to watch everything, and be prepared for endless humiliations.

"If you have to go in through the window," he went on, "it's because you're definitely not on the list of guests; therefore, your presence is not welcome at all, so you have to work your butt off to stay. The only way I know is by possessing everybody. Scream! Demand! Advise! Make them feel that you are in charge! How could they throw you out if you're in charge?"

Remembering this scene caused a profound upheaval in me. I had buried this incident so deeply that I had forgotten all about it. What I had remembered all along, however, was his admonition to be in charge, which he must have repeated to me over and over throughout the years.

I didn't have a chance to examine this event, or ponder it, because another forgotten memory surfaced with the same force. In it, I was with the girl I had been engaged to. At that time, both of us were saving money to be married and have a house of our own. I heard myself demanding that we have a joint checking account; I wouldn't have it any other way. I felt an imperative need to lecture her on frugality. I heard myself telling her where to buy her clothes, and what the top affordable price should be.

Then I saw myself giving driving lessons to her younger sister and going veritably berserk when she said that she was planning to move out of her parents' house. Forcefully, I threatened her with canceling my lessons. She wept, confessing that she was having an affair with her boss. I jumped out of the car and began kicking the door.

However, that was not all. I heard myself telling my fiancee's father not to move to Oregon, where he planned to go. I shouted at the top of my voice that it was a stupid move. I really believed that my reasonings against it were unbeatable.

I presented him with budget figures in which I had meticulously calculated his losses. When he didn't pay any attention to me, I slammed the door and left, shaking with rage. I found my fiancee in the living room, playing her guitar. I pulled it out of her hands and yelled at her that she embraced the guitar instead of playing it, as if it were more than an object.

My desire to impose my will extended all across the board. I made no distinctions. Whoever was close to me was there for me to possess and mold, following my whims.

I didn't have to ponder anymore the significance of my vivid visions because an unquestionable certainty invaded me as if coming from outside me.

It told me that my weak point was the idea that I had to be the man in the director's chair at all times. It had been a deeply ingrained concept with me that I not only had to be in charge, but I had to be in control of any situation.

The way in which I had been brought up had reinforced this drive, which must have been arbitrary at its onset, but had turned, in my adulthood, into a deep necessity.

I was aware, beyond any doubt, that what was at stake was infinity. Don Juan had portrayed it as a conscious force that deliberately intervenes in the lives of sorcerers. And now it was intervening in mine. I knew that infinity was pointing out to me, through the vivid recollection of those forgotten experiences, the intensity and the depth of my drive for control, and thus preparing me for something transcendental to myself.

I knew with frightening certainty that something was going to bar any possibility of my being in control, and that I needed, more than anything else, sobriety, fluidity, and abandon in order to face the things that I felt were coming to me.

Naturally, I told all this to don Juan, elaborating to my heart's content on my speculations and inspirational insights about the possible significance of my recollections.

Don Juan laughed good-humoredly. "All this is psychological exaggeration on your part, wishful thinking," he said. "You are, as usual, seeking explanations with linear cause and effect.

"Each of your recollections becomes more and more vivid, more and more maddening to you, because as I told you already, you have entered an irreversible process. Your true mind is emerging, waking up from a state of lifelong lethargy.

"Infinity is claiming you," he continued. "Whatever means it uses to point that out to you cannot have any other reason, any other cause, any other value than that. What you should do, however, is to be prepared for the onslaughts of infinity. You must be in a state of continuously bracing yourself for a blow of tremendous magnitude. That is the sane, sober way in which sorcerers face infinity."

Don Juan's words left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I actually sensed the assault coming on me, and feared it. Since I had spent my entire life hiding behind some superfluous activity, I immersed myself in work. I gave lectures in classes taught by my friends in different schools in southern California. I wrote copiously. I could say without exaggeration that I threw dozens of manuscripts into the garbage can because they didn't fulfill an indispensable requirement that don Juan had described to me as the mark of something that is acceptable by infinity.

He had said that everything I did had to be an act of sorcery; an act free from encroaching expectations, fears of failure, hopes of success; free from the 'cult of me'. Eeverything I did had to be impromptu; a work of magic where I freely opened myself to the impulses of the infinite.

One night, I was sitting at my desk preparing myself for my daily activity of writing. I felt a moment of grogginess. I thought that I was feeling dizzy because I had gotten up too quickly from my mat where I had been doing my exercises.

My vision blurred. I saw yellow spots in front of my eyes. I thought I was going to faint. The fainting spell got worse. There was an enormous red spot in front of me. I began to breathe deeply, trying to quiet whatever agitation was causing this visual distortion.

I became extraordinarily silent, to the point where I noticed that I was surrounded by impenetrable darkness. The thought crossed my mind that I had fainted. However, I could feel the chair, my desk. I could feel everything around me from inside the darkness that surrounded me.

Don Juan had said that the sorcerers of his lineage considered that one of the most coveted results of inner silence was a specific interplay of energy, which is always heralded by a strong emotion. He felt that my recollections were the means to agitate me to the extreme, where I would experience this interplay. Such an interplay manifested itself in terms of hues that were projected on any horizon in the world of everyday life, be it a mountain, the sky, a wall, or simply the palms of the hands. He had explained that this interplay of hues begins with the appearance of a tenuous brushstroke of lavender on the horizon. In time, this lavender brushstroke starts to expand until it covers the visible horizon, like advancing storm clouds.

He assured me that a dot of a peculiar, rich, pomegranate red shows up, as if bursting from the lavender clouds. He stated that as sorcerers become more disciplined and experienced, the dot of pomegranate expands and finally explodes into thoughts or visions, or in the case of a literate man, into written words; sorcerers either see visions engendered by energy, hear thoughts being voiced as words, or read written words.

That night at my desk, I didn't see any lavender brushstrokes, nor did I see any advancing clouds. I was sure that I didn't have the discipline that sorcerers require for such an interplay of energy, but I had an enormous dot of pomegranate red in front of me. This enormous dot, without any preliminaries, exploded into disassociated words that I read as if they were on a sheet of paper coming out of a typewriter. The words moved at such tremendous speed in front of me that it was impossible to read anything. Then I heard a voice describing something to me. Again, the speed of the voice was wrong for my ears. The words were garbled, making it impossible to hear anything that would make sense.

As if that weren't enough, I began to see liverish scenes like one sees in dreams after a heavy meal. They were baroque, dark, ominous. I began to twirl, and I did so until I got sick to my stomach. The whole event ended there. I felt the effect of whatever had happened to me in every muscle of my body. I was exhausted. This violent intervention had made me angry and frustrated.

I rushed to don Juan's house to tell him about this happening. I sensed that I needed his help more than ever.

"There's nothing gentle about sorcerers or sorcery," don Juan commented after he heard my story. "This was the first time that infinity descended on you in such a fashion. It was like a blitz. It was a total takeover of your faculties. Insofar as the speed of your visions is concerned, you yourself will have to learn to adjust it. For some sorcerers, that's the job of a lifetime. But from now on, energy will appear to you as if it were being projected onto a movie screen.

"Whether or not you understand the projection," he went on, "is another matter. In order to make an accurate interpretation, you need experience. My recommendation is that you shouldn't be bashful, and you should begin now. Read energy on the wall! Your true mind is emerging, and it has nothing to do with the mind that is a foreign installation. Let your true mind adjust the speed. Be silent, and don't fret, no matter what happens."

"But, don Juan, is all this possible? Can one actually read energy as if it were a text?" I asked, overwhelmed by the idea.

"Of course it's possible!" he retorted. "In your case, it's not only possible, it's happening to you."

"But why reading it, as if it were a text?" I insisted, but it was a rhetorical insistence.

"It's an affectation on your part," he said. "If you read the text, you could repeat it verbatim. However, if you tried to be a viewer of infinity instead of a reader of infinity, you would find that you could not describe whatever you were viewing, and you would end up babbling inanities, incapable of verbalizing what you witness. The same thing if you tried to hear it. This is, of course, specific to you. Anyway, infinity chooses. The warrior-traveler simply acquiesces to the choice.

"But above all," he added after a calculated pause, "don't be overwhelmed by the event because you cannot describe it. It is an event beyond the syntax of our language."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 15. Journeys Through the Dark Sea of Awareness.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 15. Journeys Through the Dark Sea of Awareness.

"We can speak a little more clearly now about inner silence " don Juan said.

His statement was such a non sequitur that it startled me. He had been talking to me all afternoon about the vicissitudes that the Yaqui Indians had suffered after the big Yaqui wars of the twenties, when they were deported by the Mexican government from their native homeland in the state of Sonora, in northern Mexico, to work in sugarcane plantations in central and southern Mexico. The Mexican government had had problems with endemic wars with the Yaqui Indians for years. Don Juan told me some astounding, poignant Yaqui stories of political intrigue and betrayal, deprivation and human misery.

I had the feeling that don Juan was setting me up for something because he knew that those stories were my 'cup of tea', so to speak. I had at that time an exaggerated sense of social justice and fair play.

"Circumstances around you have made it possible for you to have more energy," he went on. "You have started the recapitulation of your life; you have looked at your friends for the first time as if they were in a display window; you arrived at your breaking point, all by yourself, driven by your own needs; you canceled your business; and above all, you have accrued enough inner silence. All of these made it possible for you to make a journey through the dark sea of awareness.

"Meeting me in that town of our choice was that journey," he continued. "I know that a crucial question almost reached the surface in you, and that for an instant, you wondered if I really came to your house. My coming to see you wasn't a dream for you. I was real, wasn't I?"

"You were as real as anything could be," I said.

I had nearly forgotten about those events, but I remembered that it did seem strange to me that he had found my apartment. I had discarded my astonishment by the simple process of assuming that he had asked someone for my new address, although, if I had been pressed, I wouldn't have been able to come up with the identity of anyone who would have known where I lived.

"Let us clarify this point," he continued. "In my terms, which are the terms of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, I was as real as I could have been, and as such, I actually went to your place from my inner silence to tell you about the requisite of infinity, and to warn you that you were about to run out of time. And you, in turn, from your inner silence, veritably went to that town of our choice to tell me that you had succeeded in fulfilling the requisite of infinity.

"In your terms, which are the terms of the average man, it was a dream-fantasy in both instances. You had a dream-fantasy that I came to your place without knowing the address, and then you had a dream-fantasy that you went to see me. As far as I'm concerned, as a sorcerer, what you consider your dream-fantasy of meeting me in that town was as real as the two of us talking here today."

I confessed to don Juan that there was no possibility of my framing those events in a pattern of thought proper to Western man. I said that to think of them in terms of dream-fantasy was to create a false category that couldn't stand up under scrutiny, and that the only quasi-explanation that was vaguely possible was another aspect of his knowledge: dreaming.

"No, it is not dreaming," he said emphatically. "This is something more direct, and more mysterious. By the way, I have a new definition of dreaming for you today, more in accordance with your state of being.

"Dreaming is the act of changing the point of attachment with the dark sea of awareness. If you view it in this fashion, it's a very simple concept, and a very simple maneuver. It takes all you have to realize it, but it's not an impossibility, nor is it something surrounded with mystical clouds.

"Dreaming is a term that has always bugged the hell out of me," he continued, "because it weakens a very powerful act. It makes the act sound arbitrary. It gives it a sense of being a fantasy, and this is the only thing it is not. I tried to change the term myself, but it's too ingrained.

"Maybe someday you could change it yourself, although, as with everything else in sorcery, I am afraid that by the time you could actually do it, you won't give a damn about it because it won't make any difference what it is called anymore."

Don Juan had explained at great length, during the entire time that I had known him, that dreaming was an art, discovered by the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, by means of which ordinary dreams were transformed into bona-fide entrances to other worlds of perception. He advocated, in any way he could, the advent of something he called dreaming attention, which was the capacity to pay a special kind of attention, or to place a special kind of awareness on the elements of an ordinary dream.

I had followed meticulously all his recommendations and had succeeded in commanding my awareness to remain fixed on the elements of a dream. The idea that don Juan proposed was not to set out deliberately to have a desired dream, but to fix one's attention on the component elements of whatever dream presented itself.

Then don Juan had showed me energetically what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico considered to be the origin of dreaming: the displacement of the assemblage point. He said that the assemblage point was displaced very naturally during sleep, but that to see the displacement was a bit difficult because it required an aggressive mood, and that such an aggressive mood had been the predilection of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. Those sorcerers, according to don Juan, had found all the premises of their sorcery by means of this mood.

"It is a very predatory mood," don Juan went on. "It's not difficult at all to enter into it, because man is a predator by nature. You could see, aggressively, anybody in this little village, or perhaps someone far away, while they are asleep; anyone would do for the purpose at hand. What's important is that you arrive at a complete sense of indifference. You are in search of something, and you are out to get it. You're going to go out looking for a person, searching like a feline, like an animal of prey, for someone to descend on."

Don Juan had told me, laughing at my apparent chagrin, that the difficulty with this technique was the mood, and that I couldn't be passive in the act of seeing, for the sight was not something to watch but to act upon.

It might have been the power of his suggestion, but that day, when he had told me all this, I felt astoundingly aggressive. Every muscle of my body was filled to the brim with energy, and in my dreaming practice I did go after someone. I was not interested in who that someone might have been. I needed someone who was asleep, and some force I was aware of, without being fully conscious of it, had guided me to find that someone.

I never knew who the person was, but while I was seeing that person, I felt don Juan's presence. It was a strange sensation of knowing that someone was with me by an undetermined sensation of proximity that was happening at a level of awareness that wasn't part of anything that I had ever experienced. I could only focus my attention on the individual at rest. I knew that he was a male, but I don't know how I knew that. I knew that he was asleep because the ball of energy that human beings ordinarily are was a little bit flat. It was expanded laterally.

And then I saw the assemblage point at a position different from the habitual one, which is right behind the shoulder blades. In this instance, it had been displaced to the right of where it should have been, and a bit lower. I calculated that in this case it had moved to the side of the ribs. Another thing that I noticed was that there was no stability to it. It fluctuated erratically and then abruptly went back to its normal position. I had the clear sensation that, obviously, my presence, and don Juan's, had awakened the individual. I had experienced a profusion of blurred images right after that, and then I woke up back in the place where I had started.

Don Juan had also told me all along that sorcerers were divided into two groups: one group was dreamers; the other was stalkers. The dreamers were those who had a great facility for displacing the assemblage point. The stalkers were those who had a great facility for maintaining the assemblage point fixed on that new position. Dreamers and stalkers complemented each other, and worked in pairs, affecting one another with their given proclivities.

Don Juan had assured me that the displacement and the fixation of the assemblage point could be realized at will by means of the sorcerers' iron-handed discipline. He said that the sorcerers of his lineage believed that there were at least six hundred points within the luminous sphere that we are, that when reached at will by the assemblage point, can each give us a totally inclusive world; meaning that, if our assemblage point is displaced to any of those points and remains fixed on it, we will perceive a world as inclusive and total as the world of everyday life, but a different world nevertheless.

Don Juan had further explained that the art of sorcery is to manipulate the assemblage point and make it change positions at will on the luminous spheres that human beings are. The result of this manipulation is a shift in the point of contact with the dark sea of awareness, which brings as its concomitant a different bundle of zillions of energy fields in the form of luminous filaments that converge on the assemblage point.

The consequence of new energy fields converging on the assemblage point is that awareness of a different sort than that which is necessary for perceiving the world of everyday life enters into action, turning the new energy fields into sensory data, sensory data that is interpreted and perceived as a different world because the energy fields that engender it are different from the habitual ones.

Don Juan had asserted that an accurate definition of sorcery as a practice would be to say that sorcery is the manipulation of the assemblage point for purposes of changing its focal point of contact with the dark sea of awareness, thus making it possible to perceive other worlds.

Don Juan had said that the art of the stalkers enters into play after the assemblage point has been displaced. Maintaining the assemblage point fixed in its new position assures sorcerers that they will perceive whatever new world they enter in its absolute completeness, exactly as we do in the world of ordinary affairs. For the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, the world of everyday life was but one fold of a total world consisting of at least six hundred folds.

Don Juan went back again to the topic under discussion: my journeys through the dark sea of awareness. He said that what I had done from my inner silence was very similar to what is done in dreaming when one is asleep. However, when journeying through the dark sea of awareness, there was no interruption of any sort caused by going to sleep, nor was there any attempt whatsoever at controlling one's attention while having a dream. The journey through the dark sea of awareness entailed an immediate response. There was an overpowering sensation of the here and now. Don Juan lamented the fact that some idiotic sorcerers had given the name dreaming-awake to this act of reaching the dark sea of awareness directly, making the term dreaming even more ridiculous.

"When you thought that you had the dream-fantasy of going to that town of our choice," he continued, "you had actually placed your assemblage point directly on a specific position on the dark sea of awareness that allows the journey. Then the dark sea of awareness supplied you with whatever was necessary to carry on that journey. There's no way whatsoever to choose that place at will. Sorcerers say that inner silence selects it unerringly. Simple, isn't it?"

He explained to me then the intricacies of choice. He said that choice, for warrior-travelers, was not really the act of choosing, but rather the act of acquiescing elegantly to the solicitations of infinity.

"Infinity chooses," he said. "The art of the warrior-traveler is to have the ability to move with the slightest insinuation; the art of acquiescing to every command of infinity. For this, a warrior-traveler needs prowess, strength, and above everything else, sobriety. All those three put together give, as a result, elegance!"

After a moment's pause, I went back to the subject that intrigued me the most.

"But it's unbelievable that I actually went to that town, don Juan, in body and soul," I said.

"It is unbelievable, but it's not unlivable," he said. "The universe has no limits, and the possibilities at play in the universe at large are indeed incommensurable. So don't fall prey to the axiom, 'I believe only what I see,' because it is the dumbest stand one can possibly take."

Don Juan's elucidation had been crystal clear. It made sense, but I didn't know where it made sense; certainly not in my daily world of usual affairs. Don Juan assured me then, unleashing a great trepidation in me, that there was only one way in which sorcerers could handle all this information: to taste it through experience, because the mind was incapable of taking in all that stimulation.

"What do you want me to do, don Juan?" I asked.

"You must deliberately journey through the dark sea of awareness," he replied, "but you'll never know how this is done. Let's say that inner silence does it, following inexplicable ways; ways that cannot be understood, but only practiced."

Don Juan had me sit down on my bed and adopt the position that fostered inner silence. I usually fell asleep instantly whenever I adopted this position. However, when I was with don Juan, his presence always made it impossible for me to fall asleep; instead, I entered into a veritable state of complete quietude. This time, after an instant of silence, I found myself walking. Don Juan was guiding me by holding my arm as we walked.

We were no longer in his house. We were walking in a Yaqui town I had never been in before. I knew of the town's existence; I had been close to it many times, but I had been made to turn around by the sheer hostility of the people who lived around it. It was a town where it was nearly impossible for a stranger to enter. The only non-Yaquis who had free access to that town were the supervisors from the federal bank because of the fact that the bank bought the crops from the Yaqui farmers. The endless negotiations of the Yaqui farmers revolved around getting cash advances from the bank on the basis of a near-speculation process about future crops.

I instantly recognized the town from the descriptions of people who had been there. As if to increase my astonishment, don Juan whispered in my ear that we were in the Yaqui town in question. I wanted to ask him how we had gotten there, but I couldn't articulate my words. There were a large number of Indians talking in argumentative tones. Tempers seemed to flare. I didn't understand a word of what they were saying, but the moment I conceived of the thought that I couldn't understand, something cleared up. It was very much as if more light went into the scene. Things became very defined and neat, and I understood what the people were saying although I didn't know how. I didn't speak their language. The words were definitely understandable to me, not singularly, but in clusters, as if my mind could pick up whole patterns of thought.

I could say in earnest that I got the shock of a lifetime, not so much because I understood what they were saying but because of the content of what they were saying. Those people were indeed warlike. They were not Western men at all. Their propositions were propositions of strife, warfare, strategy. They were measuring their strength, their striking resources, and lamenting the fact that they had no power to deliver their blows. I registered in my body the anguish of their impotence. All they had were sticks and stones to fight high-technology weapons. They mourned the fact that they had no leaders. They coveted, more than anything else one could imagine, the rise of some charismatic fighter who could galvanize them.

I heard then the voice of cynicism; one of them expressed a thought that seemed to devastate everyone equally, including me, for I seemed to be an indivisible part of them. He said that they were defeated beyond salvation, because if at a given moment one of them had the charisma to rise up and rally them, he would be betrayed because of envy and jealousy and hurt feelings.

I wanted to comment to don Juan on what was happening to me, but I couldn't voice a single word. Only don Juan could talk.

"The Yaquis are not unique in their pettiness," he said in my ear. "It is a condition in which human beings are trapped, a condition that is not even human, but imposed from the outside."

I felt my mouth opening and closing involuntarily as I tried desperately to ask a question that I could not even conceive of. My mind was blank, void of thoughts. Don Juan and I were in the middle of a circle of people, but none of them seemed to have noticed us. I did not record any movement, reaction, or furtive glance that may have indicated that they were aware of us.

The next instant, I found myself in a Mexican town built around a railroad station, a town located about a mile and a half east of where don Juan lived. Don Juan and I were in the middle of the street by the government bank.

Immediately afterward, I saw one of the strangest sights I had ever been witness to in don Juan's world. I was seeing energy as it flows in the universe, but I wasn't seeing human beings as spherical or oblong blobs of energy. The people around me were, in one instant, the normal beings of everyday life, and in the next instant, they were strange creatures. It was as if the ball of energy that we are were transparent; it was like a halo around an insectlike core. That core did not have a primate's shape. There were no skeletal pieces, so I wasn't seeing people as if I had X-ray vision that went to the bone core. At the core of people there were, rather, geometric shapes made of what seemed to be hard vibrations of matter. That core was like letters of the alphabet. A capital T seemed to be the main structural support. An inverted thick L was suspended in front of the T; the Greek letter for delta, which went almost to the floor, was at the bottom of the vertical bar of the T, and seemed to be a support for the whole structure. On top of the letter T, I saw a ropelike strand, perhaps an inch in diameter; it went through the top of the luminous sphere, as if what I was seeing were indeed a gigantic bead hanging from the top like a drooping gem.

Once, don Juan had presented to me a metaphor to describe the energetic union of strands of human beings. He had said that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico described those strands as a curtain made from beads strung on a string. I had taken this description literally, and thought that the string went through the conglomerate of energy fields that we are from head to toe. The attaching string I was seeing made the round shape of the energy fields of human beings look more like a pendant. I didn't see, however, any other creature being strung by the same string. Every single creature that I saw was a geometrically patterned being that had a sort of string on the upper part of its spherical halo. The string reminded me immensely of the segmented wormlike shapes that some of us see with the eyelids half closed when we are in sunlight.

Don Juan and I walked in the town from one end to the other, and I saw literally scores of geometrically patterned creatures. My ability to see them was unstable in the extreme. I would see them for an instant, and then I would lose sight of them and I would be faced with average people.

Soon, I became exhausted, and I could see only normal people. Don Juan said that it was time to go back home, and again, something in me lost my usual sense of continuity. I found myself in don Juan's house without having the slightest notion as to how I had covered the distance from the town to the house.

I lay down in my bed and tried desperately to recollect, to call back my memory, to probe the depths of my very being for a clue as to how I had gone to the Yaqui town, and to the railroad-station town. I didn't believe that they had been dream-fantasies, because the scenes were too detailed to be anything but real, and yet they couldn't possibly have been real.

"You're wasting your time," don Juan said, laughing. "I guarantee you that you will never know how we got from the house to the Yaqui town, and from the Yaqui town to the railroad station, and from the railroad station to the house. There was a break in the continuity of time. That is what inner silence does."

He patiently explained to me that the interruption of that flow of continuity that makes the world understandable to us is sorcery. He remarked that I had journeyed that day through the dark sea of awareness, and that I had seen people as they are, engaged in people's business. And then I had seen the strand of energy that joins specific lines of human beings.

Don Juan reiterated to me over and over that I had witnessed something specific and inexplicable. I had understood what people were saying, without knowing their language, and I had seen the strand of energy that connected human beings to certain other beings, and I had selected those aspects through an act of intending it.

He stressed the fact that this intending I had done was not something conscious or volitional. The intending had been done at a deep level, and had been ruled by necessity. I had needed to become cognizant of some of the possibilities of journeying through the dark sea of awareness, and my inner silence had guided intent- a perennial force in the universe- to fulfill that need.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 16. Inorganic Awareness.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 16. Inorganic Awareness.

At a given moment in my apprenticeship, don Juan revealed to me the complexity of his life situation. He had maintained, to my chagrin and despondency, that he lived in the shack in the state of Sonora, Mexico, because that shack depicted my state of awareness. I didn't quite believe that he really meant that I was so meager, nor did I believe that he had other places to live, as he was claiming.

It turned out that he was right on both counts. My state of awareness was very meager, and he did have other places where he could live, infinitely more comfortable than the shack where I had first found him. Nor was he the solitary sorcerer that I had thought him to be. He was leader of a group of fifteen other warrior travelers: ten women and five men.

My surprise was gigantic when he took me to his house in central Mexico, where he and his companion sorcerers lived.

"Did you live in Sonora just because of me, don Juan?" I asked him, unable to stand the responsibility which filled me with guilt and remorse and a sensation of worthlessness. "Well, I didn't actually live there," he said, laughing. "I just met you there."

"But-but-but you never knew when I was coming to see you, don ]uan," I said. "I had no means to let you know!"

"Well, if you remember correctly," he said, "there were many, many times when you didn't find me. You had to sit patiently and wait for me, for days sometimes."

"Did you fly from here to Guaymas, don Juan?" I asked him in earnest. I thought that the shortest way would have been to take a plane.

"No, I didn't fly to Guaymas," he said with a big smile. "I flew directly, to the shack where you were waiting."

I knew that he was purposefully telling me something that my linear mind could not understand or accept; something that was confusing me no end. I was at the level of awareness, in those days, when I asked myself incessantly a fatal question: What if all that don Juan says is true?

I didn't want to ask him any more questions, because I was hopelessly lost, trying to bridge our two tracks of thought and action.

In his new surroundings, don Juan began painstakingly to instruct me in a more complex facet of his knowledge; a facet that required all my attention; a facet in which merely suspending judgment was not enough. This was the time when I had to plummet down into the depths of his knowledge. I had to cease to be objective, and at the same time I had to desist from being subjective.

One day, I was helping don Juan clean some bamboo poles in the back of his house. He asked me to put on some working gloves, because, he said, the splinters of bamboo were very sharp and easily caused infections. He directed me on how to use a knife to clean the bamboo. I became immersed in the work. When don Juan began to talk to me, I had to stop working in order to pay attention. He told me that I had worked long enough, and that we should go into the house.

He asked me to sit down in a very comfortable armchair in his spacious, almost empty living room. He gave me some nuts, dried apricots, and slices of cheese, neatly arranged on a plate. I protested that I wanted to finish cleaning the bamboo. I didn't want to eat. But he didn't pay attention to me. He recommended that I nibble slowly and carefully, for I would need a steady supply of food in order to be alert and attentive to what he was going to tell me.

"You already know," he began, "that there exists in the universe a perennial force, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the dark sea of awareness. While they were at the maximum of their perceiving power, they saw something that made them shake in their pantaloonies, if they were wearing any. They saw that the dark sea of awareness is responsible not only for the awareness of organisms, but also for the awareness of entities that don't have an organism."

"What is this, don Juan, beings without an organism that have awareness?" I asked, astonished, for he had never mentioned such an idea before.

"The old shamans discovered that the entire universe is composed of twin forces," he began, "forces that are at the same time opposed and complementary to each other. It is inescapable that our world is a twin world. Its opposite and complementary world is one populated by beings that have awareness, but not an organism. For this reason, the old shamans called them inorganic beings."

"And where is this world, don Juan?" I asked, munching unconsciously on a piece of dried apricot.

Here, where you and I are sitting," he replied matter-of-factly, but laughing outright at my nervousness. "I told you that it's our twin world, so it's intimately related to us. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico didn't think like you do in terms of space and time. They thought exclusively in terms of awareness. Two types of awareness coexist without ever impinging on each other, because each type is entirely different from the other. The old shamans faced this problem of coexistence without concerning themselves with time and space. They reasoned that the degree of awareness of organic beings and the degree of awareness of inorganic beings were so different that both could coexist with the most minimal interference."

"Can we perceive those inorganic beings, don Juan?" I asked. "We certainly can," he replied. "Sorcerers do it at will. Average people do it, but they don't realize that they're doing it because they are not conscious of the existence of a twin world. When they think of a twin world, they enter into all kinds of mental masturbation, but it has never occurred to them that their fantasies have their origin in a subliminal knowledge that all of us have: that we are not alone."

I was riveted by don Juan's words. Suddenly, I had become voraciously hungry. There was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. All I could do was to listen as carefully as I could, and eat.

"The difficulty with your facing things in terms of time and space," he continued, "is that you only notice if something has landed in the space and time at your disposal, which is very limited.

"Sorcerers, on the other hand, have a vast field on which they can notice if something extraneous has landed. Lots of entities from the universe at large, entities that possess awareness but not an organism, land in the field of awareness of our world, or the field of awareness of its twin world, without an average human being ever noticing them. The entities that land on our field of awareness, or the field of awareness of our twin world, belong to other worlds that exist besides our world and its twin. The universe at large is crammed to the brim with worlds of awareness, organic and inorganic."

Don Juan continued talking and said that those sorcerers knew when inorganic awareness from other worlds besides our twin world had landed in their field of awareness. He said that as every human being on this earth would do, those shamans made endless classifications of different types of this energy that has awareness. They knew them by the general term inorganic beings.

"Do those inorganic beings have life like we have life?" I asked.

"If you think that life is to be aware, then they do have life," he said. "I suppose it would be accurate to say that if life can be measured by the intensity, the sharpness, the duration of that awareness, I can sincerely say that they are more alive than you and I."

"Do those inorganic beings die, don Juan?" I asked.

Don Juan chuckled for a moment before he answered. "If you call death the termination of awareness, yes, they die. Their awareness ends. Their death is rather like the death of a human being, and at the same time, it isn't, because the death of human beings has a hidden option. It is something like a clause in a legal document, a clause that is written in tiny letters that you can barely see. You have to use a magnifying glass to read it, and yet it's the most important clause of the document."

"What's the hidden option, don Juan?"

"Death's hidden option is exclusively for sorcerers. They are the only ones who have, to my knowledge, read the fine print. For them, the option is pertinent and functional. For average human beings, death means the termination of their awareness, the end of their organisms.

"For the inorganic beings, death means the same: the end of their awareness. In both cases, the impact of death is the act of being sucked into the dark sea of awareness, Their individual awareness, loaded with their life experiences, breaks its boundaries, and awareness as energy spills out into the dark sea of awareness."

"But what is death's hidden option that is picked up only by sorcerers, don Juan?" I asked.

"For a sorcerer, death is a unifying factor. Instead of disintegrating the organism, as is ordinarily the case, death unifies it."

"How can death unify anything?" I protested.

"Death for a sorcerer," he said, "terminates the reign of individual moods in the body. The old sorcerers believed it was the dominion of the different parts of the body that ruled the moods and the actions of the total body; parts that become dysfunctional drag the rest of the body to chaos, such as, for instance, when you yourself get sick from eating junk. In that case, the mood of your stomach affects everything else. Death eradicates the dominion of those individual parts. It unifies their awareness into one single unit."

"Do you mean that after they die, sorcerers are still aware?" I asked.

"For sorcerers, death is an act of unification that employs every bit of their energy. You are thinking of death as a corpse in front of you, a body on which decay has settled. For sorcerers, when the act of unification takes place, there is no corpse. There is no decay.

"Their bodies in their entirety have been turned into energy, energy possessing awareness that is not fragmented. The boundaries that are set up by the organism, boundaries which are broken down by death, are still functioning in the case of sorcerers, although they are no longer visible to the naked eye.

"I know that you are dying to ask me," he continued with a broad smile, "if whatever I'm describing is the soul that goes to hell or heaven. No, it is not the soul. What happens to sorcerers, when they pick up that hidden option of death, is that they turn into inorganic beings, very specialized, high-speed inorganic beings, beings capable of stupendous maneuvers of perception. Sorcerers enter then into what the shamans of ancient Mexico called their definitive journey. Infinity becomes their realm of action."

"Do you mean by this, don Juan, that they become eternal?"

"My sobriety as a sorcerer tells me," he said, "that their awareness will terminate, the way inorganic beings' awareness terminates, but I haven't seen this happen. I have no firsthand knowledge of it. The old sorcerers believed that the awareness of this type of inorganic being would last as long as the earth is alive. The earth is their matrix. As long as it prevails, their awareness continues. To me, this is a most reasonable statement."

The continuity and order of don Juan's explanation had been, for me, superb. I had no way whatsoever in which to contribute. He left me with a sensation of mystery and unvoiced expectations to be fulfilled.

On my next visit to don Juan, I began my conversation by asking him eagerly a question that was foremost in my mind.

"Is there a possibility, don Juan, that ghosts and apparitions really exist?"

"Whatever you may call a ghost or an apparition," he said, "when it is scrutinized by a sorcerer, boils down to one issue- it is possible that any of those ghostlike apparitions may be a conglomeratation of energy fields that have awareness, and which we turn into things we know. If that's the case, then the apparitions have energy. Sorcerers call them energy generating configurations. Or, no energy emanates from them, in which case they are phantasmagorical creations, usually of a very strong person- strong in terms of awareness.

"One story that intrigued me immensely," don Juan continued, "was the story you told me once about your aunt. Do you remember it?"


I had told don Juan that when I was fourteen years old I had gone to live in my father's sister's house. She lived in a gigantic house that had three patios with living accommodations in between each of them- bedrooms, living rooms, etc.

The first patio was very austere, cobblestoned. They told me that it was a colonial house and this first patio was where horse-drawn carriages had gone in.

The second patio was a beautiful orchard zigzagged by brick lanes of Moorish design and filled with fruit trees.

The third patio was covered with flowerpots hanging from the eaves of the roof, birds in cages, and a colonial-style fountain in the middle of it with running water, as well as a large area fenced with chicken wire, set aside for my aunt's prized fighting cocks, her predilection in life.

My aunt made available to me a whole apartment right in front of the fruit orchard. I thought I was going to have the time of my life there. I could eat all the fruit that I wanted. No one else in the household touched the fruit of any of those trees, for reasons that were never revealed to me.

The household was composed of my aunt, a tall, round-faced chubby lady in her fifties, very jovial, a great raconteur, and full of eccentricities that she hid behind a formal facade and the appearance of devout Catholicism. There was a butler, a tall, imposing man in his early forties who had been a sergeant-major in the army and had been lured out of the service to occupy the better-paid position of butler, bodyguard, and all-around man in my aunt's house. His wife, a beautiful young woman, was my aunt's companion, cook, and confidante. The couple also had a daughter, a chubby little girl who looked exactly like my aunt. The likeness was so strong that my aunt had adopted her legally.

Those four were the quietest people I had ever met. They lived a very sedate life, punctuated only by the eccentricities of my aunt, who, on the spur of the moment, would decide to take trips, or buy promising new fighting cocks, train them, and actually have serious contests in which enormous sums of money were involved. She tended her fighting cocks with loving care, sometimes all day long. She wore thick leather gloves and stiff leather leggings to keep the fighting cocks from spurring her.

I spent two stupendous months living in my aunt's house. She taught me music in the afternoons, and told me endless stories about my family's ancestors. My living situation was ideal for me because I used to go out with my friends and didn't have to report the time I came back to anybody. Sometimes I used to spend hours without falling asleep, lying on my bed. I used to keep my window open to let the smell of orange blossoms fill my room. Whenever I was lying there awake, I would hear someone walking down a long corridor that ran the length of the whole property on the north side, joining all the patios of the house. This corridor had beautiful arches and a tiled floor. There were four light bulbs of minimal voltage that dimly illuminated the corridor, lights that were turned on at six o'clock every evening and turned off at six in the morning.

I asked my aunt if anyone walked at night and stopped at my window, because whoever was walking always stopped by my window, turned around, and walked back again toward the main entrance of the house.

"Don't trouble yourself with nonsense, dear," my aunt said, smiling. "It's probably my butler, making his rounds. Big deal! Were you frightened?"

"No, I was not frightened," I said, "I just got curious, because your butler walks up to my room every night. Sometimes his steps wake me up."

She discarded my inquiry in a matter-of-fact fashion, saying that the butler had been a military man and was habituated to making his rounds, as a sentry would. I accepted her explanation.

One day, I mentioned to the butler that his steps were just too loud, and asked if he would make his rounds by my window with a little more care so as to let me sleep.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he said in a gruff voice.

"My aunt told me that you make your rounds at night," I said.

"I never do such a thing!" he said, his eyes flaring with disgust.

"But who walks by my window then?"

"Nobody walks by your window. You're imagining things. Just go back to sleep. Don't go around stirring things up. I'm telling you this for your own good."

Nothing could have been worse for me in those years than someone telling me that they were doing something for my own good. That night, as soon as I began to hear the footsteps, I got out of my bed and stood behind the wall that led to the entrance of my apartment. When I calculated that whoever was walking was by the second bulb, I just stuck my head out to look down the corridor. The steps stopped abruptly, and there was no one in sight. The dimly illuminated corridor was deserted. If somebody had been walking there, they wouldn't have had time to hide because there was no place to hide. There were only bare walls.

My fright was so immense that I woke up the whole household screaming my head off. My aunt and her butler tried to calm me down by telling me that I was imagining all that, but my agitation was so intense that both of them sheepishly confessed, in the end that something which was unknown to them walked in that house every night.


Don Juan had said that it was almost surely my aunt who walked at night. That is to say, some aspect of her awareness over which she had no volitional control. He believed that this phenomenon obeyed a sense of playfulness or mystery that she cultivated. Don Juan was sure that it was not a far-fetched idea that my aunt, at a subliminal level, was not only making all those noises happen, but that she was capable of much more complex manipulations of awareness. Don Juan had also said that to be completely fair, he had to admit the possibility that the steps were the product of inorganic awareness.

Don Juan said that the inorganic beings who populated our twin world were considered, by the sorcerers of his lineage, to be our relatives. Those shamans believed that it was futile to make friends with our inorganic family members because the demands levied on us for such friendships were always exorbitant. He said that that type of inorganic being, who are our first cousins, communicate with us incessantly, but that their communication with us is not at the level of conscious awareness. In other words, we know all about them in a subliminal way, while they know all about us in a deliberate, conscious manner.

"The energy from our first cousins is a drag!" don Juan went on. "They are as fucked up as we are. Let's say that the organic and inorganic beings of our twin worlds are the children of two sisters who live next door to each other. They are exactly alike although they look different. They cannot help us, and we cannot help them. Perhaps we could join together, and make a fabulous family business corporation, but that hasn't happened. Both branches of the family are extremely touchy and take offense over nothing, a typical relationship between touchy first cousins. The crux of the matter, the sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed, is that both human beings and inorganic beings from the twin worlds are profound egomaniacs."

According to don Juan, another classification that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico made of the inorganic beings was that of scouts, or explorers, and by this they meant inorganic beings that came from the depths of the universe, and which were possessors of awareness infinitely sharper and faster than that of human beings.

Don Juan asserted that the old sorcerers had spent generations polishing their classification schemes, and their conclusions were that certain types of inorganic beings from the category of scouts or explorers, because of their vivaciousness, were akin to man. They could make liaisons and establish a symbiotic relation with men. The old sorcerers called these kinds of inorganic beings the allies.

Don Juan explained that the crucial mistake of those shamans with reference to this type of inorganic being was to attribute human characteristics to that impersonal energy and to believe that they could harness it. They thought of those blocks of energy as their helpers, and they relied on them without comprehending that, being pure energy, they didn't have the power to sustain any effort.

"I've told you all there is to know about inorganic beings," don Juan said abruptly. "The only way you can put this to the test is by means of direct experience."

I didn't ask him what he wanted me to do. A deep fear made my body rattle with nervous spasms that burst like a volcanic eruption from my solar plexus and extended down to the tips of my toes and up to my upper trunk.

"Today, we will go to look for some inorganic beings," he announced.

Don Juan ordered me to sit on my bed and adopt again the position that fostered inner silence, I followed his command with unusual ease. Normally, I would have been reluctant, perhaps not overtly, but I would have felt a twinge of reluctance nonetheless.

I had a vague thought that by the time I sat down, I was already in a state of inner silence. My thoughts were no longer clear. I felt an impenetrable darkness surrounding me, making me feel as if I were falling asleep. My body was utterly motionless, either because I had no intention of setting up any commands to move or because I just couldn't formulate them.

A moment later, I found myself with don Juan, walking in the Sonoran desert. I recognized the surroundings. I had been there with him so many times that I had memorized every feature of it. It was the end of the day, and the light of the setting sun created in me a mood of desperation. I walked automatically, aware that I was feeling in my body sensations that were not accompanied by thoughts. I was not describing to myself my state of being. I wanted to tell this to don Juan, but the desire to communicate my bodily sensations to him vanished in an instant.

Don Juan said, very slowly, and in a low, grave voice, that the dry riverbed on which we were walking was a most appropriate place for our business at hand, and that I should sit on a small boulder, alone, while he went and sat on another boulder about fifty feet away. I didn't ask don Juan, as I ordinarily would have, what I was supposed to do. I knew what I had to do. I heard then the rustling steps of people walking through the bushes that were sparsely scattered around. There wasn't enough moisture in the area to allow the heavy growth of underbrush. Some sturdy bushes grew there, with a space of perhaps ten or fifteen feet between them.

I saw then two men approaching. They seemed to be local men, perhaps Yaqui Indians from one of the Yaqui towns in the vicinity. They came and stood by me. One of them nonchalantly asked me how I had been. I wanted to smile at him, laugh, but I couldn't. My face was extremely rigid. Yet I was ebullient. I wanted to jump up and down, but I couldn't. I told him that I had been fine. Then I asked them who they were. I said to them that I didn't know them, and yet I sensed an extraordinary familiarity with them- One of the men said, matter-of-factly, that they were my allies.

I stared at them, trying to memorize their features, but their features changed. They seemed to mold themselves to the mood of my stare. No thoughts were involved. Everything was a matter guided by visceral sensations. I stared at them long enough to erase their features completely, and finally, I was facing two shiny blobs of luminosity that vibrated. The blobs of luminosity did not have boundaries. They seemed to sustain themselves cohesively from within. At times, they became flat, wide. Then they would take on a verticality again, at the height of a man.

Suddenly, I felt don Juan's arm hooking my right arm and pulling me from the boulder. He said that it was time to go. The next moment, I was in his house again, in central Mexico, more bewildered than ever.

"Today, you found inorganic awareness, and then you saw it as it really is," he said. "Energy is the irreducible residue of everything. As far as we are concerned, to see energy directly is the bottom line for a human being. Perhaps there are other things beyond that, but they are not available to us."

Don Juan asserted all this over and over, and every time he said it, his words seemed to solidify me more and more, to help me return to my normal state.

I told don Juan everything I had witnessed; everything I had heard. Don Juan explained to me that I had succeeded that day in transforming the anthropomorphic shape of the inorganic beings into their essence: impersonal energy aware of itself.

"You are now in the position of having embodied the realization," he said, "that it is our cognition, which is in essence an interpretation system, that curtails our resources. Our cognitive interpretation system is what tells us what the parameters of our possibilities are. And since we have been using that system of interpretation all our lives, we cannot possibly dare to go against its dictums.

"The energy of those inorganic beings pushes us," don Juan went on, "and we interpret that push as we may, depending on our mood. The most sober thing to do, for a sorcerer, is to relegate those entities to an abstract level: The fewer interpretations sorcerers make, the better off they are.

"From now on," he continued, "whenever you are confronted with the strange sight of an apparition, hold your ground and gaze at it with an inflexible attitude. If it is an inorganic being, your interpretation of it will fall off like dead leaves. If nothing happens, it is just a chicken-shit aberration of your mind, which is not your mind anyway."





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 17. The Clear View.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 17. The Clear View.

For the first time in my life, I had found myself in a total quandary as to how to behave in the world. The world around me had not changed. It definitely stemmed from a flaw in me.

Don Juan's personal influence upon me, and my deep engagement in all the activities stemming from his practices were taking their toll on me; causing in me a serious incapacity to deal with my fellow men.

I had examined my problem and concluded that my flaw was my compulsion to measure everyone using don Juan as a yardstick.

Don Juan was, in my estimate, a being who lived his life profes­sionally in every aspect of the term. Every one of his acts, no matter how insignificant, counted.

I, on the other hand, was surrounded by people who believed that they were immortal beings; people who contradicted themselves every step of the way. They were beings whose acts could never be accounted for.

It was an unfair game. The cards were stacked against the people I encountered. I had become accustomed to don Juan's unalterable behavior; to his total lack of self-importance; and to the unfathomable scope of his intellect.

Very few of the people I knew were even aware that there existed another pattern of behavior that fostered those qualities. Most of them knew only the behavioral pattern of self-reflection, which renders men weak and contorted.

Consequently, I was having a very difficult time in my aca­demic studies. I was losing sight of them. I tried desperately to find a rationale that would justify my academic endeavors.

The only thing that came to my aid and gave me a connection, however flimsy, to academia was the recommendation that don Juan had made to me once that warrior travelers should have a romance with knowledge, in whatever form knowledge was presented.

Don Juan had defined the concept of warrior travelers by saying that it referred to sorcerer seers who traveled in the dark sea of awareness as total freedom warriors.

He had added that all human beings were travelers of the dark sea of awareness whether they were aware of it or not; and that this Earth can be considered as a station on their journey.

And for extraneous reasons, which don Juan did not care to divulge at the time, the bulk of the travelers have interrupted their voyage.

He said that human beings were caught in a sort of eddy; a cur­rent that went in circles, giving them the impression of moving while they were, in essence, stationary.

He maintained that sor­cerers were the only opponents of whatever force kept human beings prisoners, and that by means of their discipline sorcerers broke loose from its grip and continued their journey of awareness.


What precipitated the final chaotic upheaval in my academic life was my incapacity to focus my interest on topics of anthropo­logical concern that didn't mean a hoot to me, not because of their lack of appeal but because they were mostly matters where words and concepts had to be manipulated, as in a legal docu­ment, to obtain a given result that would establish precedents. It was argued that human knowledge is built in such a fashion, and that the effort of every individual was a building block in con­structing a system of knowledge.

The example that was put to me was that of the legal system by which we live, and which is of invaluable importance to us. However, my romantic notions at the time impeded me from conceiving of myself as a 'barrister at anthropology'.

I had bought, lock, stock, and barrel, the concept that anthropology should be the matrix of all human endeavor, or the measure of man.

Don Juan, a consummate pragmatist, a true 'warrior traveler' of the unknown, said that I was full of prunes. He said that it didn't matter that the anthropological topics proposed to me were maneuvers of words and concepts, that what was important was the exercise of discipline.

"It doesn't make any difference," he said to me one time, "how good a reader you are, and how many wonderful books you can read. What's important is that you have the discipline to read what you don't want to read. The crux of the sorcerers' exercise of going to school is in what you refuse, not in what you accept."


I decided to take some time off from my studies and went to work in the art department of a company that made decals. My job engaged my efforts and thoughts to their fullest extent. My challenge was to carry out the tasks assigned to me as perfectly and as rapidly as I could. To set up the vinyl sheets with the images to be processed by silk-screening into decals was a standard procedure that wouldn't admit of any innovation, and the efficiency of the worker was measured by exactness and speed.

I became a workaholic and enjoyed myself tremendously.

The director of the art department and I became fast friends. He practically took me under his wing. His name was Ernest Lipton. I admired and respected him immensely. He was a fine artist and a magnificent craftsman.

His flaw was his softness, his incredible consideration for others, which bordered on passivity.

For example, one day we were driving out of the parking lot of a restaurant where we had eaten lunch. Very politely, he waited for another car to pull out of the parking space in front of him. The driver obviously didn't see us and began to back out at a con­siderable speed.

Ernest Lipton could easily have blown his horn to attract the man's attention to watch where he was going. Instead, he sat, grinning like an idiot as the guy crashed into his car. Then he turned and apologized to me. "Gee, I could have blown my horn," he said, "but it's so frigging loud, it embarrasses me."

The guy who had backed up into Ernest's car was furious and had to be placated.

"Don't worry," Ernest said. "There is no damage to your car. Besides, you only smashed my headlights; I was going to replace them anyway."

Another day, in the same restaurant, some Japanese people, clients of the decal company and Ernest Lipton's guests for lunch, were talk­ing animatedly to us, asking questions. The waiter came with the food and cleared the table of some of the salad plates, making room, the best way he could on the narrow table, for the huge hot plates of the entree.

One of the Japanese clients needed more space. He pushed his plate forward. The push set Ernest's plate in motion and it began to slide off the table. Again, Ernest could have warned the man, but he didn't. He sat there grinning until the plate fell in his lap.

On another occasion, I went to his house to help him put up some rafters over his patio, where he was going to let a grape vine grow for partial shade and fruit. We prearranged the rafters into a huge frame and then lifted one side and bolted it to some beams. Ernest was a tall, very strong man, and using a length of two-by-four as a hoisting device, he lifted the other end for me to fit the bolts into holes that were already drilled into the supporting beams. But before I had a chance to put in the bolts there was an insistent knock on the door and Ernest asked me to see who it was while he held the frame of rafters.

His wife was at the door with her grocery packages. She engaged me in a lengthy conversation and I forgot about Ernest. I even helped her to put her groceries away. In the middle of arranging her celery bundles, I remembered that my friend was still holding the frame of rafters, and knowing him, I knew that he would still be at the job, expecting everybody else to have the consideration that he himself had.

I rushed desperately to the backyard, and there he was on the ground. He had collapsed from the exhaustion of holding the heavy wooden frame. He looked like a rag doll. We had to call his friends to lend a hand and hoist up the frame of rafters- he couldn't do it anymore. He had to go to bed. He thought for sure that he had a hernia.

The classic story about Ernest Lipton was that one day he went hiking for the weekend in the San Bernardino Mountains with some friends. They camped in the mountains for the night.

While everybody was sleeping, Ernest Lipton went to the bushes, and being such a considerate man, he walked some distance from the camp so as not to bother anybody. He slipped in the darkness and rolled down the side of the mountain. He told his friends afterward that he knew for a fact that he was falling to his death at the bottom of the valley.

He was lucky in that he grabbed on to a ledge with the tips of his fingers. He held on to it for hours, searching in the dark with his feet for any support, because his arms were about to give in- he was going to hold on until his death.

By extending his legs as wide as he could, he found tiny protuberances in the rock that helped him to hold on. He stayed stuck to the rock, like the decals that he made, until there was enough light for him to realize that he was only a foot from the ground.

"Ernest, you could have yelled for help!" his friends com­plained.

"Gee, I didn't think there was any use," he replied. "Who could have heard me? I thought I had rolled down at least a mile into the valley. Besides, everyone was asleep."

The final blow came for me when Ernest Lipton, who spent two hours daily commuting back and forth from his house to the shop, decided to buy an economy car, a Volkswagen Beetle, and began measuring how many miles he got per gallon of gasoline.

I was extremely surprised when he announced one morning that he had reached 125 miles per gallon. Being a very exact man, he qualified his statement, saying that most of his driving was not done in the city, but on the freeway, although at the peak hour of traffic, he had to slow down and accelerate quite often. A week later, he said that he had reached the 250 miles per gallon mark.

This marvelous event escalated until he reached an unbeliev­able figure: 645 miles to a gallon. His friends told him that he should enter this figure into the logs of the Volkswagen company. Ernest Lipton was as pleased as punch, and gloated, saying that he wouldn't know what to do if he reached the thousand-mile mark. His friends told him that he should claim a miracle.

This extraordinary situation went on until one morning when he caught one of his friends, who for months had been playing the oldest gag in the book on him, adding gasoline to his tank. Every morning he had been adding three or four cups so that Ernest's gas gauge was never on empty.

Ernest Lipton was nearly angry. His harshest comment was, "Gee! Is this supposed to be funny?"

I had known for weeks that his friends were playing that gag on him, but I was unable to intervene. I felt that it was none of my business. The people who were playing the gag on Ernest Lipton were his lifelong friends. I was a newcomer. When I saw his look of disappointment and hurt, and his incapacity to get angry, I felt a wave of guilt and anxiety. I was facing again an old enemy of mine. I despised Ernest Lipton, and at the same time, I liked him immensely. He was helpless.

The real truth of the matter was that Ernest Lipton looked like my father. His thick glasses and his receding hairline, as well as the stubble of graying beard that he could never quite shave com­pletely, brought my father's features to mind. He had the same straight, pointed nose and pointed chin. But seeing Ernest Lipton's inability to get angry and punch the jokers in the nose was what really clinched his likeness to my father for me and pushed it beyond the threshold of safety.

I remembered how my father had been madly in love with the sister of his best friend. I spotted her one day in a resort town, holding hands with a young man. Her mother was with her as a chaperone. The girl seemed so happy. The two young people looked at each other, enraptured. As far as I could see, it was young love at its best.

When I saw my father, I told him, relishing every instant of my recounting with all the malice of my ten years, that his girlfriend had a real boyfriend. He was taken aback. He didn't believe me.

"But have you said anything at all to the girl?" I asked him dar­ingly- "Does she know that you are in love with her?"

"Don't be stupid, you little creep!" he snapped at me. "I don't have to tell any woman any shit of that sort!" Like a spoiled child, he looked at me petulantly, his lips trembling with rage.

"She's mine! She should know that she's my woman without my having to tell her anything!"

He declared all this with the certainty of a child who has had everything in life given to him without having to fight for it.

At the apex of my form, I delivered my punch line. "Well," I said, "I think she expected someone to tell her that, and someone has just beaten you to it."

I was prepared to jump out of his reach and run because I thought he would slash at me with all the fury in the world, but instead, he crumpled down and began to weep. He asked me, sob­bing uncontrollably, that since I was capable of anything, would I please spy on the girl for him and tell him what was going on?

I despised my father beyond anything I could say, and at the same time I loved him with a sadness that was unmatched. I cursed myself for precipitating that shame on him.

Ernest Lipton reminded me of my father so much that I quit my job, alleging that I had to go back to school. I didn't want to increase the burden that I already carried on my shoulders. I had never forgiven myself for causing my father that anguish, and I had never forgiven him for being so cowardly.

I went back to school and began the gigantic task of reintegrating myself into my studies of anthropology. What made this reintegration very difficult was the fact that if there was someone I could have worked with with ease and delight because of his admirable touch, his daring curiosity, and his willingness to expand his knowledge without getting flustered or defending. indefensible points, it was someone outside my department, an archaeologist. It was because of his influence that I had become interested in fieldwork in the first place. Perhaps because of the fact that he actually went into the field, literally to dig out infor­mation, his practicality was an oasis of sobriety for me. He was the only one who had encouraged me to go ahead and do field-work because I had nothing to lose.

"Lose it all, and you'll gain it all," he told me once, the sound­est advice that I ever got in academia. If I followed don Juan's advice, and worked toward correcting my obsession with self-reflection, I veritably had nothing to lose and everything to gain. But this possibility hadn't been in the cards for me at that time.

When I told don Juan about the difficulty I encountered in find­ing a professor to work with, I thought that his reaction to what I said was vicious. He called me a petty fart, and worse. He told me what I already knew: that if I were not so tense, I could have worked successfully with anybody in academia, or in business.

"'Warrior travelers' don't complain," don Juan went on. "They take everything that infinity hands them as a challenge. A chal­lenge is a challenge. It isn't personal. It cannot be taken as a curse or a blessing. A warrior-traveler either wins the challenge or the challenge demolishes him. It's more exciting to win, so win!"

I told him that it was easy for him or anyone else to say that, but to carry it out was another matter, and that my tribulations were insoluble because they originated in the incapacity of my fellow men to be consistent.

"It's not the people around you who are at fault," he said. "They cannot help themselves. The fault is with you, because you can help yourself, but you are bent on judging them, at a deep level of silence. Any idiot can judge. If you judge them, you will only get the worst out of them. All of us human beings are prisoners, and it is that prison that makes us act in such a miserable way. Your challenge is to take people as they are! Leave people alone."

"You are absolutely wrong this time, don Juan," I said. "Believe me, I have no interest whatsoever in judging them, or entangling myself with them in any way."

"You do understand what I'm talking about," he insisted doggedly. "If you're not conscious of your desire to judge them," he continued, "you are in even worse shape than I thought. This is the flaw of warrior-travelers when they begin to resume their journeys. They get cocky, out of hand."

I admitted to don Juan that my complaints were petty in the extreme. I knew that much. I said to him that I was confronted with daily events, events that had the nefarious quality of wear­ing down all my resolve, and that I was embarrassed to relate to don Juan the incidents that weighed heavily on my mind.

"Come on," he urged me. "Out with it! Don't have any secrets from me. I'm an empty tube. Whatever you say to me will be pro­jected out into infinity."

"All I have are miserable complaints," I said. "I am exactly like all the people I know. There's no way to talk to a single one of them without hearing an overt or a covert complaint."

I related to don Juan how in even the simplest dialogues my friends managed to sneak in an endless number of complaints, such as in a dialogue like this one:

"How is everything, Jim?"

"Oh, fine, fine, Cal." A huge silence would follow.

I would be obliged to say, "Is there something wrong, Jim?"

"No! Everything's great. I have a bit of a problem with Mel, but you know how Mel is-selfish and shitty. But you have to take your friends as they come, true? He could, of course, have a little more consideration. But what the heck. He's himself. He always puts the burden on you- take me or leave me. He's been doing that since we were twelve, so it's really my fault. Why in the heck do I have to take him?"

"Well, you're right, Jim, you know Mel is very hard, yes. Yeah!"

"Well, speaking of shitty people, you're no better than Mel, Cal. I can never count on you," etc. Another classic dialogue was:

"How are you doing, Alex? How's your married life?"

"Oh, just great. For the first time, I'm eating on time, home-cooked meals, but I'm getting fat. There's nothing for me to do except watch TV. I used to go out with you guys, but now I can't. Theresa doesn't let me. Of course, I could tell her to go and shag herself, but I don't want to hurt her. I feel content, but miser­able."

And Alex had been the most miserable guy before he got mar­ried. He was the one whose classic joke was to tell his friends, every time we ran into him, "Hey, come to my car, I want to introduce you to my bitch."

He enjoyed himself pink with our crushed expectations when we would see that what he had in his car was a female dog. He introduced his 'bitch' to all his friends. We were shocked when he actually married Theresa, a long-distance runner. They met at a marathon when Alex fainted. They were in the mountains, and Theresa had to revive him by any means.

So she pissed on his face. After that, Alex was her prisoner. She had marked her terri­tory. His friends used to say, "Her pissy prisoner." His friends thought she was the true bitch who had turned weird Alex into a fat dog.

Don Juan and I laughed for a while. Then he looked at me with a serious expression.

"These are the ups and downs of daily living," don Juan said. "You win, and you lose, and you don't know when you win or when you lose. This is the price one pays for living under the rule of self-reflection. There is nothing that I can say to you, and there's nothing that you can say to yourself.

I could only recom­mend that you not feel guilty because you're an asshole, but that you strive to end the dominion of self-reflection. Go back to school. Don't give up yet."

My interest in remaining in academia was waning considerably. I began to live on automatic pilot. I felt heavy, despondent.

However, I noticed that my mind was not involved. I didn't calculate anything, or set up any goals or expectations of any sort. My thoughts were not obsessive, but my feelings were. I tried to conceptualize this dichotomy dichotomy between a quiet mind and turbulent turbulent feelings. It was in this frame of mindlessness and overwhelmed feelings that I walked one day from Haines Hall, where the anthropology depart­ment was, to the cafeteria to eat my lunch.

I was suddenly accosted by a strange tremor. I thought I was going to faint, and I sat down on some brick steps. I saw yellow spots in front of my eyes. I had the sensation that I was spinning. I was sure that I was going to get sick to my stomach. My vision became blurry, and finally I couldn't see a thing. My physical dis­comfort was so total and intense that it didn't leave room for a single thought.

I had only bodily sensations of fear and anxiety mixed with elation, and a strange anticipation that I was at the threshold of a gigantic event. They were sensations without the counterpart of thought. At a given moment, I no longer knew whether I was sitting or standing. I was surrounded by the most impenetrable darkness one can imagine, and then, I saw energy as it flowed in the universe.

I saw a succession of luminous spheres walking toward me or away from me. I saw them one at a time, as don Juan had always told me one sees them. I knew they were different individuals because of their differences in size.

I examined the details of their structures. Their luminosity and their roundness were made of fibers that seemed to be stuck together. They were thin or thick fibers. Every one of those luminous figures had a thick, shaggy covering. They looked like some strange, luminous, furry animals, or gigantic round insects covered with luminous hair.

What was the most shocking thing to me was the realization that I had seen those furry insects all my life. Every occasion on which don Juan had made me deliberately see them seemed to me at that moment to be like a detour that I had taken with him. I remembered every instance of his help in making me see people as luminous spheres, and all of those instances were set apart from the bulk of seeing to which I was having access now.

I knew then, as beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I had perceived energy as it flows in the universe all my life, on my own, without anybody's help. Such a realization was overwhelming to me. I felt infinitely, vulnerable, frail. I needed to seek cover; to hide somewhere.

It was exactly like the dream that most of us seem to have at one time or another in which we find ourselves naked and don't know what to do. I felt more than naked; I felt unprotected, weak, and I dreaded returning to my normal state. In a vague way, I sensed that I was lying down. I braced myself for my return to normality. I conceived of the idea that I was going to find myself lying on the brick walk, twitching convulsively, surrounded by a whole circle of spectators.

The sensation that I was lying down became more and more accentuated. I felt that I could move my eyes. I could see light through my closed eyelids, but I dreaded opening them. The odd part was that I didn't hear any of those people that I imagined were around me. I heard no noise at all. At last, I ventured open­ing my eyes. I was on my bed, in my office apartment by the cor­ner of Wilshire and Westwood boulevards.

I became quite hysterical upon finding myself in my bed. But for some reason that was beyond my grasp, I calmed down almost immediately. My hysteria was replaced by a bodily indifference, or by a state of bodily satisfaction, something like what one feels after a good meal.

However, I could not quiet my mind. It had been the most shocking thing imaginable for me to realize that I had perceived energy directly all my life. How in the world could it have been possible that I hadn't known? What had been pre­venting me from gaining access to that facet of my being? Don Juan had said that every human being has the potential to see energy directly. What he hadn't said was that every human being already sees energy directly but doesn't know it.

I put that question to a psychiatrist friend. He couldn't shed any light on my quandary. He thought that my reaction was the result of fatigue and overstimulation. He gave me a prescription for Valium and told me to rest.

I hadn't dared mention to anyone that I had woken up in my bed without being able to account for how I had gotten there. Therefore, my haste to see don Juan was more than justified. I flew to Mexico City as soon as I could, rented a car, and drove to where he lived.

"You've done all this before!" don Juan said, laughing, when I narrated my mind-boggling experience to him. "There are only two things that are new. One is that now you have perceived energy all by yourself. What you did was to stop the world, and then you realized that you have always seen energy as it flows in the universe, as every human being does, but without knowing it deliberately. The other new thing is that you have traveled from your inner silence all by yourself.

"You know, without my having to tell you, that anything is pos­sible if one departs from inner silence. This time your fear and vul­nerability made it possible for you to end up in your bed, which is not really that far from the UCLA campus. If you would not indulge in your surprise, you would realize that what you did is nothing, nothing extraordinary for a warrior traveler.

"But the issue which is of the utmost importance isn't knowing that you have always perceived energy directly, or your journey­ing from inner silence, but, rather, a twofold affair.

"First, you expe­rienced something which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called the clear view, or losing the human form; the time when human pettiness vanishes, as if it had been a patch of fog looming over us, a fog that slowly clears up and dissipates.

"But under no circumstances must you consider this accomplishment as an end.

"The sorcerers' world is not an immutable immutable world like the world of everyday life, where they tell you that once you reach a goal, you remain a winner forever.

"In the sorcerers' world, to arrive at a cer­tain goal means that you have simply acquired the most efficient tools to continue your fight, which, by the way, will never end.

"The second part of this twofold matter is that you experienced the most maddening question for the hearts of human beings. You expressed it yourself when you asked yourself the questions: 'How in the world could it have been possible that I didn't know that I had perceived energy directly all my life? What had been pre­venting me from gaining access to that facet of my being?'"





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 3 - Chapter 18. Mud Shadows.

Version 2009.07.23


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - Chapter 18. Mud Shadows.

To sit in silence with don Juan was one of the most enjoyable experiences I knew.

We were comfortably sitting on some stuffed chairs in the back of his house in the mountains of central Mexico. It was late afternoon. There was a pleasant breeze. The sun was behind the house, at our backs. Its fading light created exquisite shades of green in the big trees in the backyard.

There were big trees growing around his house, and beyond it, which obliterated the sight of the city where he lived. This always gave me the impression that I was in the wilderness; a different wilderness than the barren Sonoran desert, but wilderness nonetheless.

"Today, we're going to discuss a most serious topic in sorcery," don Juan said abruptly, "and we're going to begin by talking about the energy body."


He had described the energy body to me countless times, saying that it was a conglomerate of energy fields; the mirror image of the conglomerate of energy fields that makes up the physical body when it is seen as energy that flows in the universe.

He had said that the energy body was smaller, more compact, and of heavier appearance than the luminous sphere of the physical body.

Don Juan had explained that the body and the energy body were two conglomerates of energy fields compressed together by some strange agglutinating force.

He had emphasized no end that this force that binds that group of energy fields together was, according to the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, the most mysterious force in the universe.

His personal estimation was that this force was the pure essence of the entire cosmos; the sum total of everything there is.

He had asserted that the physical body and the energy body were the only counterbalanced energy configurations in our realm as human beings. He accepted, therefore, no other dualism in our lives than the one between these two.

The dualism between body and mind, or spirit and flesh, he considered to be a mere concatenation of the mind, emanating from our minds without any energetic foundation.

Don Juan had said that by means of discipline, it is possible for anyone to bring the energy body closer to the physical body.

Normally, the distance between the two is enormous.

Once the energy body is within a certain range which varies for each of us individually, through discipline anyone can forge it into the exact replica of their physical body; that is to say, a three-dimensional, solid being; hence the sorcerers' idea of the other or the double.

By the same token, through the same processes of discipline, anyone can forge their three-dimensional, solid physical body to be a perfect replica of their energy body; that is to say, an ethereal charge of energy invisible to the human eye, as all energy is.

When don Juan had told me all about this, my reaction had been to ask him if he was describing a mythical proposition.

He had replied that there was nothing mythical about sorcerers. Sorcerers were practical beings, and what they described was always something quite sober and down-to-earth.

According to don Juan, the difficulty in understanding what sorcerers did was that they proceeded from a different cognitive system.


Sitting at the back of his house in central Mexico that day, don Juan said that the energy body was of key importance in whatever was taking place in my life.

He saw that it was an energetic fact that my energy body, instead of moving away from me as normally happens, was approaching me with great speed.

"What does it mean that it's approaching me?" I asked.

Smiling, don Juan said, "It means that something is going to knock the daylights out of you. A tremendous degree of control is going to come into your life, but not your control; the energy body's control."

I asked, "Do you mean that some outside force will control me?"

"There are scores of outside forces controlling you at this moment," don Juan replied. "The control that I am referring to is something outside the domain of language.

"It is your control and at the same time it is not. It cannot be classified, but it can certainly be experienced. And above all, it can certainly be manipulated.

"Remember this: This control can be manipulated to your total advantage, of course, which is not your advantage, but the energy body's advantage.

"However, the energy body is you. So we could go on forever like dogs biting their own tails trying to describe this. Language is inadequate. All these experiences are beyond syntax."


Darkness had descended very quickly. The foliage of the trees that had been glowing green a little while before was now very dark and heavy.

Don Juan said that if I paid close attention to the darkness of the foliage without focusing my eyes, and if I sort of looked at it from the corner of my eye, I would see a fleeting shadow crossing my field of vision.

He said, "This is the appropriate time of day for doing what I am asking you to do. It takes a moment to engage the necessary attention in you to do it. Don't stop until you catch that fleeting black shadow."

I did see some strange fleeting black shadow projected on the foliage of the trees. It was either one shadow going back and forth, or there were various fleeting shadows moving from left to right, right to left and straight up in the air.

They looked like fat black fish to me; enormous fish. It was as if gigantic swordfish were flying in the air. I was engrossed in the sight.

Then, finally, it scared me. Although, it became too dark to see the foliage, I could still see the fleeting black shadows.

"What is it, don Juan?" I asked. "I see fleeting black shadows all over the place."

"Ah," he said, "that's the universe at large; incommensurable, nonlinear, and outside the realm of syntax.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were the first ones to see those fleeting shadows, so the sorcerers followed them around. They saw them as you're seeing them, and they saw them as energy that flows in the universe.

"And those sorcerers discovered something transcendental."

He stopped talking and looked at me. His pause was perfectly placed. He stopped talking when I was hanging by a thread.

I asked, "What did they discover, don Juan?"

"They discovered that we have a companion for life," he said, as clearly as he could. "We have a predator that came from the depths of the cosmos, and took over the rule of our lives. Human beings are its prisoners. The predator is our lord and master.

"It has rendered us docile; helpless. If we want to protest, it suppresses our protest. If we want to act independently, it demands that we don't do so."

It was very dark around us, and that seemed to curtail any expression on my part. If it had been daylight, I would have laughed my head off. In the dark, I felt quite inhibited.

"It's pitch black around us," don Juan said, "but if you look out of the corner of your eye, you will still see fleeting shadows jumping all around you."

He was right. I could still see them. Their movement made me dizzy. Don Juan turned on the light, and that seemed to dissipate everything.

Don Juan said, "You have arrived, by your effort alone, to what the shamans of ancient Mexico called the topic of topics.

"I have been beating around the bush all this time, insinuating to you that something is holding us prisoner. Indeed we are held prisoner! This was an energetic fact for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico."

"Why has this predator taken over in the fashion that you're describing, don Juan?" I asked. "There must be a logical explanation."

"There is an explanation," don Juan replied, "which is the simplest explanation in the world.

"They took over because we are food for them, and they squeeze us mercilessly because we are their sustenance.

"Just as we rear chickens in chicken coops, gallineros, the predators rear us in human coops, humaneros. Therefore, their food is always available to them."

I felt that my head was shaking violently from side to side. I could not express my profound sense of unease and discontentment, but my body moved to bring it to the surface. I shook from head to toe without any volition on my part.

I heard myself saying, "No, no, no, no. This is absurd, don Juan. What you're saying is something monstrous. It simply can't be true, for sorcerers, or for average men, or for anyone."

"Why not?" don Juan asked calmly. "Why not? Because it infuriates you?"

"Yes, it infuriates me," I retorted. "Those claims are monstrous!"

"Well," he said, "you haven't heard all the claims yet. Wait a bit longer and see how you feel.

"I'm going to subject you to a blitz. That is, I'm going to subject your mind to tremendous onslaughts; and you cannot get up and leave because you're caught. Not because I'm holding you prisoner, but because something in you will prevent you from leaving while another part of you is going to go truthfully berserk. So brace yourself!"

There was something in me which I felt was a 'glutton for punishment'. He was right. I wouldn't have left the house for the world; and yet I didn't like one bit the inanities he was spouting.

Don Juan said, "I want to appeal to your analytical mind. Think for a moment, and tell me how you would explain the contradiction between the intelligence of man the engineer, and the stupidity of his systems of beliefs; or the stupidity of his contradictory behavior.

"Sorcerers believe that the predators have given us our systems of beliefs; our ideas of good and evil; our social mores. The predators are the ones who set up our hopes and expectations, and dreams of success or failure. They have given us covetousness, greed, and cowardice. It is the predators who make us complacent, routinary, and egomaniacal."

"But how can they do this, don Juan?" I asked, somehow angered further by what he was saying. "Do they whisper all that in our ears while we are asleep?"

"No, they don't do it that way. That's idiotic!" don Juan said, smiling. "They are infinitely more efficient and organized than that.

"In order to keep us obedient, meek and weak, the predators engaged themselves in a stupendous maneuver- stupendous, of course, from the point of view of a fighting strategist; a horrendous maneuver from the point of view of those who suffer it.

"They gave us their mind! Do you hear me? The predators give us their mind which becomes our mind. The predators' mind is baroque, contradictory, morose, and filled with the fear of being discovered any minute now.

"I know that even though you have never suffered hunger," he went on, "you have food anxiety which is none other than the anxiety of the predator who fears that any moment now its maneuver is going to be uncovered, and its food is going to be denied.

"Through the mind, which after all is their mind, the predators inject into the lives of human beings whatever is convenient for them. The predators ensure in this manner a degree of security to act as a buffer against their fear."

"It's not that I can't accept all this at face value, don Juan," I said. "I could, but there's something so odious about it that it actually repels me. It forces me to take a contradictory stand.

"If it's true that they eat us, how do they do it?"

Don Juan had a broad smile on his face. He was as pleased as punch.

He explained that sorcerers see infant human beings as strange, luminous balls of energy covered from the top to the bottom with a glowing coat something like a plastic cover that is adjusted tightly over their cocoon of energy.

He said that that glowing coat of awareness was what the predators consumed, and that when a human being reached adulthood, all that was left of that glowing coat of awareness was a narrow fringe that went from the ground to the top of the toes. That fringe permitted mankind to continue living, but only barely.

As if I were in a dream, I heard don Juan explaining that, to his knowledge, man was the only species that had the glowing coat of awareness outside that luminous cocoon. Therefore, he became easy prey for an awareness of a different order; such as the heavy awareness of the predator.

He then made the most damaging statement he had made so far. He said that this narrow fringe of awareness was the epicenter of self-reflection where man was irremediably caught.

By playing on our self-reflection, which is the only point of awareness left to us, the predators create flares of awareness that they proceed to consume in a ruthless, predatory fashion.

They give us inane problems that force those flares of awareness to rise, and in this manner they keep us alive in order for them to be fed with the energetic flare of our pseudo-concerns.

There must have been something in what don Juan was saying which was so devastating to me that at that point I actually got sick to my stomach.

After a moment's pause long enough for me to recover, I asked don Juan, "But why is it that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico and all sorcerers today, although they see the predators, don't do anything about it?"

"There's nothing that you and I can do about it," don Juan said in a grave, sad voice. "All we can do is discipline ourselves to the point where they will not touch us.

"How can you ask your fellow men to go through those rigors of discipline? They'll laugh and make fun of you; and the more aggressive ones will beat the shit out of you- and not so much because they don't believe it.

"Down in the depths of every human being, there is an ancestral, visceral knowledge about the predators' existence."

My analytical mind swung back and forth like a yo-yo. It left me and came back, and left me and came back again. Whatever don Juan was proposing was preposterous, incredible.

At the same time, it was a most reasonable thing; so simple. It explained every kind of human contradiction I could think of.

But how could one have taken all this seriously? Don Juan was pushing me into the path of an avalanche that would take me down forever.

I felt another wave of a threatening sensation. The wave didn't stem from me, yet it was attached to me. Don Juan was doing something to me, mysteriously positive and terribly negative at the same time. I sensed it as an attempt to cut a thin film that seemed to be glued to me.

His eyes were fixed on mine in an unblinking stare. He moved his eyes away, and began to talk without looking at me anymore.

"Whenever doubts plague you to a dangerous point," he said, "do something pragmatic about it. Turn off the light. Pierce the darkness; find out what you can see."

He got up to turn off the lights. I stopped him.

"No, no, don Juan," I said, "do not turn off the lights. I am doing okay."

What I felt then was a most unusual, for me, fear of the darkness. The mere thought of it made me pant. I definitely knew something viscerally, but I would not dare touch it, or bring it to the surface, not in a million years!

"You saw the fleeting shadows against the trees," don Juan said, sitting back against his chair. "That's pretty good. I'd like you to see them inside this room. You're not seeing anything. You're just merely catching fleeting images. You have enough energy for that."

I feared that don Juan would get up anyway and turn off the lights, which he did. Two seconds later, I was screaming my head off. Not only did I catch a glimpse of those fleeting images, I heard them buzzing by my ears.

Don Juan doubled up with laughter as he turned on the lights.

"What a temperamental fellow!" he said. "A total disbeliever, on the one hand; and a total pragmatist on the other.

"You must arrange this internal fight, otherwise you're going to swell up like a big toad and burst."

Don Juan kept on pushing his barb deeper and deeper into me. "The sorcerers of ancient Mexico," he said, "saw the predator. They called it the flyer because it leaps through the air. It is not a pretty sight. It is a big shadow, impenetrably dark, a black shadow that jumps through the air. Then, it lands flat on the ground.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were quite ill at ease with the idea of when it made its appearance on Earth. They reasoned that man must have been a complete being at one point, with stupendous insights and feats of awareness that are mythological legends nowadays. And then everything seems to disappear, and we have now a sedated man."

I wanted to get angry and call him a paranoiac, but somehow the righteousness that was usually just underneath the surface of my being wasn't there.

Something in me was beyond the point of asking myself my favorite question: What if all that he said is true? At the moment he was talking to me that night, in my heart of hearts, I felt that all of what he was saying was true, but at the same time and with equal force, I felt that all that he was saying was absurdity itself.

"What are you saying, don Juan?" I asked feebly. My throat was constricted. I could hardly breathe.

"What I'm saying is that what we have against us is not a simple predator. It is very smart and organized. It follows a methodical system to render us useless. Man, the magical being that he is destined to be, is no longer magical. He's an average piece of meat. There are no more dreams for man but the dreams of an animal who is being raised to become a piece of meat: trite, conventional, imbecilic."

Don Juan's words were eliciting a strange, bodily reaction in me comparable to the sensation of nausea. It was as if I were going to get sick to my stomach again. But the nausea was coming from the bottom of my being, from the marrow of my bones. I convulsed involuntarily.

Don Juan shook me by the shoulders forcefully. I felt my neck wobbling back and forth under the impact of his grip. The maneuver calmed me down at once. I felt more in control.

"This predator," don Juan said, "which, of course, is an inorganic being, is not altogether invisible to us as other inorganic beings are. I think as children we do see it, but we decide it's so horrific that we don't want to think about it.

"Children, of course, could insist on focusing on the sight, but everybody else around them dissuades them from doing so.

Continuing, he said, "The only alternative left for mankind is discipline. Discipline is the only deterrent.

"But by discipline I don't mean harsh routines. I don't mean waking up every morning at five-thirty and throwing cold water on yourself until you're blue.

"Sorcerers understand discipline as the capacity to face with serenity odds that are not included in our expectations. For sorcerers, discipline is an art; the art of facing infinity without flinching; not because they are strong and tough, but because they are filled with awe."

"In what way would the sorcerers' discipline be a deterrent to the flyers?" I asked.

Don Juan scrutinized my face as if to discover any signs of my disbelief. He said, "Sorcerers say that discipline makes the glowing coat of awareness unpalatable to the flyer.

"The result is that the predators become bewildered. An inedible glowing coat of awareness is not part of their cognition, I suppose. After being bewildered, they do not have any recourse other than refraining from continuing their nefarious task.

He continued, saying, "If the predators don't eat our glowing coat of awareness for a while, it will keep on growing. Simplifying this matter to the extreme, I can say that sorcerers, by means of their discipline, push the predators away long enough to allow their glowing coat of awareness to grow beyond the level of the toes. Once it goes beyond the level of the toes, it grows back to its natural size.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico used to say that the glowing coat of awareness is like a tree. If it is not pruned, it grows to its natural size and volume. As awareness reaches levels higher than the toes, tremendous maneuvers of perception become a matter of course.

"The grand trick of those sorcerers of ancient times," don Juan continued, "was to burden the flyers' mind with discipline.

"Sorcerers found out that if they taxed the flyers' mind with inner silence, the foreign installation would flee, and give any one of the practitioners involved in this maneuver the total certainty of the mind's foreign origin.

"The foreign installation comes back, I assure you, but not as strong; and a process begins in which the fleeing of the flyers' mind becomes routine until one day it flees permanently.

"That's the day when you have to rely on your own devices which are nearly zero. A sad day indeed! There's no one to tell you what to do. There's no mind of foreign origin to dictate the imbecilities you're accustomed to.

"My teacher, the nagual Julian, used to warn all his disciples," don Juan continued, "that this was the toughest day in a sorcerer's life for the real mind that belongs to us.

"The sum total of our experience after a lifetime of domination has been rendered shy, insecure, and shifty.

"Personally, I would say that the real battle of sorcerers begins at that moment. The rest is merely preparation."

I became genuinely agitated. I wanted to know more, and yet a strange feeling in me clamored for me to stop. It alluded to dark results and punishment, something like the wrath of God descending on me for tampering with something veiled by God himself. I made a supreme effort to allow my curiosity to win.

I heard myself say, "What-what-what do you mean, by taxing the flyers' mind?"

"Discipline taxes the foreign mind no end," he replied. "So, through their discipline, sorcerers vanquish the foreign installation."

I was overwhelmed by his statements. I believed that don Juan was either certifiably insane or that he was telling me something so awesome that it froze everything in me.

I noticed, however how quickly I rallied my energy to deny everything he had said. After an instant of panic, I began to laugh, as if don Juan had told me a joke. I even heard myself saying, "Don Juan, don Juan, you are incorrigible!"

Don Juan seemed to understand everything I was experiencing. He shook his head from side to side, and raised his eyes to the heavens in a gesture of mock despair.

He said, "I am so incorrigible, that I am going to give the flyers' mind which you carry inside you one more jolt. I am going to reveal to you one of the most extraordinary secrets of sorcery. I am going to describe to you a finding that took sorcerers thousands of years to verify and consolidate."

He looked at me, smiled maliciously, and said, "The flyers' mind flees forever when a sorcerer succeeds in grabbing on to the vibrating force that holds us together as a conglomerate of energy fields. If a sorcerer maintains that pressure long enough, the flyers' mind flees in defeat. And that's exactly what you are going to do; hold on to the energy that binds you together."

I had the most inexplicable reaction I could have imagined. Something in me actually shook, as if it had received a jolt. I entered into a state of unwarranted fear, which I immediately associated with my religious background.

Don Juan looked at me from head to toe.

"You are fearing the wrath of God, aren't you?" he said. "Rest assured, that's not your fear. It's the flyers' fear, because it knows that you will do exactly as I'm telling you."

His words did not calm me at all. I felt worse. I was actually convulsing involuntarily, and I had no means to stop it.

"Don't worry," don Juan said calmly. "I know for a fact that those attacks wear off very quickly. The flyer's mind has no concentration whatsoever."

After a moment, everything stopped as don Juan had predicted. To say again that I was bewildered is a euphemism.

This was the first time in my life ever, with don Juan or alone, that I didn't know whether I was coming or going.

I wanted to get out of the chair and walk around, but I was deathly afraid. I was filled with rational assertions, and at the same time I was filled with an infantile fear.

I began to breathe deeply as a cold perspiration covered my entire body. I had somehow unleashed on myself a most godawful sight: black, fleeting shadows jumping all around me wherever I turned.

I closed my eyes and rested my head on the arm of the stuffed chair. "I don't know which way to turn, don Juan," I said. "Tonight, you have really succeeded in getting me lost."

Don Juan said, "You're being torn by an internal struggle.

"Down in the depths of you, you know that you are incapable of refusing the agreement that an indispensable part of you, your glowing coat of awareness, is going to serve as an incomprehensible source of nourishment to, naturally, incomprehensible entities.

"And another part of you will stand against this situation with all its might.

"The sorcerers' revolution," he continued, "is that they refuse to honor agreements in which they did not participate.

"Nobody ever asked me if I would consent to being eaten by beings of a different kind of awareness. My parents just brought me into this world to be food, like themselves, and that's the end of the story."

Don Juan stood up from his chair and stretched his arms and legs. "We have been sitting here for hours. It's time to go into the house. I'm going to eat. Do you want to eat with me?"

I declined. My stomach was in an uproar.

"I think you'd better go to sleep," he said. "The blitz has devastated you."

I didn't need any further coaxing. I collapsed onto my bed, and fell asleep like the dead.

At home, as time went by, the idea of the flyers became one of the main fixations of my life. I got to the point where I felt that don Juan was absolutely right about them. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't discard his logic.

The more I thought about it, and the more I talked to and observed myself, and my fellow men, the more intense the conviction that something was rendering us incapable of any activity or any interaction or any thought that didn't have the self as its focal point.

My concern, as well as the concern of everyone I knew or talked to, was the self.

Since I couldn't find any explanation for such universal homogeneity, I believed that don Juan's line of thought was the most appropriate way of elucidating the phenomenon.

I went as deeply as I could into readings about myths and legends. In reading, I experienced something I had never felt before: Each of the books I read was an interpretation of myths and legends. In each one of those books, a homogeneous mind was palpable.

The styles differed, but the drive behind the words was homogeneously the same: Even though the theme was something as abstract as myths and legends, the authors always managed to insert statements about themselves. The homogeneous drive behind every one of those books was not the stated theme of the book. Instead, it was self-service. I had never felt this before.

I attributed my reaction to don Juan's influence. The unavoidable question that I posed to myself was: Is he influencing me to see this, or is there really a foreign mind dictating everything we do?

I lapsed, perforce, into denial again, and I went insanely from denial to acceptance to denial. Something in me knew that whatever don Juan was driving at was an energetic fact; but something equally important in me knew that all of that was guff.

The end result of my internal struggle was a sense of foreboding; the sense of something imminently dangerous coming at me.

I made extensive anthropological inquiries into the subject of the flyers in other cultures, but I couldn't find any references to them anywhere. Don Juan seemed to be the only source of information about this matter.


The next time I saw him, I instantly jumped to talk about the flyers.

I said, "I have tried my best to be rational about this subject matter, but I can't. There are moments when I fully agree with you about the predators."

"Focus your attention on the fleeting shadows that you actually see," don Juan said with a smile.

I told don Juan that those fleeting shadows were going to be the end of my rational life. I saw them everywhere.

Since I had left his house, I was incapable of going to sleep in the dark. To sleep with the lights on did not bother me at all. The moment I turned the lights off, however, everything around me began to jump. I never saw complete figures or shapes. All I saw were fleeting black shadows.

"The flyers' mind has not left you," don Juan said. "It has been seriously injured. It's trying its best to rearrange its relationship with you. But something in you is severed forever. The flyer knows that. The real danger is that the flyers' mind may win by getting you tired and forcing you to quit by playing the contradiction between what it says and what I say.

"You see, the flyers' mind has no competitors," don Juan continued. "When it proposes something, it agrees with its own proposition, and it makes you believe that you've done something of worth.

"The flyers' mind will say to you that whatever Juan Matus is telling you is pure nonsense, and then the same mind will agree with its own proposition, 'Yes, of course, it is nonsense,' you will say. That's the way they overcome us.

"The flyers are an essential part of the universe," he went on, "and they must be taken as what they really are- awesome, monstrous. They are the means by which the universe tests us.

"We are energetic probes created by the universe," he continued as if he were oblivious to my presence, "and it's because we are possessors of energy that has awareness that we are the means by which the universe becomes aware of itself.

"The flyers are the implacable challengers. They cannot be taken as anything else. If we succeed in doing that, the universe allows us to continue."

I wanted don Juan to say more. But he said only, "The blitz ended the last time you were here. There's only so much to be said about the flyers. It's time for another kind of maneuver."


I couldn't sleep that night. I fell into a light sleep in the early hours of the morning until don Juan dragged me out of my bed and took me for a hike in the mountains.

Where he lived, the configuration of the land was very different from that of the Sonoran desert, but he told me not to indulge in comparison; that after walking for a quarter of a mile, every place in the world was just the same.

He said, "Sightseeing is for people in cars. They go at great speed without any effort on their part. Sightseeing is not for walkers.

"For instance, when you are riding in a car, you may see a gigantic mountain whose sight overwhelms you with its beauty. The sight of the same mountain will not overwhelm you in the same manner if you look at it while you're going on foot. It will overwhelm you in a different way, especially if you have to climb it or go around it."

It was very hot that morning. We walked on a dry riverbed. One thing that this valley and the Sonoran desert had in common was their millions of insects. The gnats and flies all around me were like dive-bombers that aimed at my nostrils, eyes, and ears. Don Juan told me not to pay attention to their buzzing.

"Don't try to disperse them with your hand," he uttered in a firm tone. "Intend them away. Set up an energy barrier around you. Be silent, and from your silence the barrier will be constructed. Nobody knows how this is done. It is one of those things that the old sorcerers called energetic facts. Shut off your internal dialogue. That's all it takes.

"I want to propose a weird idea to you," don Juan went on as he kept walking ahead of me.

I had to accelerate my steps to be closer to him so as not to miss anything he said.

"I have to stress," he said, "that this is a weird idea that will find endless resistance in you. I will tell you beforehand that you won't accept it easily. But the fact that it's weird should not be a deterrent. You are a social scientist. Therefore, your mind is always open to inquiry, isn't that so?"

Don Juan was shamelessly making fun of me. I knew it, but it didn't bother me. Perhaps due to the fact that he was walking so fast and I had to make a tremendous effort to keep up with him, his sarcasm just sloughed off me, and instead of making me feisty, it made me laugh.

My undivided attention was focused on what he was saying, and the insects either stopped bothering me because I had intended a barrier of energy around me, or because I was so busy listening to don Juan that I didn't care about their buzzing around me anymore.

"The weird idea," he said slowly, measuring the effect of his words, "is that every human being on this earth seems to have exactly the same reactions, the same thoughts, the same feelings. They seem to respond in more or less the same way to the same stimuli. Those reactions seem to be sort of fogged up by the language they speak, but if we scrape that off, they are exactly the same reactions that besiege every human being on Earth.

"I would like you to become curious about this, as a social scientist, of course, and see if you could formally account for such homogeneity."


Don Juan collected a series of plants. Some of them could hardly be seen. They seemed to be more in the realm of algae, moss. I held his bag open, and we didn't speak anymore. When he had enough plants, he headed back for his house, walking as fast as he could. He said that he wanted to clean and separate those plants, and put them in a proper order before they dried up too much.

I was deeply involved in thinking about the task he had delineated for me. I began by trying to review in my mind if I knew of any articles or papers written on this subject. I thought that I would have to research it, and I decided to begin my research by reading all the works available on 'national character'. I got enthusiastic about the topic, in a haphazard way, and I really wanted to start for home right away because I wanted to take his task to heart; but before we reached his house, don Juan sat down on a high ledge overlooking the valley. He didn't say anything for a while. He was not out of breath. I couldn't conceive of why he had stopped to sit down.

"The task of the day for you," he said abruptly, in a foreboding tone, "is one of the most mysterious things of sorcery, something that goes beyond language; beyond explanations.

"We went for a hike today, and we talked because the mystery of sorcery must be cushioned in the mundane. It must stem from nothing, and go back again to nothing. That's the art of warrior travelers; to go through the eye of a needle unnoticed.

"So, brace yourself by propping your back against this rock wall, as far as possible from the edge. I will be by you, in case you faint or fall down."

"What are you planning to do, don Juan?" I asked, and my alarm was so patent that I noticed it, and lowered my voice.

"I want you to cross your legs, and enter into inner silence," he said. "Let's say that you want to find out what articles you could look for to discredit or substantiate what I have asked you to do in your academic milieu. Enter into inner silence, but don't fall asleep. This is not a journey through the dark sea of awareness. This is seeing from inner silence."

It was rather difficult for me to enter into inner silence without falling asleep. I fought a nearly invincible desire to fall asleep.

I succeeded, and found myself looking at the bottom of the valley from an impenetrable darkness around me. And then, I saw something that chilled me to the marrow of my bones. I saw a gigantic shadow, perhaps fifteen feet across, leaping in the air and then landing with a silent thud. I felt the thud in my bones, but I didn't hear it.

"They are really heavy," don Juan said in my ear. He was holding me by the left arm, as hard as he could.

I saw something that looked like a mud shadow wiggle on the ground, and then take another gigantic leap, perhaps fifty feet long, and land again, with the same ominous silent thud.

I fought not to lose my concentration. I was frightened beyond anything I could rationally use as a description. I kept my eyes fixed on the jumping shadow on the bottom of the valley.

Then I heard a most peculiar buzzing, a mixture of the sound of flapping wings and the buzzing of a radio whose dial has not quite picked up the frequency of a radio station, and the thud that followed was something unforgettable. It shook don Juan and me to the core- a gigantic black mud shadow had just landed by our feet.

"Don't be frightened," don Juan said imperiously. "Keep your inner silence and it will move away."

I was shivering from head to toe. I had the clear knowledge that if I didn't keep my inner silence alive, the mud shadow would cover me up like a blanket and suffocate me.

Without losing the darkness around me, I screamed at the top of my voice. Never had I been so angry, so utterly frustrated. The mud shadow took another leap, clearly to the bottom of the valley. I kept on screaming, shaking my legs. I wanted to shake off whatever might come to eat me. My state of nervousness was so intense that I lost track of time. Perhaps I fainted.


When I came to my senses, I was lying in my bed in don Juan's house. There was a towel, soaked in icy-cold water, wrapped around my forehead. I was burning with fever. One of don Juan's female cohorts rubbed my back, chest, and forehead with rubbing alcohol, but this did not relieve me. The heat I was experiencing came from within myself. It was wrath and impotence that generated it.

Don Juan laughed as if what was happening to me was the funniest thing in the world. Peals of laughter came out of him in an endless barrage.

"I would never have thought that you would take seeing a flyer so much to heart," he said.

He took me by the hand, and led me to the back of his house where he dunked me in a huge tub of water, fully clothed- shoes, watch, everything.

"My watch, my watch!" I screamed.

Don Juan twisted with laughter. "You shouldn't wear a watch when you come to see me," he said. "Now you've fouled up your watch!"

I took off my watch, and put it by the side of the tub. I remembered that it was waterproof and that nothing would happen to it.

Being dunked in the tub helped me enormously. When don Juan pulled me out of the freezing water, I had gained a degree of control.

"That sight is preposterous!" I kept on repeating, unable to say anything else.

The predator don Juan had described was not something benevolent. It was enormously heavy, gross, indifferent. I felt its disregard for us. Doubtless, it had crushed us ages ago, making us, as don Juan had said, weak, vulnerable, and docile.

I took off my wet clothes, covered myself with a poncho, sat in my bed, and veritably wept my head off; but not for myself. I had my wrath, and my unbending intent not to let them eat me.

I wept for my fellow men, especially for my father. I never knew until that instant that I loved him so much.

"He never had a chance," I heard myself repeating, over and over, as if the words were not really mine. My poor father, the most considerate being I knew, so tender, so gentle, so helpless.











































The Active Side of Infinity: Part 4 - Starting on the Definitive Journey.

The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - Starting On The Definitive Journey.

  • The Jump Into The Abyss.
  • The Return Trip.




The Active Side of Infinity: Part 4 - Chapter 19. The Jump into the Abyss.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - Chapter 19. The Jump into the Abyss.

There was only one trail leading to the flat mesa. Once we were on the mesa itself, I realized that it was not as extensive as it had appeared when I had looked at it from a distance. The vegetation on the mesa was not different from the vegetation below: faded green woody shrubs that had the ambiguous appearance of trees.

At first, I didn't see the chasm. It was only when don Juan led me to it that I became aware that the mesa ended in a precipice. It wasn't really a mesa, but merely the flat top of a good-sized mountain. The mountain was round and eroded on its east and south faces. However, on part of its west and north sides, it seemed to have been cut with a knife. From the edge of the precipice, I was able to see the bottom of the ravine, perhaps six hundred feet below. It was covered with the same woody shrubs that grew everywhere.

A whole row of small mountains to the south and to the north of that mountaintop gave the clear impression that they had been part of a gigantic canyon, millions of years old, dug out by a no longer existing river. The edges of that canyon had been erased by erosion. At certain points they had been leveled with the ground. The only portion still intact was the area where I was standing.

"It's solid rock," don Juan said as if he were reading my thoughts. He pointed with his chin toward the bottom of the ravine. "If anything were to fall down from this edge to the bottom, it would get smashed to flakes on the rock, down there."

This was the initial dialogue between don Juan and myself that day on that mountaintop. Prior to going there, he had told me that his time on Earth had come to an end. He was leaving on his definitive journey.

His statements were devastating to me. I truly lost my grip, and entered into a blissful state of fragmentation, perhaps similar to what people experience when they have a mental breakdown. But there was a core fragment of myself that remained cohesive: the me of my childhood. The rest was vagueness, incertitude. I had been fragmented for so long that to become fragmented once again was the only way out of my devastation.

A most peculiar interplay between different levels of my awareness took place afterward. Don Juan, his cohort don Genaro, two of his apprentices, Pablito and Nestor, and I had climbed to that mountaintop. Pablito, Nestor, and I were there to take care of our last task as apprentices: to jump into an abyss, a most mysterious affair which don Juan had explained to me at various levels of awareness, but which has remained an enigma to me to this day.

Don Juan jokingly said that I should get my writing pad and start taking notes about our last moments together. He gently poked me in the ribs and assured me, as he hid his laughter, that it would have been only proper since I had started on the warrior' travelers' path by taking notes.

Don Genaro cut in and said that other warrior travelers before us had stood on that same flat mountaintop before embarking on their journey to the unknown.

Don Juan turned to me and in a soft voice said that soon I would be entering into infinity by the force of my personal power, and that he and don Genaro were there only to bid me farewell. Don Genaro cut in again and said that I was there also to do the same for them.

"Once you have entered into infinity," don Juan said, "you can't depend on us to bring you back. Your decision is needed then. Only you can decide whether or not to return. I must also warn you that few warrior travelers survive this type of encounter with infinity. Infinity is enticing beyond belief. A warrior traveler finds that to return to the world of disorder, compulsion, noise, and pain is a most unappealing affair. You must know that your decision to stay or to return is not a matter of a reasonable choice, but a matter of intending it.

"If you choose not to return," he continued, "you will disappear as if the earth had swallowed you. But if you choose to come back, you must tighten your belt and wait like a true warrior traveler until your task, whatever it might be, is finished; either in success or in defeat."

A very subtle change began to take place in my awareness then. I started to remember faces of people, but I wasn't sure I had met them. Strange feelings of anguish and affection started to mount.

Don Juan's voice was no longer audible. I longed for people I sincerely doubted I had ever met. I was suddenly possessed by the most unbearable love for those persons, whoever they may have been. My feelings for them were beyond words, and yet I couldn't tell who they were. I only sensed their presence, as if I had lived another life before, or as if I were feeling for people in a dream. I sensed that their outside forms shifted: They began by being tall and ended up petite. What was left intact was their essence; the very thing that produced my unbearable longing for them.

Don Juan came to my side and said to me, "The agreement was that you remain in the awareness of the daily world." His voice was harsh and authoritative. "Today you are going to fulfill a concrete task," he went on, "the last link of a long chain; and you must do it in your utmost mood of reason."

I had never heard don Juan talk to me in that tone of voice. He was a different man at that instant, yet he was thoroughly familiar to me. I meekly obeyed him and went back to the awareness of the world of everyday life. I didn't know that I was doing this, however. To me, it appeared, on that day, as if I had acquiesced to don Juan out of fear and respect.

Don Juan spoke to me next in the tone I was accustomed to. What he said was also very familiar. He said that the backbone of a warrior traveler is humbleness and efficiency; acting without expecting anything, and withstanding anything that lies ahead of him.

I went at that point through another shift in my level of awareness. My mind focused on a thought, or a feeling of anguish. I knew then that I had made a pact with some people to die with them, and I couldn't remember who they were. I felt, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was wrong that I should die alone. My anguish became unbearable.

Don Juan spoke to me. "We are alone," he said. "That's our condition, but to die alone is not to die in loneliness."

I took big gulps of air to erase my tension. As I breathed deeply, my mind became clear.

"The great issue with us males is our frailty," he went on. "When our awareness begins to grow, it grows like a column, right on the midpoint of our luminous being, from the ground up. That column has to reach a considerable height before we can rely on it.

"At this time in your life, as a sorcerer, you easily lose your grip on your new awareness. When you do that, you forget everything you have done and seen on the warrior travelers' path because your consciousness shifts back to the awareness of your everyday life.

"I have explained to you that the task of every male sorcerer is to reclaim everything he has done and seen on the warrior travelers' path while he was on new levels of awareness. The problem of every male sorcerer is that he easily forgets because his awareness loses its new level and falls to the ground at the drop of a hat."

"I understand exactly what you're saying, don Juan," I said.

"Perhaps this is the first time I have come to the full realization of why I forget everything, and why I remember everything later. I have always believed that my shifts were due to a personal pathological condition: I know now why these changes take place, yet I can't verbalize what I know."

"Don't worry about verbalizations," don Juan said. "You'll verbalize all you want in due time. Today, you must act on your inner silence; on what you know without knowing. You know to perfection what you have to do, but this knowledge is not quite formulated in your thoughts yet."

On the level of concrete thoughts or sensations, all I had were vague feelings of knowing something that was not part of my mind. I had, then, the clearest sense of having taken a huge step down: Something seemed to have dropped inside me. It was almost a jolt. I knew that I had entered into another level of awareness at that instant.

Don Juan told me then that it is obligatory that a warrior traveler say good-bye to all the people he leaves behind. He must say his good-bye in a loud and clear voice so that his shout and his feelings will remain forever recorded in those mountains.

I hesitated for a long time, not out of bashfulness, but because I didn't know whom to include in my thanks. I had completely internalized the sorcerers' concept that warrior travelers can't owe anything to anyone.

Don Juan had drilled a sorcerers' axiom into me: "Warrior travelers pay elegantly, generously, and with unequaled ease every favor, every service rendered to them. In this manner, they get rid of the burden of being indebted."

I had paid, or I was in the process of paying, everyone who had honored me with their care or concern. I had recapitulated my life to such an extent that I had not left a single stone unturned. I truthfully believed in those days that I didn't owe anything to anyone. I expressed my beliefs and hesitation to don Juan.

Don Juan said that I had indeed recapitulated my life thoroughly, but he added that I was far from being free of indebtedness.

"How about your ghosts?" he went on. "Those you can no longer touch?"

He knew what he was talking about. During my recapitulation, I had recounted to him every incident of my life. Out of the hundreds of incidents that I related to him, he had isolated three as samples of indebtedness that I incurred very early in life, and added to that, my indebtedness to the person who was instrumental in my meeting him. I had thanked my friend profusely, and I had sensations that something out there acknowledged my thanks. The other three had remained stories from my life; stories of people who had given me an inconceivable gift, and whom I had never thanked.


One of these stories had to do with a man I'd known when I was a child. His name was Mr. Leandro Acosta. He was my grandfather's arch-enemy; his true nemesis.

My grandfather had accused this man repeatedly of stealing chickens from his chicken farm. The man wasn't a vagrant, but someone who did not have a steady, definite job. He was a maverick of sorts, a gambler, a master of many trades: handyman, self-styled curer, hunter and provider of plant and insect specimens for local herbalists and curers and any kind of bird or mammal life for taxidermists or pet shops.

People believed that he made tons of money, but that he couldn't keep it or invest it. His detractors and friends alike believed that he could have established the most prosperous business in the area, doing what he knew best- searching for plants and hunting animals- but that he was cursed with a strange disease of the spirit that made him restless; incapable of tending to anything for any length of time.

One day, while I was taking a stroll on the edge of my grandfather's farm, I noticed that someone was watching me from between the thick bushes at the forest's edge. It was Mr. Acosta. He was squatting inside the bushes of the jungle itself. He would have been totally out of sight had it not been for my sharp eight year old eyes.

"No wonder my grandfather thinks that he comes to steal chickens," I thought. I believed that no one else but me could have noticed him: He was utterly concealed by his motionlessness. I had caught the difference between the bushes and his silhouette by feeling rather than sight. I approached him. The fact that people rejected him so viciously, or liked him so passionately, intrigued me no end.

"What are you doing there, Mr. Acosta?" I asked daringly.

"I'm taking a shit while I look at your grandfather's farm," he said, "so you better scram before I get up unless you like the smell of shit."

I moved away a short distance. I wanted to know if he was really doing what he was claiming. He was. He got up. I thought he was going to leave the bush and come onto my grandfather's land and perhaps walk across to the road, but he didn't. He began to walk inward, into the jungle.

"Hey, hey, Mr. Acosta!" I yelled. "Can I come with you?"

I noticed that he had stopped walking. It was again more a feeling than an actual sight because the bush was so thick.

"You can certainly come with me if you can find an entry into the bush," he said.

That wasn't difficult for me. In my hours of idleness, I had marked an entry into the bush with a good-sized rock. I had found out through an endless process of trial and error that there was a crawling space there, which if I followed for three or four yards turned into an actual trail on which I could stand up and walk.

Mr. Acosta came to me and said, "Bravo, kid! You've done it. Yes, come with me if you want to."

That was the beginning of my association with Mr. Leandro Acosta. We went on daily hunting expeditions. Our association became so obvious-- since I was gone from the house from dawn to sunset without anybody ever knowing where I went-- that finally my grandfather admonished me severely.

"You must select your acquaintances," he said, "or you will end up being like them. I will not tolerate this man affecting you in any way imaginable. He could certainly transmit to you his elan, yes. And he could influence your mind to be just like his; useless. I Am telling you, if you do nOt put an end to this, I will. I WIll send the authorities after him on charges of stealing my chickens, because you know damn well that he comes every day and steals them."

I tried to show my grandfather the absurdity of his charges. Mr. Acosta didn't have to steal chickens. He had the vastness of that jungle at his command. He could have drawn from that jungle anything he wanted. But my arguments infuriated my grandfather even more.

I realized then that my grandfather secretly envied Mr. Acosta's freedom, and Mr. Acosta was transformed for me by this realization from a nice hunter into the ultimate expression of what is at the same time both forbidden and desired.

I attempted to curtail my encounters with Mr. Acosta, but the lure was just too overwhelming for me. Then, one day, Mr. Acosta and three of his friends proposed that I do something that Mr. Acosta had never done before: catch a vulture alive, uninjured.

He explained to me that the vultures of the area, which were enormous with a five to six-foot wingspan, had seven different types of flesh in their bodies; and each one of those seven types served a specific curative purpose. He said that the desired state was that the vulture's body not be injured. The vulture had to be killed by tranquilizer, not by violence. It was easy to shoot them, but in that case, the meat lost its curative value.

So the art was to catch them alive, a thing that he had never done. He had figured out, though, that with my help and the help of his three friends he had the problem licked. He assured me that his was a natural conclusion arrived at after hundreds of occasions on which he had observed the behavior of vultures.

"We need a dead donkey in order to perform this feat; something which we have," he declared ebulliently.

He looked at me, waiting for me to ask the question of what would be done with the dead donkey. Since the question was not asked, he proceeded.

"We remove the intestines, and we put some sticks in there to keep the roundness of the belly.

"The leader of the turkey vultures is the king: He is the biggest; the most intelligent," he went on. "No sharper eyes exist. That's what makes him a king. He'll be the one who will spot the dead donkey, and the first who will land on it. He'll land downwind from the donkey to really smell that it is dead. The intestines and soft organs that we are going to draw out of the donkey's belly we'll pile by his rear end, outside. This way, it looks like a wild cat has already eaten some of it.

"Then, lazily, the vulture will come closer to the donkey. He'll take his time. He'll come hopping-flying, and then he will land on the dead donkey's hip and begin to rock the donkey's body. He would turn it over if it were not for the four sticks that we will stake into the ground as part of the armature. He'll stand on the hip for a while: That will be the clue for other vultures to come and land there in the vicinity. Only when he has three or four of his companions down with him will the king vulture begin his work."

"And what is my role in all this, Mr. Acosta?" I asked.

"You hide inside the donkey," he said with a deadpan expression. "Nothing to it. I give you a pair of specially designed leather gloves, and you sit there and wait until the king turkey vulture rips the anus of the dead donkey open with his enormous powerful beak and sticks his head in to begin eating. Then you grab him by the neck with both hands and don't let go.

"My three friends and I will be hiding on horseback in a deep ravine. I'll be watching the operation with binoculars. When I see that you have grabbed the king vulture by the neck, we'll come at full gallop and throw ourselves on top of the vulture and subdue him."

"Can you subdue that vulture, Mr. Acosta?" I asked him. Not that I doubted his skill, I just wanted to be assured.

"Of course I can!" he said with all the confidence in the world. "We're all going to be wearing gloves and leather leggings. The vulture's talons are quite powerful. They could break a shinbone like a twig."

There was no way out for me. I was caught; nailed by an exorbitant excitation. My admiration for Mr. Leandro Acosta knew no limits at that moment. I saw him as a true hunter; resourceful, cunning, knowledgeable.

"Okay, let's do it then!" I said.

"That's my boy!" said Mr. Acosta. "I expected as much from you." He had put a thick blanket behind his saddle, and one of his friends just lifted me up and put me on Mr. Acosta's horse, right behind the saddle, sitting on the blanket.

"Hold on to the saddle," Mr. Acosta said, "and as you hold on to the saddle, hold the blanket, too."

We took off at a leisurely trot. We rode for perhaps an hour until we came to some flat, dry, desolate lands. We stopped by a tent that resembled a vendor's stand in a market. It had a flat roof for shade. Underneath that roof was a dead brown donkey. It didn't seem that old. It looked like an adolescent donkey.

Neither Mr. Acosta nor his friends explained to me whether they had found or killed the dead donkey. I waited for them to tell me, but I wasn't going to ask. While they made the preparations, Mr. Acosta explained that the tent was in place because vultures were on the lookout from huge distances out there, circling very high, out of sight, but certainly capable of seeing everything that was going on.

"Those creatures are creatures of sight alone," Mr. Acosta said. "They have miserable ears, and their noses are not as good as their eyes. We have to plug every hole of the carcass. I don't want you to be peeking out of any hole, because they will see your eye and never come down. They must see nothing."

They put some sticks inside the donkey's belly and crossed them, leaving enough room for me to crawl in. At one moment I finally ventured the question that I was dying to ask.

"Tell me, Mr. Acosta, this donkey surely died of illness, didn't he? Do you think its disease could affect me?"

Mr. Acosta raised his eyes to the sky. "Come on! You cannot be that dumb. Donkey's diseases cannot be transmitted to man. Let's live this adventure and not worry about stupid details. If I were shorter, I'd be inside that donkey's belly myself. Do you know what it is to catch the king of turkey buzzards?"

I believed him. His words were sufficient to set up a cloak of unequaled confidence over me. I wasn't going to get sick and miss the event of events.

The dreaded moment came when Mr. Acosta put me inside the donkey. Then they stretched the skin over the armature and began to sew it closed. They left, nevertheless, a large area open at the bottom, against the ground, for air to circulate in. The horrendous moment for me came when the skin was finally closed over my head like the lid of a coffin. I breathed hard, thinking only about the excitement of grabbing the king of vultures by the neck.

Mr. Acosta gave me last minute instructions. He said that he would let me know by a whistle that resembled a birdcall when the king vulture was flying around and when it had landed, so as to keep me informed and prevent me from fretting or getting impatient. Then I heard them pulling down the tent, followed by their horses galloping away. It was a good thing that they hadn't left a single space open to look out from because that's what I would have done. The temptation to look up and see what was going on was nearly irresistible.

A long time went by in which I didn't think of anything. Then I heard Mr. Acosta's whistling and I presumed the king vulture was circling around. My presumption turned to certainty when I heard the flapping of powerful wings, and then suddenly, the dead donkey's body began to rock as if it were in a windstorm. Then I felt a weight on the donkey's body, and I knew that the king vulture had landed on the donkey and was not moving anymore. I heard the flapping of other wings and the whistling of Mr. Acosta in the distance. Then I braced myself for the inevitable. The body of the donkey began to shake as something started to rip the skin.

Then, suddenly, a huge, ugly head with a red crest, an enormous beak, and a piercing, open eye burst in. I yelled with fright and grabbed the neck with both hands. I think I stunned the king vulture for an instant because he didn't do anything, which gave me the opportunity to grab his neck even harder, and then all hell broke loose.

He ceased to be stunned and began to pull with such force that I was smashed against the structure, and in the next instant I was partially out of the donkey's body, armature and all, holding on to the neck of the invading beast for dear life.

I heard Mr. Acosta's galloping horse in the distance. I heard him yelling, "Let go, boy, let go, he's going to fly away with you!"

The king vulture indeed was going to either fly away with me holding on to his neck or rip me apart with the force of his talons. The reason he couldn't reach me was because his head was sunk halfway into the viscera and the armature. His talons kept slipping on the loose intestines and they never actually touched me. Another thing that saved me was that the force of the vulture was involved in pulling his neck out from my clasp and he could not move his talons far forward enough to really injure me. The next thing I knew, Mr. Acosta had landed on top of the vulture at the precise moment that my leather gloves came off my hands.

Mr. Acosta was beside himself with joy. "We've done it, boy, we've done it!" he said. "The next time, we will have longer stakes on the ground that the vulture cannot yank out, and you will be strapped to the structure."

My relationship with Mr. Acosta had lasted long enough for us to catch a vulture. Then my interest in following him disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared and I never really had the opportunity to thank him for all the things that he had taught me.


Don Juan said that he had taught me the patience of a hunter at the best time to learn it; and above all, he had taught me to draw from solitariness all the comfort that a hunter needs.

"You cannot confuse solitude with solitariness," don Juan explained to me once. "Solitude for me is psychological, of the mind. Solitariness is physical. One is debilitating, the other comforting."

For all this, don Juan had said, I was indebted to Mr. Acosta forever whether or not I understood indebtedness the way warrior travelers understand it.


The second person don Juan thought I was indebted to was a ten year old child I'd known growing up. His name was Armando Velez. Just like his name, he was extremely dignified, and starchy; a little old man. I liked him very much because he was firm and yet very friendly. He was someone who could not easily be intimidated. He would fight anyone if he needed to, and yet he was not a bully at all.

The two of us used to go on fishing expeditions. We used to catch very small fish that lived under rocks and had to be gathered by hand. We would put the tiny fish we caught to dry in the sun and eat them raw, all day sometimes.

I also liked the fact that he was very resourceful and clever as well as being ambidextrous. He could throw a rock with his left hand farther than with his right. We had endless competitive games in which, to my ultimate chagrin, he always won. He used to sort of apologize to me for winning by saying, "If I slow down and let you win, you'll hate me. It'll be an affront to your manhood. So try harder."

Because of his excessively starchy behavior, we used to call him 'Senor Velez', but the 'Senor' was shortened to 'Sho', a custom typical of the region in South America where I come from.

One day, Sho Velez asked me something quite unusual. He began his request, naturally, as a challenge to me. "I bet anything," he said, "that I know something that you wouldn't dare do."

"What are you talking about, Sho Velez?"

"You wouldn't dare go down a river in a raft."

"Oh yes I would. I've done it in a flooded river. I got stranded on an island for eight days once. They had to drift food to me."

This was the truth. My other best friend was a child nicknamed Crazy Shepherd. We got stranded in a flood on an island once; with no way for anyone to rescue us. Townspeople expected the flood to overrun the island and kill us both. They drifted baskets of food down the river in the hope that they would land on the island, which they did. They kept us alive in this fashion until the water had subsided enough for them to reach us with a raft and pull us to the banks of the river.

"No, this is a different affair," Sho Velez continued with his erudite attitude. "This one implies going on a raft on a subterranean river."

He pointed out that a huge section of a local river went through a mountain. That subterranean section of the river had always been a most intriguing place for me. Its entrance into the mountain was a foreboding cave of considerable size, always filled with bats and smelling of ammonia. Children of the area were told that it was the entrance to hell: sulfur fumes, heat, stench.

"You bet your friggin' boots, Sho Velez, that I will never go near that river in my lifetime!" I said, yelling. "Not in ten lifetimes! You have to be really crazy to do something like that."

Sho Velez's serious face got even more solemn. "Oh," he said, "then I will have to do it all by myself. I thought for a minute that I could goad you into going with me. I was wrong. My loss."

"Hey, Sho Velez, what's with you? Why in the world would you go into that hellish place?"

"I have to," he said in his gruff little voice. "You see, my father is as crazy as you are, except that he is a father and a husband. He has six people who depend on him. Otherwise, he would be as crazy as a goat. My two sisters, my two brothers, my mother and I depend on him. He is everything to us."

I didn't know who Sho Velez's father was. I had never seen him. I didn't know what he did for a living. Sho Velez revealed that his father was a businessman, and that everything that he owned was on the line, so to speak.

"My father has constructed a raft and wants to go. He wants to make that expedition. My mother says that he's just letting off steam, but I don't trust him," Sho Velez continued. "I have seen your crazy look in his eyes. One of these days, he'll do it, and I am sure that he'll die. So, I am going to take his raft and go into that river myself. I know that I will die, but my father won't."

I felt something like an electric shock go through my neck, and I heard myself saying in the most agitated tone one can imagine, "I'll do it, Sho Velez, I'll do it. Yes, yes, it'll be great! I'll go with you!"

Sho Velez had a smirk on his face. I understood it as a smirk of happiness at the fact that I was going with him, not at the fact that he had succeeded in luring me. He expressed that feeling in his next sentence. "I know that if you are with me, I will survive," he said.

I didn't care whether Sho Velez survived or not. What had galvanized me was his courage. I knew that Sho Velez had the guts to do what he was saying. He and Crazy Shepherd were the only gutsy kids in town. They both had something that I considered unique and unheard of: courage. No one else in that whole town had any. I had tested them all. As far as I was concerned, every one of them was dead, including the love of my life, my grandfather. I knew this without the shadow of a doubt when I was ten. Sho Velez's daring was a staggering realization for me. I wanted to be with him to the bitter end.

We made plans to meet at the crack of dawn, which we did, and the two of us carried his father's lightweight raft for three or four miles out of town, into some low, green mountains to the entrance of the cave where the river became subterranean. The smell of bat manure was overwhelming. We crawled on the raft and pushed ourselves into the stream. The raft was equipped with flashlights, which we had to turn on immediately. It was pitch black inside the mountain and humid and hot. The water was deep enough for the raft and fast enough that we didn't need to paddle.

The flashlights would create grotesque shadows. Sho Velez whispered in my ear that perhaps it was better not to look at all, because it was truly something more than frightening. He was right; it was nauseating, oppressive. The lights stirred bats so that they began to fly around us, flapping their wings aimlessly. As we traveled deeper into the cave, there were not even bats anymore, just stagnant air that was heavy and hard to breathe. After what seemed like hours to me, we came to a sort of pool where the water was very deep: It hardly moved. It looked as if the main stream had been dammed.

"We are stuck," Sho Velez whispered in my ear again. "There's no way for the raft to go through, and there's no way for us to go back."

The current was just too great for us to even attempt a return trip. We decided that we had to find a way out. I realized then that if we stood on top of the raft, we could touch the ceiling of the cave, which meant that the water had been dammed almost all the way to the top of the cave. At the entrance it was cathedral-like, maybe fifty feet high. My only conclusion was that we were on top of a pool that was about fifty feet deep.

We tied the raft to a rock and began to swim downward into the depths, trying to feel for a movement of water, a current. Everything was humid and hot on the surface but very cold a few feet below. My body felt the change in temperature and I became frightened; a strange animal fear that I had never felt before. I surfaced. Sho Velez must have felt the same. We bumped into each other on the surface.

"I think we're close to dying," he said solemnly.

I didn't share his solemnity or his desire to die. I searched frantically for an opening. Floodwaters must have carried rocks that had created a dam. I found a hole big enough for my ten-year-old body to go through. I pulled Sho Velez down and showed the hole to him. It was impossible for the raft to go through it. We pulled our clothes from the raft and tied them into a very tight bundle and swam downward with them until we found the hole again and went through it.

We ended up on a water slide, like the ones in an amusement park. Rocks covered with lichen and moss allowed us to slide for a great distance without being injured at all. Then we came into an enormous cathedral-like cave, where the water continued flowing, waist deep. We saw the light of the sky at the end of the cave and waded out. Without saying a word, we spread out our clothes and let them dry in the sun, then headed back for town. Sho Velez was nearly inconsolable because he had lost his father's raft.

"My father would have died there," he finally conceded. "His body would never have gone through the hole we went through. He's too big for it. My father is a big, fat man," he said. "But he would have been strong enough to walk his way back to the entrance."

I doubted it. As I remembered, at times, due to the inclination, the current was astoundingly fast. I conceded that perhaps a desperate, big man could have finally walked his way out with the aid of ropes and a lot of effort.

The issue of whether Sho Velez's father would have died there or not was not resolved then, but that didn't matter to me. What mattered was that for the first time in my life I had felt the sting of envy. Sho Velez was the only being I have ever envied in my life. He had someone to die for, and he had proved to me that he would do it: I had no one to die for, and I had proved nothing at all.

In a symbolic fashion, I gave Sho Velez the total cake. His triumph was complete. I bowed out. That was his town, those were his people, and he was the best among them as far as I was concerned. When we parted that day, I spoke a banality that turned out to be a deep truth when I said, "Be the king of them, Sho Velez. You are the best."

I never spoke to him again. I purposely ended my friendship with him. I felt that this was the only gesture I could make to denote how profoundly I had been affected by him.


Don Juan believed that my indebtedness to Sho Velez was imperishable, that he was the only one who had ever taught me that we must have something we could die for before we could think that we have something to live for.

"If you have nothing to die for," don Juan said to me once, "how can you claim that you have something to live for? The two go hand in hand, with death at the helm."

The third person don Juan thought I was indebted to beyond my life and my death was my grandmother on my mother's side. In my blind affection for my grandfather- the male- I had forgotten the real source of strength in that household: my very eccentric grandmother.

Many years before I came to their household, she had saved a local Indian from being lynched. He had been accused of being a sorcerer. Some irate young men were actually hanging him from a tree on my grandmother's property. She came upon the lynching and stopped it. All the lynchers seemed to have been her godsons and they wouldn't dare go against her. She pulled the man down and took him home to cure him. The rope had already cut a deep wound on his neck.

His wounds healed, but he never left my grandmother's side. He claimed that his life had ended the day of the lynching, and that whatever new life he had no longer belonged to him: It belonged to her. Being a man of his word, he dedicated his life to serving my grandmother. He was her valet, 'major-domo', and counselor.

My aunts said that it was he who had advised my grandmother to adopt a newborn orphan child as her son, something that they resented more than bitterly. When I came into my grandparents' house, my grandmother's adopted son was already in his late thirties; and she had sent him to study in France.

One afternoon, out of the blue, a most elegantly dressed husky man got out of a taxi in front of the house. The driver carried his leather suitcases to the patio. The husky man tipped the driver generously.

I noticed in one glance that the husky man's features were very striking. He had long, curly hair, long, curly eyelashes. He was extremely handsome without being physically beautiful. His best feature was, however, his beaming, open smile, which he immediately turned on me.

"May I ask your name, young man?" he said with the most beautiful stage voice I had ever heard.

The fact that he had addressed me as young man had won me over instantly. "My name is Carlos Aranha, sir," I said, "and may I ask in turn, what is yours?"

He made a gesture of mock surprise. He opened his eyes wide and jumped backward as if he had been attacked. Then he began to laugh uproariously.

At the sound of his laughter, my grandmother came out to the patio. When she saw the husky man, she screamed like a small girl and threw her arms around him in a most affectionate embrace. He lifted her up as if she weighed nothing and twirled her around. I noticed then that he was very tall. His huskiness hid his height. He actually had the body of a professional fighter. He seemed to notice that I was eyeing him. He flexed his biceps.

"I've done some boxing in my day, sir," he said, thoroughly aware of what I was thinking.

My grandmother introduced him to me. She said that he was her son Antoine; her baby; the apple of her eye. She said that he was a dramatist; a theater director; a writer; a poet.

The fact that he was so athletic was his winning ticket with me.

I didn't understand at first that he was adopted. I noticed, however, that he didn't look at all like the rest of the family. While every one of the members of my family were corpses that walked, he was alive; vital from the inside out. We hit it off marvelously. I liked the fact that he worked out every day, punching a bag. I liked immensely that, not only did he punch the bag, he kicked it, too, in the most astounding style; a mixture of boxing and kicking. His body was as hard as a rock.

One day Antoine confessed to me that his only fervent desire in life was to be a writer of note.

"I have everything," he said. "Life has been very generous to me. The only thing I don't have is the only thing I want: talent. The muses do not like me. I appreciate what I read, but I cannot create anything that I like to read. That's my torment; I lack the discipline or the charm to entice the muses, so my life is as empty as anything can be."

Antoine went on to tell me that the one reality that he had was his mother. He called my grandmother his bastion, his support, his twin soul. He ended up by voicing a very disturbing thought to me.

He said, "If I did not have my mother, I would not live."

I realized then how profoundly tied he was to my grandmother. All the horror stories that my aunts had told me about the spoiled child Antoine became suddenly very vivid for me. My grandmother had really spoiled him beyond salvation.

Yet they seemed so very happy together. I saw them sitting for hours on end; his head on her lap as if he were still a child. I had never heard my grandmother converse with anybody for such lengths of time.

Abruptly, one day Antoine started to produce a lot of writing. He began to direct a play at the local theater, a play that he had written himself. When it was staged, it became an instant success. His poems were published in the local paper. He seemed to have hit a creative streak.

But only a few months later it all came to an end. The editor of the town's paper publicly denounced Antoine: He accused him of plagiarism and published in the paper the proof of Antoine's guilt.

My grandmother, of course, would not hear of her son's misbehavior. She explained it all as a case of profound envy. Every one of those people in that town was envious of the elegance; the style of her son. They were envious of his personality; of his wit. Indeed, he was the personification of elegance and savoir faire.

But he was a plagiarist for sure. There was no doubt about it.

Antoine never explained his behavior to anyone. I liked him too much to ask him anything about it. Besides, I didn't care. His reasons were his reasons, as far as I was concerned.

But something was broken: From then on, our lives moved in leaps and bounds, so to speak. Things changed so drastically in the house from one day to the next that I grew accustomed to expect anything; the best or the worst.

One night my grandmother walked into Antoine's room in a most dramatic fashion. There was a look of hardness in her eyes that I had never seen before. Her lips trembled as she spoke.

"Something terrible has happened, Antoine," she began.

Antoine interrupted her. He begged her to let him explain.

She cut him off abruptly. "No, Antoine, no," she said firmly. "This has nothing to do with you. It has to do with me. At this very difficult time for you, something of greater importance yet has happened. Antoine, my dear son, I have run out of time.

"I want you to understand that this is inevitable," she went on. "I have to leave, but you must remain. You are the sum total of everything that I have done in this life. Good or bad, Antoine, you are all I am. Give life a try. In the end, we will be together again anyway. Meanwhile, however, 'do', Antoine: Do. Whatever, it doesn't matter what, as long as you do."

I saw Antoine's body as it shivered with anguish. I saw how he contracted his total being; all the muscles of his body; all his strength. It was as if he had shifted gears from his problem, which was like a river, to the ocean.

"Promise me that you won't die until you die!" she shouted at him.

Antoine nodded his head.

My grandmother, the next day, on the advice of her Indian sorcerer counselor, sold all her holdings, which were quite sizable, and turned the money over to her son Antoine. And the following day, very early in the morning, the strangest scene that I had ever witnessed took place in front of my ten year old eyes; the moment in which Antoine said good-bye to his mother. It was a scene as unreal as the set of a moving picture; unreal in the sense that it seemed to have been concocted; written down somewhere; created by a series of adjustments that a writer makes and a director carries out.

The patio of my grandparents' house was the setting. Antoine was the main protagonist; his mother the leading actress. Antoine was traveling that day. He was going to the port. He was going to catch an Italian liner and go over the Atlantic to Europe on a leisurely cruise. He was as elegantly dressed as ever. A taxi driver was waiting for him outside the house, blowing the horn of his taxi impatiently.


I had witnessed Antoine's last feverish night when he tried as desperately as anyone can try to write a poem for his mother.

"It is crap," he said to me. "Everything that I write is crap. I'm a nobody."

I assured him, even though I was nobody to assure him, that whatever he was writing was great. At one moment, I got carried away and stepped over certain boundaries I should never have crossed.

"Take it from me, Antoine," I yelled. "I am a worse nobody than you! You have a mother. I have nothing. Whatever you are writing is fine."

Very politely, he asked me to leave his room. I had succeeded in making him feel stupid; having to listen to advice from a nobody kid. I bitterly regretted my outburst. I would have liked him to keep on being my friend.


Antoine had his elegant overcoat neatly folded, draped over his right shoulder. He was wearing a most beautiful green suit of English cashmere.

My grandmother spoke. "You have to hurry up, dear," she said. "Time is of the essence. You have to leave. If you don't, these people will kill you for the money."

She was referring to her daughters, and their husbands, who were beyond fury when they found out that their mother had quietly disinherited them; and that the hideous Antoine, their arch-enemy, was going to get away with everything that was rightfully theirs.

"I'm sorry I have to put you through all this," my grandmother apologized. "But, as you know, time is independent of our wishes."

Antoine spoke with his grave, beautifully modulated voice. He sounded more than ever like a stage actor. "It'll take but a minute, Mother," he said. "I'd like to read something that I have written for you."

It was a poem of thanks. When he had finished reading, he paused. There was such a wealth of feeling in the air; such a tremor.

"It was sheer beauty, Antoine," my grandmother said, sighing. "It expressed everything that you wanted to say. Everything that I wanted to hear." She paused for an instant. Then her lips broke into an exquisite smile.

"Plagiarized, Antoine?" she asked.

Antoine's smile in response to his mother was equally beaming. "Of course, Mother," he said. "Of course."

They embraced, weeping. The horn of the taxi sounded more impatient yet. Antoine looked at me where I was hiding under the stairway. He nodded his head slightly, as if to say, "Good-bye. Take care."

Then he turned around, and without looking at his mother again, he ran toward the door. He was thirty-seven years old, but he looked like he was sixty, he seemed to carry such a gigantic weight on his shoulders. He stopped before he reached the door, when he heard his mother's voice admonishing him for the last time.

"Don't turn around to look, Antoine," she said. "Don't turn around to look, ever. Be happy, and do. Do! There is the trick. Do!"

The scene filled me with a strange sadness that lasts to this day; a most inexplicable melancholy that don Juan explained as my first-time knowledge that we do run out of time.

The next day my grandmother left with her 'counselor/ manservant/ valet' on a journey to a mythical place called Rondonia, where her sorcerer-helper was going to elicit her cure. My grandmother was terminally ill, although I didn't know it.

She never returned, and don Juan explained the selling of her holdings and giving them to Antoine as a supreme sorcerers' maneuver executed by her counselor to detach her from the care of her family. They were so angry with Mother for her deed that they didn't care whether or not she returned. I had the feeling that they didn't even realize that she had left.


On the top of that flat mountain, I recollected those three events as if they had happened only an instant before. When I expressed my thanks to those three persons, I succeeded in bringing them back to that mountaintop. At the end of my shouting, my loneliness was something inexpressible. I was weeping uncontrollably.

Don Juan very patiently explained to me that loneliness is inadmissible in a warrior. He said that warrior travelers can count on one being on which they can focus all their love; all their care: this marvelous Earth, the mother, the matrix, the epicenter of everything we are and everything we do; the very being to which all of us return; the very being that allows warrior travelers to leave on their definitive journey.

Don Genaro proceeded to perform then an act of magical intent for my benefit. Lying on his stomach, he executed a series of dazzling movements. He became a blob of luminosity that seemed to be swimming as if the ground were a pool.

Don Juan said that it was Genaro's way of hugging the immense earth, and that in spite of the difference in size, the earth acknowledged Genaro's gesture. The sight of Genaro's movements, and the explanation of them replaced my loneliness with sublime joy.

"I can't stand the idea that you are leaving, don Juan," I heard myself saying. The sound of my voice and what I had said made me feel embarrassed. When I began to sob, involuntarily, driven by self-pity, I felt even more chagrined. "What is the matter with me, don Juan?" I muttered. "I'm not ordinarily like this."

"What's happening to you is that your awareness is on your toes again," he replied, laughing.

Then I lost any vestige of control and gave myself fully to my feelings of dejection and despair.

"I'm going to be left alone," I said in a shrieking voice. "What's going to happen to me? What's going to become of me?"

"Let's put it this way," don Juan said calmly. "In order for me to leave this world and face the unknown, I need all my strength, all my forbearance, all my luck; but above all, I need every bit of a warrior traveler's guts of steel. To remain behind and fare like a warrior traveler, you need everything of what I myself need. To venture out there, the way we are going to, is no joking matter; but neither is it to stay behind."

I had an emotional outburst, and kissed his hand.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he said. "Next thing you're going to make a shrine for my guaraches!"

The anguish that gripped me turned from self-pity to a feeling of unequaled loss. "You are leaving!" I muttered. "My god! Leaving forever!"

At that moment don Juan did something to me that he had done repeatedly since the first day I had met him. His face puffed up as if the deep breath he was taking inflated him. He tapped my back forcefully with the palm of his left hand and said, "Get up from your toes! Lift yourself up!"

In the next instant, I was once again coherent, complete, in control. I knew what was expected of me. There was no longer any hesitation on my part, or any concern about myself. I didn't care what was going to happen to me when don Juan left. I knew that his departure was imminent. He looked at me, and in that look his eyes said it all.

"We will never be together again," he said softly. "You don't need my help anymore; and I don't want to offer it to you because if you are worth your salt as a warrior traveler, you'll spit in my eye for offering it to you.

"Beyond a certain point, the only joy of a warrior traveler is his aloneness. I wouldn't like you to try to help me either. Once I leave, I am gone. Don't think about me, for I won't think about you. If you are a worthy warrior traveler, be impeccable! Take care of your world. Honor it: Guard it with your life!"

He moved away from me. The moment was beyond self-pity or tears or happiness. He shook his head as if to say good-bye, or as if he were acknowledging what I felt.

"Forget the self and you will fear nothing in whatever level of awareness you find yourself to be," he said.

He had an outburst of levity. He teased me for the last time on this Earth.

"I hope you find love!" he said.

He raised his palm toward me and stretched his fingers like a child, then contracted them against the palm.

"Ciao," he said

I knew that it was futile to feel sorry or to regret anything; and that it was as difficult for me to stay behind as it was for don Juan to leave. Both of us were caught in an irreversible energetic maneuver that neither of us could stop.

Nevertheless, I wanted to join don Juan, follow him wherever he went. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps if I died, he would take me with him.

I saw then how don Juan Matus, the nagual, led the fifteen other seers who were his companions- his wards, his delight- one by one to disappear in the haze of that mesa toward the north.

I saw how every one of them turned into a blob of luminosity, and together they ascended and floated above the mountaintop like phantom lights in the sky. They circled above the mountain once, as don Juan had said they would do: their last survey; the one for their eyes only; their last look at this marvelous Earth. And then they vanished.

I knew what I had to do. I had run out of time. I took off at my top speed toward the precipice and leaped into the abyss. I felt the wind on my face for a moment, and then the most merciful blackness swallowed me like a peaceful subterranean river.





The Active Side of Infinity: Part 4 - Chapter 20. The Return Trip.

Version 2006.05.21


The Active Side Of Infinity © 1999 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - Chapter 20. The Return Trip.

I was vaguely aware of the loud noise of a motor that seemed to be racing in a stationary position. I thought that the attendants were fixing a car in the parking lot at the back of the building where I had my office/apartment. The noise became so intense that it finally caused me to wake up.

I silently cursed the boys who ran the parking lot for fixing their car right under my bedroom window. I was hot, sweaty, and tired. I sat up on the edge of my bed, then had the most painful cramps in my calves. I rubbed them for a moment. They seemed to have contracted so tightly that I was afraid that I would have horrendous bruises.

I automatically headed for the bathroom to look for some liniment. I couldn't walk. I was dizzy. I fell down; something that had never happened to me before. When I had regained a minimum of control, I noticed that I wasn't worried at all about the cramps in my calves. I had always been a near hypochondriac. An unusual pain in my calves such as the one I was having now would ordinarily have thrown me into a chaotic state of anxiety.

I went then to the window to close it, although I couldn't hear the noise anymore. I realized that the window was locked and that it was dark outside. It was night! The room was stuffy.

I opened the windows. I couldn't understand why I had closed them. The night air was cool and fresh. The parking lot was empty. It occurred to me that the noise must have been made by a car accelerating in the alley between the parking lot and my building. I thought nothing of it anymore, and went to my bed to go back to sleep, I lay across it with my feet on the floor. I wanted to sleep in this fashion to help the circulation in my calves, which were very sore, but I wasn't sure whether it would have been better to keep them down, or perhaps lift them up on a pillow.

As I was beginning to rest comfortably and fall asleep again, a thought came to my mind with such ferocious force that it made me stand up in one single reflex. I had jumped into an abyss in Mexico! The next thought that I had was a quasi-logical deduction: Since I had jumped into the abyss deliberately in order to die, I must now be a ghost.

How strange, I thought, that I should return, in ghostlike form, to my office/apartment on the corner of Westwood and Wilshire in Los Angeles after I had died. No wonder my feelings were not the same. But if I were a ghost, I reasoned, why would I have felt the blast of fresh air on my face, or the pain in my calves?

I touched the sheets of my bed: They felt real to me. So did its metal frame. I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror.

By the looks of me, I could easily have been a ghost. I looked like hell. My eyes were sunken, with huge black circles under them. I was dehydrated, or dead. In an automatic reaction, I drank water straight from the tap. I could actually swallow it. I drank gulp after gulp, as if I hadn't drunk water for days.

I felt my deep inhalations. I was alive! By god, I was alive! I knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt, but I wasn't elated, as I should have been.

A most unusual thought crossed my mind then: I had died and revived before. I was accustomed to it: It meant nothing to me. The vividness of the thought, however, made it into a quasi-memory. It was a quasi-memory that didn't stem from situations in which my life had been endangered. It was something quite different from that.

It was, rather, a vague knowledge of something that could never have happened, and had no reason whatsoever to be in my thoughts.

And yet, there was no doubt in my mind that I had jumped into an abyss in Mexico. I was now in my apartment in Los Angeles, over three thousand miles from where I had jumped, with no recollection whatsoever of having made the return trip.

In an automatic fashion, I ran the water in the tub and sat in it. I didn't feel the warmth of the water: I was chilled to the bone. Don Juan had taught me that at moments of crisis, such as this one, one must use running water as a cleansing factor. I remembered this and got under the shower. I let the warm water run over my body for perhaps over an hour.

I wanted to think calmly and rationally about what was happening to me but I couldn't. Thoughts seemed to have been erased from my mind. I was thoughtless yet I was filled to capacity with sensations that came to my whole body in barrages that I was incapable of examining. All I was able to do was to feel their onslaughts and let them go through me.

The only conscious choice I made was to get dressed and leave. I went to eat breakfast; something I always did at any time of the day or night, at Ship's Restaurant on Wilshire, a block away from my office/apartment.

I had walked from my office to Ship's so many times that I knew every step of the way. The same walk this time was a novelty for me. I didn't feel my steps. It was as if I had a cushion under my feet, or as if the sidewalk were carpeted. I practically glided.

I was suddenly at the door of the restaurant after what I thought might have been only two or three steps. I knew that I could swallow food because I had drunk water in my apartment. I also knew that I could talk because I had cleared my throat and cursed while the water ran on me. I walked into the restaurant as I had always done. I sat at the counter and a waitress who knew me came to me.

"You don't look too good today, dear," she said. "Do you have the flu?"

"No," I replied, trying to sound cheerful. "I've been working too hard. I've been up for twenty-four hours straight writing a paper for a class. By the way, what day is today?"

She looked at her watch and gave me the date, explaining that she had a special watch that was a calendar, too, a gift from her daughter. She also gave me the time: 3:15 A.M.

I ordered steak and eggs, hash browned potatoes, and buttered white toast. When she went away to fill my order, another wave of horror flooded my mind: Had it been only an illusion that I had jumped into that abyss in Mexico, at twilight the previous day? But even if the jump had been only an illusion, how could I have returned to L.A. from such a remote place only ten hours later? Had I slept for ten hours? Or was it that it had taken ten hours for me to fly, slide, float, or whatever to Los Angeles? To have traveled by conventional means to Los Angeles from the place where I had jumped into the abyss was out of the question, since it would have taken two days just to travel to Mexico City from the place where I had jumped.

Another strange thought emerged in my mind. It had the same clarity of my quasi-memory of having died and revived before; and the same quality of being totally foreign to me: My continuity was now broken beyond repair.

I had really died, one way or another, at the bottom of that gully. It was impossible to comprehend my being alive; having breakfast at Ship's. It was impossible for me to look back into my past and see the uninterrupted line of continuous events that all of us see when we look into the past.

The only explanation available to me was that I had followed don Juan's directives; I had moved my assemblage point to a position that prevented my death, and from my inner silence I had made the return journey to L.A. There was no other rationale for me to hold on to.

For the first time ever, this line of thought was thoroughly acceptable to me, and thoroughly satisfactory. It didn't really explain anything, but it certainly pointed out a pragmatic procedure that I had tested before in a mild form when I met don Juan in that town of our choice; and this thought seemed to put all my being at ease.

Vivid thoughts began to emerge in my mind. They had the unique quality of clarifying issues. The first one that erupted had to do with something that had plagued me all along. Don Juan had described it as a common occurrence among male sorcerers: my incapacity to remember events that had transpired while I was in states of heightened awareness.

Don Juan had explained heightened awareness as a minute displacement of my assemblage point, which he achieved, every time I saw him, by actually pushing forcefully on my back. He helped me, with such displacements, to engage energy fields that were ordinarily peripheral to my awareness.

In other words, the energy fields that were usually on the edge of my assemblage point became central to it during that displacement. A displacement of this nature had two consequences for me: an extraordinary keenness of thought and perception; and the incapacity to remember, once I was back in my normal state of awareness, what had transpired while I had been in that other state.

My relationship with my cohorts had been an example of both of these consequences. I had cohorts; don Juan's other apprentices; companions for my definitive journey. I interacted with them only in heightened awareness. The clarity and scope of our interaction was supreme.

The drawback for me was that in my daily life they were only poignant quasi-memories that drove me to desperation with anxiety and expectations. I could say that I lived my normal life on the perennial lookout for somebody who was going to appear all of a sudden in front of me; perhaps emerging from an office building; perhaps turning a corner and bumping into me. Wherever I went, my eyes darted everywhere, ceaselessly and involuntarily, looking for people who didn't exist and yet existed like no one else.

While I sat at Ship's that morning, everything that had happened to me in heightened awareness, to the most minute detail, in all the years with don Juan became again a continuous memory without interruption.

Don Juan had lamented that a male sorcerer, who is the nagual, perforce had to be fragmented because of the bulk of his energetic mass. He said that in each fragment lived a specific range of a total scope of activity; and the events that the male sorcerer had experienced in each fragment had to be joined someday to give a complete, conscious picture of everything that had taken place in his total life.

Looking into my eyes, he had told me that that unification takes years to accomplish, and that he had been told of cases of naguals who never reached the total scope of their activities in a conscious manner, and lived fragmented.

What I experienced that morning at Ship's was beyond anything I could have imagined in my wildest fantasies. Don Juan had said to me time after time that the world of sorcerers was not an immutable world, where the word is final, and unchanging; but that it's a world of eternal fluctuation where nothing should be taken for granted.

The jump into the abyss had modified my cognition so drastically that it allowed now the entrance of possibilities both portentous and indescribable.

But anything that I could have said about the unification of my cognitive fragments would have paled in comparison to the reality of it. That fateful morning at Ship's, I experienced something infinitely more potent than I did the day that I saw energy as it flows in the universe for the first time- the day that after having been on the campus of UCLA, I ended up in the bed of my office/apartment without actually going home in the fashion my cognitive system demanded in order for the whole event to be real.

In Ship's, I integrated all the fragments of my being. I had acted in each one of them with perfect certainty and consistency, and yet I had had no idea that I had done that. I was, in essence, a gigantic puzzle, and to fit each piece of that puzzle into place produced an effect that had no name.

I sat at the counter at Ship's, perspiring profusely, pondering uselessly, and obsessively asking questions that couldn't be answered: How could all this be possible? How could I have been fragmented in such a fashion? Who are we really? Certainly not the people all of us have been led to believe we are. I had memories of events that had never happened, as far as some core of myself was concerned. I couldn't even weep.

"A sorcerer weeps when he is fragmented," don Juan had said to me once. "When he's complete, he's taken by a shiver that has the potential, because it is so intense, of ending his life."

I was experiencing such a shiver! I doubted that I would ever meet my cohorts again. It appeared to me that all of them had left with don Juan. I was alone.

I wanted to think about it; to mourn my loss; to plunge into a satisfying sadness the way I had always done. I couldn't. There was nothing to mourn; nothing to feel sad about. Nothing mattered. All of us were warrior travelers, and all of us had been swallowed by infinity.

All along, I had listened to don Juan talk about the warrior traveler. I had liked the description immensely, and I had identified with it on a purely emotional basis. Yet I had never felt what he really meant by that, regardless of how many times he had explained his meaning to me.

That night, at the counter of Ship's, I knew what don Juan had been talking about. I was a warrior traveler. Only energetic facts were meaningful for me. All the rest were trimmings that had no importance at all.

That night, while I sat waiting for my food, another vivid thought erupted in my mind. I felt a wave of empathy, a wave of identification with don Juan's premises. I had finally reached the goal of his teachings: I was one with him as I had never been before.

It had never been the case that I had been just fighting don Juan or his concepts, which were revolutionary for me because they didn't fulfill the linearity of my thoughts as a Western man.

Rather, it was that don Juan's precision in presenting his concepts had always scared me half to death. His efficiency had appeared to be dogmatism. It was that appearance that had forced me to seek elucidations, and had made me act, all along, as if I had been a reluctant believer.

Yes, I had jumped into an abyss, I said to myself, and I didn't die because before I reached the bottom of that gully I let the dark sea of awareness swallow me. I surrendered to it without fears or regrets. And that dark sea had supplied me with whatever was necessary for me not to die, and to end up in my bed in L.A. This explanation would have explained nothing to me two days before. At three in the morning, in Ship's, it meant everything to me.

I banged my hand on the table as if I were alone in the room. People looked at me and smiled knowingly. I didn't care.

My mind was focused on an insoluble dilemma: I was alive despite the fact that I had jumped into an abyss in order to die ten hours before. I knew that such a dilemma could never be resolved. My normal cognition required a linear explanation in order to be satisfied, and linear explanations were not possible. That was the crux of the interruption of continuity. Don Juan had said that that interruption was sorcery. I knew this now, as clearly as I was capable of.

How right don Juan had been when he had said that in order for me to stay behind, I needed all my strength, all my forbearance, and above all, a warrior traveler's guts of steel.

I wanted to think about don Juan, but I couldn't. Besides, I didn't care about don Juan. There seemed to be a giant barrier between us.

I truly believed at that moment that the foreign thought that had been insinuating itself to me since I had woken up was true: I was someone else. An exchange had taken place at the moment of my jump.

Otherwise, I would have relished the thought of don Juan: I would have longed for him. I would have even felt a twinge of resentment because he hadn't taken me with him. That would have been my normal self. I truthfully wasn't the same. This thought gained momentum until it invaded all my being. Any residue of my old self that I may have retained vanished then.

A new mood took over. I was alone! Don Juan had left me inside a dream as his agent provocateur. I felt my body begin to lose its rigidity: It became flexible, by degrees, until I could breathe deeply and freely. I laughed out loud. I didn't care that people were staring at me and weren't smiling this time. I was alone, and there was nothing I could have done about it!

I had the physical sensation of actually entering into a passageway; a passageway that had a force of its own. It pulled me in. It was a silent passageway. Don Juan was that passageway; quiet and immense.

This was the first time ever that I felt that don Juan was void of physicality. There was no room for sentimentality or longing. I couldn't possibly have missed him because he was there as a depersonalized emotion that lured me in.

The passageway challenged me. I had a sensation of ebullience; ease. Yes, I could travel that passageway, alone or in company, perhaps forever. And to do this was not an imposition for me, nor was it a pleasure.

It was more than the beginning of the definitive journey; the unavoidable fate of a warrior-traveler. It was the beginning of a new era. I should have been weeping with the realization that I had found that passageway, but I wasn't. I was facing infinity at Ship's! How extraordinary! I felt a chill on my back. I heard don Juan's voice saying that the universe was indeed unfathomable.

At that moment, the back door of the restaurant, the one that led to the parking lot, opened and a strange character entered: a man perhaps in his early forties, disheveled and emaciated, but with rather handsome features. I had seen him for years roaming around UCLA, mingling with the students. Someone had told me that he was an outpatient of the nearby Veterans' Hospital. He seemed to be mentally unbalanced. I had seen him time after time at Ship's, huddled over a cup of coffee, always at the same end of the counter. I had also seen how he waited outside, looking through the window, watching for his favorite stool to become vacant if someone was sitting there.

When he entered the restaurant, he sat at his usual place, and then he looked at me. Our eyes met. The next thing I knew, he had let out a formidable scream that chilled me, and everyone present, to the bone.

Everyone looked at me, wide-eyed, some of them with unchewed food in their mouths. Obviously, they thought I had screamed. I had set up the precedents by banging the counter and then laughing out loud.

The man jumped off his stool and ran out of the restaurant, turning back to stare at me while, with his hands, he made agitated gestures over his head.

I succumbed to an impulsive urge and ran after the man. I wanted him to tell me what he had seen in me that had made him scream. I overtook him in the parking lot and asked him to tell me why he had screamed. He covered his eyes and screamed again, even louder. He was like a child, frightened by a nightmare, screaming at the top of his lungs. I left him and went back to the restaurant.

"What happened to you, dear?" the waitress asked with a concerned look. "I thought you ran out on me."

"I just went to see a friend," I said.

The waitress looked at me, and made a gesture of mock annoyance and surprise.

"Is that guy your friend?" she asked.

"The only friend I have in the world," I said.

And that was the truth, if I could define 'friend' as someone who sees through the veneer that covers you and knows where you really come from.




### "The Active Side of Infinity" - Copyright 1998 by Carlos Castaneda - The End ###





The Wheel of Time. ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time

The Wheel of Time: The Shamans of Ancient Mexico, Their Thoughts about Life, Death and the Universe. ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Contents



Introduction.

Quotations from "The Teachings of Don Juan".
Commentary on "The Teachings of Don Juan".

Quotations from "A Separate Reality".
Commentary on "A Separate Reality".

Quotations from "Journey to Ixtlan".
Commentary on "Journey to Ixtlan".

Quotations from "Tales of Power".
Commentary on "Tales of Power".

Quotations from "The Second Ring of Power".
Commentary on "The Second Ring of Power".

Quotations from "The Eagle's Gift".
Commentary on "The Eagle's Gift".

Quotations from "The Fire from Within".
Commentary on "The Fire from Within".

Quotations from "The Power of Silence".
Commentary on "The Power of Silence".




The Wheel Of Time: Introduction.

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Introduction.

This series of specially selected quotations was gathered from the first eight books that I wrote about the world of the shamans of ancient Mexico. The quotations were taken directly from the explanations given to me as an anthropologist by my teacher and mentor don Juan Matus, a Yaqui Indian shaman from Mexico. He belonged to a lineage of shamans that traced its origins all the way back to the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.

In the most effective manner he could afford, don Juan Matus ushered me into his World, which was, naturally, the world of those shamans of antiquity. Don Juan was, therefore, in a key position. He knew about the existence of another realm of reality; a realm which was neither illusory, nor the product of outbursts of fantasy. For don Juan and the rest of his shaman companions- there were fifteen of them- the world of the shamans of antiquity was as real and as pragmatic as anything could be.

This work started as a very simple attempt to collect a series of vignettes, sayings, and ideas from the lore of those shamans that would be interesting to read and think about. But once the work was in progress, an unforeseeable twist of direction took place: I realized that the quotations by themselves were imbued with an extraordinary impetus. They revealed a covert train of thought that had never been evident to me before. They were pointing out the direction that don Juan's explanations had taken over the thirteen years in which he guided me as an apprentice.

Better than any type of conceptualization, the quotations revealed an unsuspected and unwavering line of action that don Juan had followed in order to promote and facilitate my entrance into his world. It became something beyond a speculation to me that if don Juan had followed that line, this must have also been the way in which his own teacher had propelled him into the world of shamans.

Don Juan Matus's line of action was his intentional attempt to pull me into what he said was another cognitive system. By cognitive system, he meant the standard definition of cognition: the processes responsible for the awareness of everyday life; processes which include memory, experience, perception, and the expert use of any given syntax. Don Juan's claim was that the shamans of ancient Mexico had indeed a different cognitive system than the average man's.

Following all the logic and reasoning available to me as a student of the social sciences, I had to reject his statement. I pointed out to don Juan time and time again that whatever he was claiming was preposterous. It was, to me, an intellectual aberration at best.

It took thirteen years of hard labor on his part and on mine to discombobulate my trust in the normal system of cognition that makes the world around us comprehensible to us. This maneuver pushed me into a very strange state: a state of quasi-distrust in the otherwise implicit acceptance of the cognitive processes of our daily world.

After thirteen years of heavy onslaughts, I realized, against my very will, that don Juan Matus was indeed proceeding from another point of view. Therefore, the shamans of ancient Mexico must have had another system of cognition. To admit this burned my very being. I felt like a traitor. I felt as if I were voicing the most horrendous heresy.

When he felt that he had overcome my worst resistance, don Juan drove his point as far and as deep as he could into me, and I had to admit, without reservations, that in the world of shamans, shaman practitioners judged the world from points of view which were indescribable to our conceptualization devices. For instance, they perceived energy as it flowed freely in the universe, energy free from the bindings of socialization and syntax; pure vibratory energy. They called this act seeing.

Don Juan's prime objective was to help me to perceive energy as it flows in the universe. In the world of shamans, to perceive energy in such a manner is the first mandatory step toward a more engulfing, freer view of a different cognitive system. In order to elicit a seeing response in me, don Juan utilized other foreign units of cognition.

One of the most important units, he called the recapitulation, which consisted of a systematic scrutiny of one's life, segment by segment; an examination made not in the light of criticism or finding flaw, but in the light of an effort to understand one's life, and to change its course. Don Juan's claim was that once any practitioner has viewed his life in the detached manner that the recapitulation requires, there's no way to go back to the same life.

To see energy as it flows in the universe meant, to don Juan, the capacity to see a human being as a luminous egg or luminous ball of energy, and to be able to distinguish, in that luminous ball of energy, certain features shared by men in common, such as a point of brilliance in the already brilliant luminous ball of energy. The claim of shamans was that it was on that point of brilliance, which those shamans called the assemblage point, that perception was assembled. They could extend this thought logically to mean that it was on that point of brilliance that our cognition of the world was manufactured. Odd as it may seem, don Juan Matus was right in the sense that this is exactly what happens.

The perception of shamans, therefore, was subject to a different process than the perception of average men. Shamans claimed that perceiving energy directly led them to what they called energetic facts. By energetic fact, they meant a view obtained by seeing energy directly that led to conclusions that were final and irreducible. These facts couldn't be tampered with by speculation, or by trying to fit them into our standard system of interpretation.

Don Juan said that for the shamans of his lineage, it was an energetic fact that the world around us is defined by the processes of cognition, and those processes are not unalterable: they are learned, not givens. They are a matter of training, a matter of practicality and usage. This thought was extended further, to another energetic fact: the processes of standard cognition are the product of our upbringing, no more than that.

Don Juan Matus knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that whatever he was telling me about the cognitive system of the shamans of ancient Mexico was a reality. Don Juan was among other things, a nagual, which meant, for shaman practitioners, a natural leader; a person who was capable of viewing energetic facts without detriment to his well-being. He was, therefore, capacitated to lead his fellow men successfully into avenues of thought and perception impossible to describe.

Considering all the facts that don Juan had taught me about his cognitive world, I arrived at the conclusion, which was the conclusion that he himself shared, that the most important unit of such a world was the idea of intent. For the shamans of ancient Mexico, Intent was a force they could visualize when they saw energy as it flows in the universe. They considered it an all-pervasive force that intervened in every aspect of time and space. It was the impetus behind everything; but what was of inconceivable value to those shamans was that intent- a pure abstraction- was intimately attached to man. Man could always manipulate it. The shamans of ancient Mexico realized that the only way to affect this force was through impeccable behavior. Only the most disciplined practitioner could attempt this feat.

Another stupendous unit of that strange cognitive system was the shamans' understanding and usage of the concepts of time and space. For them, time and space were not the same phenomena that form part of our lives by virtue of being an integral part of our normal cognitive system. For the average man, the standard definition of time is "a nonspatial continuum in which events occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future." And space is defined as "the infinite extension of the three-dimensional field in which stars and galaxies exist; the universe."

For the shamans of ancient Mexico, time was something like a thought; a thought thought by something unrealizable in its magnitude. The logical argument for them was that man, being part of that thought which was thought by forces inconceivable to his mentality, still retained a small percentage of that thought; a percentage which under certain circumstances of extraordinary discipline could be redeemed.

Space was, for those shamans, an abstract realm of activity. They called it infinity, and referred to it as the sum total of all the endeavors of living creatures. Space was, for them, more accessible, something almost down-to-earth. It was as if they had a bigger percentage in the abstract formulation of space. According to the versions given by don Juan, the shamans of ancient Mexico never regarded time and space as obscure abstracts the way we do. For them, both time and space, although incomprehensible in their formulations, were an integral part of man.

Those shamans had another cognitive unit called the wheel of time. The way they explained the wheel of time was to say that time was like a tunnel of infinite length and width, a tunnel with reflective furrows. Every furrow was infinite, and there were infinite numbers of them. Living creatures were compulsorily made, by the force of life, to gaze into one furrow. To gaze into one furrow alone meant to be trapped by it; to live that furrow.

A warrior's final aim is to focus, through an act of profound discipline, his unwavering attention on the wheel of time in order to make it turn. Warriors who have succeeded in turning the wheel of time can gaze into any furrow and draw from it whatever they desire. To be free from the spellbinding force of gazing into only one of those furrows means that warriors can look in either direction: as time retreats or as it advances on them.

Viewed in this manner, the wheel of time is an overpowering influence which reaches through the life of the warrior and beyond, as is the case with the quotations of this book. They seem to be strung together by a coil that has a life of its own. That coil, explained by the cognition of shamans, is the wheel of time.

Under the impact of the wheel of time, the aim of this book became, then, something that had not been part of my original plan. The quotations became the ruling factor by themselves and in themselves, and the drive imposed on me by them was one of staying as close as I possibly could to the spirit in which the quotations were given. They were given in the spirit of frugality and ultimate directness.

Another thing that I tried unsuccessfully to do with the quotations was to organize them into a series of categories that would make reading them easier. However, the categorization of the quotations became untenable. There was no way of setting arbitrary categories of meaning that suited me personally to something so amorphous and so vast as a total cognitive world.

The only thing that could be done was to follow the quotations, and let them create a sketch of the skeletal form of the thoughts and feelings that the shamans of ancient Mexico had about life, death, the universe, energy. They are reflections of how those shamans understood not only the universe, but the processes of living and coexisting in our world. And more important yet, they point out the possibility of handling two systems of cognition at once without any detriment to the self.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "The Teachings of Don Juan".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "The Teachings of Don Juan".



Power rests on the kind of knowledge that we hold.

What is the sense of knowing useless things that will not prepare us for our unavoidable encounter with the unknown?



Nothing in this world is a gift. Whatever has to be learned must be learned the hard way.



A person wisely goes to knowledge as he goes to war: wide-awake, with fear, with respect, and with absolute assurance.

Going to knowledge or going to war in any other manner is a mistake. Whoever makes that mistake- if he or she lives through it- will regret the error.

When we have fulfilled all four of these requisites- to be wide awake, to have fear, respect, and absolute assurance- there are no mistakes for which we will have to account; under such conditions our actions lose the blundering quality of the acts of a fool.

If we fail or suffers a defeat, we will have lost only a battle, and there will be no pitiful regrets over that.



Dwelling upon the self too much produces a terrible fatigue. A person in that position is deaf and blind to everything else, and the fatigue itself makes us cease to see the marvels all around us.



Every time we set ourselves to learn, we have to labor as hard as anyone can. The limits of our learning will be determined by our nature.

Fear of knowledge is natural. All of us experience it. There is nothing we can do to avoid it. Yet no matter how frightening learning is, it is more terrible to think of us without knowledge.



To be angry at people means that one considers their acts to be important. It is imperative to cease to feel that way. The acts of others cannot be important enough to offset our only viable alternative before our unavoidable encounter with infinity.



Anything is one of a million paths. Therefore, as warriors we must always keep in mind that a path is only a path. If we feel that we should not follow it, we must not stay with it under any conditions.

Our decision to keep on a path or to leave it must be free of fear or ambition. We must look at every path closely and deliberately. There is a question that a warrior has to ask, mandatory: Does this path have a heart?



All paths are the same. They lead nowhere. A path without a heart is never enjoyable.

On the other hand, a path with heart is easy: It does not make a warrior work at liking it. As long as a man follows a path with heart, he is one with it.



I had the vanity to believe that I live in two worlds of men, but that was only my vanity. There is but one single world for us as men. We are men, and we must follow the world of men contentedly.

Yet there is a world of happiness where there is no difference between things because there is no one there to ask about the difference. I have seen that world, but that is not the world of men.



A man has four natural enemies: fear. clarity, power, and old age. Fear, clarity, and power can be overcome, but not old age. Its effect can be postponed, but it can never be overcome.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "The Teachings of Don Juan".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "The Teachings of Don Juan".

The essence of whatever don Juan said at the beginning of my apprenticeship is encapsulated in the abstract nature of the quotations selected from the first book, The Teachings of Don Juan. At the time of the events described in that book, don Juan spoke a great deal about allies, power plants, Mescalito, the little smoke, the wind, the spirits of rivers and mountains, the spirit of the chaparral, etc., etc. Later on when I questioned him about his emphasis on those elements, and why he wasn't using them anymore, he admitted unabashedly that at the beginning of my apprenticeship, he had gone into all that pseudo-Indian shaman rigmarole for my benefit.

I was flabbergasted. I wondered how he could make such a statement which I felt was obviously not true. Yet he had really meant what he said about those elements of his world, and I was certainly the man who could attest to the veracity of his words and moods.

"Don't take it so seriously," he said, laughing. "It was very enjoyable for me to get into all that crap, and it was even more enjoyable because I knew that I was doing it for your benefit."

"For my benefit, don Juan? What kind of aberration is this?"

"Yes, for your benefit. I tricked you by holding your attention on items of your world which held a profound fascination for you, and you swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

"All I needed was to get your undivided attention. But how could I have done that when you had such an undisciplined spirit? You yourself told me time and time again that you stayed with me because you found what I said about the world fascinating.

"What you didn't know how to express was that the fascination that you felt was based on the fact that you vaguely recognized every element I was talking about. You thought that the vagueness was, of course, shamanism, and you went for it, meaning you stayed."

"Do you do this to everybody, don Juan?"

"Not to everybody because not everybody comes to me, and above all, I'm not interested in everybody. I was and I am interested in you; you alone.

"My teacher, the nagual Julian, tricked me in a similar way. He tricked me with my sensuality and greed. He promised to get me all the beautiful women who surrounded him, and he promised to cover me with gold. He promised me a fortune, and I fell for it.

"All the shamans of my lineage had been tricked that way since time immemorial. The shamans of my lineage are not teachers or gurus. They don't give a fig about teaching their knowledge. They want heirs to their knowledge, not people vaguely interested in their knowledge for intellectual reasons."

Don Juan was right when he said that I had fallen for his maneuver fully. I had believed that I had found the perfect shaman anthropological informant.

This was the time when under don Juan's auspices, and due to his influence, I wrote diaries and collected old maps that showed the locations of the Yaqui Indian towns throughout the centuries beginning with the chronicles of the Jesuits in the late 1700's. I recorded all those locations and I identified the most subtle changes, and began to ponder and wonder why the towns were shifted to other locales, and why they were arranged in slightly different patterns every time they were relocated. Pseudo-speculations about the reasons, and reasonable doubts overwhelmed me. I collected thousands of sheets of abbreviated notes and possibilities, drawn from books and chronicles. I was a perfect student of anthropology. Don Juan spurred my fancy in every way he possibly could.

There are no volunteers on the warriors' path," don Juan said to me under the guise of an explanation. "A man has to be forced into the warriors' path against his will."

"What do I do, don Juan, with the thousands of notes that you tricked me into collecting?" I asked him at the time.

His answer was a direct shock to me. "Write a book about them!" he said. "I am sure that if you begin to write it, you'll never make use of those notes, anyway. They are useless, but who am I to tell you that? Find out for yourself. But don't endeavor to write a book as a writer. Endeavor to do it as a warrior; as a shaman-warrior."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"

"I don't know," he said. "Find it out for yourself."

He was absolutely right. I never used those notes. Instead I found myself writing unwittingly about the inconceivable possibilities of the existence of another system of cognition.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "A Separate Reality".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "A Separate Reality".


A warrior knows that he is only a man. His only regret is that his life is so short that he can't grab onto all the things that he would like to. But for him, this is not an issue: It's only a pity.



Feeling important makes one heavy, clumsy and vain. To be a warrior one needs to be light and fluid.



When they are seen as fields of energy, human beings appear to be like fibers of light; like white cobwebs; very fine threads that circulate from the head to the toes. Thus to the eye of a seer, a person looks like an egg of circulating fibers. Arms and legs are like luminous bristles bursting out in all directions.



The seer sees that every man is in touch with everything else, not through his hands, but through a bunch of long fibers that shoot out in all directions from the center of his abdomen. Those fibers join a man to his surroundings: They keep his balance: They give him stability.



When a warrior learns to see, he sees that a human being is a luminous egg whether a beggar or a king. There is no way to change anything; or rather, what could be changed in that luminous egg? What?



A warrior never worries about his fear. Instead, he thinks about the wonders of seeing the flow of energy! The rest is frills, unimportant frills.



Only a crackpot would undertake the task of becoming a man of knowledge of his own accord. A sober-headed man has to be tricked into doing it. There are scores of people who would gladly undertake the task, but those don't count. They are usually cracked. They are like gourds that look fine from the outside and yet they would leak the minute you put pressure on them; the minute you filled them with water.



When a man is not concerned with seeing, things look very much the same to him every time he looks at the world. When he learns to see, on the other hand, nothing is ever the same every time he sees it, and yet it is the same.

To the eye of a seer, a man is like an egg. Every time he sees the same man he sees a luminous egg, yet it is not the same luminous egg.



The shamans of ancient Mexico gave the name 'allies' to inexplicable forces that acted upon them. They called them allies because they thought they could use them to their hearts' content. That notion nearly proved fatal to those shamans because what they called an ally is a being without corporeal essence that exists in the universe. Modern-day shamans call them inorganic beings.



To ask what function the allies have is like asking what we men do in the world. We are here: That's all. The allies are here like us, and maybe they were here before us.



The most effective way to live is as a warrior. A warrior may worry and think before making any decision, but once he makes it, he goes on his way free from worries or thoughts knowing there will be a million other decisions still awaiting him. That's the warriors' way.



Warriors thinks of our death when things become unclear. The idea of death is the only thing that tempers our spirit.



Death is everywhere. It may be the headlights of a car on a hilltop in the distance behind. They may remain visible for a while, and disappear into the darkness as if they had been scooped away; only to appear on another hilltop, and then disappear again. Those are the lights on the head of death. Death puts them on like a hat and then shoots off on a gallop, gaining on us, getting closer and closer. Sometimes it turns off its lights. But death never stops.



A warrior must know first that his acts are useless, and yet, he must proceed as if he didn't know it. That's a shaman's controlled Folly.



The eyes of man can perform two functions: one is seeing energy at large as it flows in the universe and the other is "looking at things in this world." Neither of these functions is better than the other; however to train the eyes only to look is a shameful and unnecessary loss.



A warrior lives by acting, not by thinking about acting, nor by thinking about what he will think when he has finished acting.



A warrior chooses a path with heart, any path with heart, and follows it; and then he rejoices and laughs. He knows, because he sees, that his life will be over altogether too soon. He sees that nothing is more important than anything else.



A warrior has no honor, no dignity, no family, no name, no country: He has only life to be lived. Under these circumstances, his only tie to his fellow men is his controlled folly.



Nothing being more important than anything else, a warrior chooses any act, and acts it out as if it mattered to him. His controlled folly makes him say that what he does matters and makes him act as if it did, and yet he knows that it doesn't. So when he fulfills his acts, he retreats in peace. Whether his acts were good or bad, or worked or didn't, is in no way part of his concern.



A warrior may also choose to remain totally impassive and never act, and behave as if being impassive really mattered to him. He would be rightfully true at that too, because that would also be his controlled folly.



There's no emptiness in the life of a warrior. Everything is filled to the brim, and everything is equal.



An average man is too concerned with liking people or with being liked himself. A warrior likes, that's all. He likes whatever or whomever he wants, for the hell of it.



A warrior takes responsibility for his acts; for the most trivial of his acts. An average man acts out his thoughts, and never takes responsibility for what he does.



The average man is either victorious or defeated and, depending on that, he becomes a persecutor or a victim. These two conditions are prevalent as long as one does not see. Seeing dispels the illusion of victory, or defeat, or suffering.



A warrior knows that he is waiting and what he is waiting for; and while he waits he wants nothing, and thus whatever little thing he gets is more than he can take.

If he needs to eat, he finds a way because he is not hungry. If something hurts his body, he finds a way to stop it because he is not in pain. To be hungry or to be in pain means that the man is not a warrior; and the forces of his hunger and pain will destroy him.



Denying oneself is an indulgence. The indulgence of denying is by far the worst. It forces us to believe that we are doing great things, when in effect we are only fixed within ourselves.



Intent is not a thought, or an object, or a wish. Intent is what can make a man succeed when his thoughts tell him that he is defeated. It operates independent of any warrior's indulgence. Intent is what makes him invulnerable. Intent is what sends a shaman through a wall, through space, to infinity.



When a man embarks on the warriors' path he becomes aware, in a gradual manner, that ordinary life has been left forever behind. The means of the ordinary world are no longer a buffer for him; and he must adopt a new way of life if he is going to survive.



Every bit of knowledge that becomes power has death as its central force. Death lends the ultimate touch, and whatever is touched by death indeed becomes power.



Only the idea of death makes a warrior sufficiently detached so that he is capable of abandoning himself to anything. He knows his death is stalking him and won't give him time to cling to anything, so he tries, without craving, all of everything.



We are men and our lot is to learn and to be hurled into inconceivable new worlds. A warrior who sees energy knows that there is no end to the new worlds for our experiencing.



Don Juan told me, "Death is a twirl; death is a shiny cloud over the horizon; death is me talking to you; death is you and your writing pad; death is nothing. Nothing! It is here, yet it isn't here at all."



The spirit of a warrior is not geared to indulging and complaining, nor is it geared to winning or losing. The spirit of a warrior is geared only to struggle, and every struggle is a warrior's last battle on earth. Thus the outcome matters very little to him. In his last battle on earth a warrior lets his spirit flow free and clear. And as he wages his battle, knowing that his intent is impeccable, a warrior laughs and laughs.



We talk to ourselves incessantly about our world. In fact we maintain our world with our internal talk. And whenever we finish talking to ourselves about ourselves and our world, the world is always as it should be. We renew it, we rekindle it with life, we uphold it with our internal talk. Not only that, but we also choose our paths as we talk to ourselves. Thus we repeat the same choices over and over until the day we die because we keep on repeating the same internal talk over and over until the day we die.

A warrior is aware of this and strives to stop his internal talk.



The world is all that is encased here: life, death, people, and everything else that surrounds us. The world is incomprehensible. We won't ever understand it. We won't ever unravel its secrets. Thus we must treat the world as it is: a sheer mystery.



The things that people do cannot under any conditions be more important than the world. And thus a warrior treats the world as an endless mystery and what people do as an endless folly.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "A Separate Reality".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "A Separate Reality".

In the quotations drawn from A Separate Reality, the mood that the shamans of ancient Mexico affixed to all their intentional endeavors begins to show with remarkable clarity. Don Juan himself pointed out to me in talking about those old shamans that the aspect of their world which was of supreme interest to modern practitioners was the razor-sharp awareness that those shamans had developed about the universal force they called intent. They explained that the link each of those men had with such a force was so neat and clean that they could affect things to their hearts' content.

Don Juan said that the intent of those shamans, developed to such a keen intensity, was the only aid modern practitioners had. He put it in more mundane terms, and said that modern-day practitioners, if they were honest with themselves, would pay whatever price to live under the umbrella of such an intent.

Don Juan asserted that anyone who showed even the slightest interest in the world of the shamans of antiquity was immediately drawn into the circle of their razor-sharp intent. Their intent was, for don Juan, something incommensurable that none of us could successfully fight away. Besides, he reasoned, there was no necessity to fight away such an intent because it was the only thing that counted. It was the essence of the world of those shamans and the world which modern-day practitioners coveted more than anything imaginable.

The mood of the quotations from A Separate Reality is not something that I arranged on purpose. It is a mood that surfaced independent of my aims and wishes. I could even say that it was contrary to what I had in mind. It was the mysterious coil of the wheel of time hidden in the text of the book that had suddenly been activated, and it snapped into a state of tension; a tension that dictated the direction of my endeavors.

At the time of writing A Separate Reality, as far as my feelings about my work were concerned, I could truthfully assert that I thought that I was happily involved in doing anthropological fieldwork. My feelings and thoughts were as far away from the world of the shamans of antiquity as anything could be.

Don Juan had a different opinion. Being a seasoned warrior, he knew that I couldn't possibly extricate myself from the magnetic pull that the intent of those shamans had created. I was drowning in it, whether or not I believed in it or wished for it. This state of affairs brought about a subliminal anxiety on my part. It was not an anxiety I could define or pinpoint, or was even aware of. It permeated my acts without the possibility of my consciously dwelling on it, or seeking an explanation. In retrospect, I can only say that I was deadly afraid, although I couldn't determine what I was afraid of.

I tried many times to analyze this sensation of fear, but I would immediately get fatigued;, bored. I would instantaneously find my inquiry groundless, superfluous, and I would end up abandoning it. I asked don Juan about my state of being. I wanted his advice, his input.

"You are just afraid," he said. That's all there is to it. Don't look for mysterious reasons for your fear. The mysterious reason is right here in front of you within your reach. It is the intent of the shamans of ancient Mexico. You are dealing with their world, and that world shows its face to you from time to time. Of course, you can't take that sight. Neither could I, in my time. Neither could any one of us."

"You're talking in riddles, don Juan!"

"Yes, I am, for the moment. It will be clear to you someday. At the present, it's idiotic to try to talk about it, or explain anything. Nothing of what I'm trying to show you would make sense. Some inconceivable banality would make infinitely more sense to you at this moment."

He was absolutely right. All my fears were triggered by some banality of which I was ashamed at the time, and am ashamed of now. I was afraid of demoniacal possession. Such a fear had been encrusted in me very early in life. Anything that was inexplicable was naturally something evil; something malignant that aimed at destroying me.

The more poignant don Juan's explanations of the world of the ancient shamans became, the greater my sensation of needing to protect myself. This sensation was not something that could be verbalized. It was, rather than the need to protect the self; the need to protect the veracity and the undeniable value of the world in which we human beings live.

To me, my world was the only recognizable world. If it was threatened, there was an immediate reaction on my part; a reaction that manifested itself in some quality of fear that I will be forever at a loss to explain: This fear was something one must feel in order to grasp its immensity. It was not the fear of dying or of being hurt. It was, rather, something immeasurably deeper than that. It was so deep that any shaman practitioner would be at a loss trying even to conceptualize it.

"You have come, in a roundabout way, to stand directly in front of the warrior," don Juan said.

At that time, he emphasized to no end the concept of the warrior. He said that the warrior was of course, much more than a mere concept. It was a way of life, and that way of life would be the only deterrent to fear, and the only channel which a practitioner could use to let the flow of his activity move on freely. Without the concept of the warrior, the stumbling blocks on the path of knowledge were impossible to overcome.

Don Juan defined the warrior as the fighter par excellence. It was a mood facilitated by the intent of the shamans of antiquity; a mood into which any man could enter.

"The intent of those shamans," don Juan said, "was so keen- so powerful that it would solidify the structure of the warrior in anyone who tapped it, even though they might not be aware of it."

In short, the warrior was, for the shamans of ancient Mexico, a unit of combat so tuned to the fight around him, so extraordinarily alert that in his purest form, that he needed nothing superfluous to survive.

There was no necessity to make gifts to a warrior, or to prop him up with talk or actions, or to try to give him solace and incentive. All of those things were included in the structure of the warrior itself. Since that structure was determined by the intent of the shamans of ancient Mexico, they made sure that anything foreseeable would be included.

The end result was a fighter who fought alone, and who drew from his own silent convictions all the impulse he needed to forge ahead; without complaints; without the necessity to be praised.

Personally, I found the concept of the warrior fascinating, and, at the same time, one of the most frightening things I had ever encountered. I thought it was a concept that, if I adopted it, would bind me into servitude, and wouldn't give me the time or the disposition to protest, examine or complain. Complaining had been my lifelong habit, and truthfully, I would have fought tooth and nail not to give it up. I thought that complaining was the sign of a sensitive, courageous, forthright man who has no qualms in stating his facts, his likes and dislikes. If all of that was going to turn into a fighting organism, I stood to lose more than I could afford. These were my inner thoughts.

And yet, I coveted the direction, the peace, and the efficiency of the warrior. One of the great aids that the shamans of ancient Mexico employed in establishing the concept of the warrior was the idea of taking our death as a companion; a witness to our acts.

Don Juan said that once that premise is accepted in whatever mild form, a bridge is formed which extends across the gap between our world of daily affairs, and something that is in front of us, but has no name; something that is lost in a fog, and doesn't seem to exist; something so terribly unclear that it cannot be used as a point of reference; and yet, it is there, undeniably present.

Don Juan claimed that the only being on earth capable of crossing over that bridge was the warrior: silent in his struggle; undetainable because he has nothing to lose; functional and efficacious because he has everything to gain.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "Journey to Ixtlan".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "Journey to Ixtlan".


We hardly ever realize that we can cut anything out of our lives, anytime, in the blink of an eye.



One shouldn't worry about taking pictures or making tape recordings. Those are superfluities of sedate lives. One should worry about the spirit, which is always present.



Personal history must be constantly renewed by telling parents, relatives, and friends everything one does. On the other hand, for the warrior who has no personal history, no explanations are needed; nobody is angry or disillusioned with his acts. And above all, on one pins him down with their thoughts and their expectations.



When nothing is for sure we remain alert; perennially on our toes. It is more exciting not to know which bush the rabbit is hiding behind than to behave as though we knew everything.



As long as a man feels that he is the most important thing in the world, he cannot really appreciate the world around him. He is like a horse with blinders; all he sees is himself, apart from everything else.



Death is our eternal companion. It is always to our left, an arm's length behind us. Death is the only wise adviser that a warrior has. Whenever he feels that everything is going wrong and he's about to be annihilated, he can turn to his death and ask if that is so.

His death will tell him that he is wrong; that nothing really matters outside its touch. His death will tell him, 'I haven't touched you yet.'



Whenever a warrior decides to do something, he must go all the way, but he must take responsibility for what he does. No matter what he does, he must know first why he is doing it, and then he must proceed with his actions without having doubts or remorse about them.



In a world where death is the hunter, there is no time for regrets or doubts. There is only time for decisions.

It doesn't matter what the decisions are. Nothing could be more or less serious than anything else. In a world where death is the hunter, there are no small or big decisions. There are only decisions that a warrior makes in the face of his inevitable death.



A warrior must learn to be available and unavailable at the precise turn of the road. It is useless for a warrior to be unwittingly available at all times, as it is useless for him to hide when everybody knows that he is hiding.



For a warrior, to be inaccessible means that he touches the world around him sparingly, then moves away. He deliberately avoids exhausting himself and others. He doesn't use and squeeze people until they have shriveled to nothing, especially the people he loves.



Once a man worries, he clings to anything out of desperation; and once he clings he is bound to get exhausted or to exhaust whomever or whatever he is clinging to. A warrior-hunter, on the other hand, knows he will lure game into his traps over and over again, so he doesn't worry. To worry is to become accessible; unwittingly accessible.



A warrior-hunter deals intimately with his world, and yet he is inaccessible to that same world. He taps it lightly, stays for as long as he needs to, and then swiftly moves away, leaving hardly a mark.



To be a warrior-hunter is not just to trap game. A warrior-hunter does not catch game because he sets his traps, or because he knows the routines of his prey, but because he himself has no routines. This is his advantage. He is not at all like the animals he is after. They are fixed by heavy routines and predictable quirks. He is free, fluid, and unpredictable.



For an average man, the world is weird because if he's not bored with it, he's at odds with it. For a warrior, the world is weird because it is stupendous, awesome, mysterious, and unfathomable. A warrior assumes responsibility for being here in this marvelous world in this marvelous time.



A warrior must learn to make every act count, since he is going to be here in this world for only a short while, in fact, too short for witnessing all the marvels of it.



Acts have power. Especially when the warrior acting knows that those acts are his last battle. There is a strange consuming happiness in acting with the full knowledge that whatever he is doing may very well be his last act on earth.



A warrior focuses his attention on the link between himself and his death. Without remorse or sadness or worrying, he focuses his attention on the fact that he does not have time and let his acts flow accordingly. He lets each of his acts be his last battle on earth. Under those conditions, his acts have their rightful power.

Otherwise his acts would be, for as long as he lives, the acts of a fool.



A warrior-hunter knows that his death is waiting, and the very act he is performing now may well be his last battle on earth. He calls it a battle because it is a struggle.

Most people move from act to act without any struggle or thought.

A warrior-hunter, on the contrary, assesses every act. He has an intimate awareness of his death, so he proceeds judiciously as if every act were his last battle.

Only a fool would fail to notice the advantage a warrior-hunter has over his fellow men.

A warrior-hunter gives his last battle its due respect. It's only natural that his last act on earth should be the best of himself. It's pleasurable that way. It dulls the edge of his fright.



A warrior is an immaculate hunter who hunts power. He's not drunk or crazed, and he has neither the time nor the disposition to bluff or to lie to himself; or to make a wrong move. The stakes are too high for that. The stakes are his trimmed orderly life which he has taken so long to tighten and perfect. He is not going to throw that away by making some stupid miscalculation; by mistaking something for something else.



A man, any man, deserves everything that is a man's lot: joy, pain, sadness, and struggle.

The nature of his acts is unimportant as long as he acts as a warrior. If his spirit is distorted he should simply fix it- purge it, make it perfect- because there is no other task in our entire lives which is more worthwhile. Not to fix the spirit is to seek death, and that is the same as to seek nothing, since death is going to overtake us regardless of anything.

To seek the perfection of the warrior's spirit is the only task worthy of our temporariness, and our manhood.



The hardest thing in the world is to assume the mood of a warrior. It is of no use to be sad and complain and feel justified in doing so; believing that someone is always doing something to us.

Nobody is doing anything to anybody, much less to a warrior.



A warrior is a hunter. He calculates everything. That's control. Once his calculations are over, he acts. He lets go. That's abandon.

A warrior is not a leaf at the mercy of the wind. No one can push him. No one can make him do things against himself or against his better judgment. A warrior is tuned to survive, and he survives in the best of all possible fashions.



A warrior is only a man; a humble man. He cannot change the designs of his death. But his impeccable spirit, which has stored power after stupendous hardships, can certainly hold his death for a moment; a moment long enough to let him rejoice for the last time in recalling his power. We may say that that is a gesture which death has with those who have an impeccable spirit.



It doesn't matter how one was brought up. What determines the way one does anything is personal power. A man is only the sum of his personal power, and that sum determines how he lives and how he dies.



Personal power is a feeling. Something like being lucky. Or one may call it a mood. Personal power is something that one acquires by means of a lifetime of struggle.



A warrior acts as if he knows what he is doing, when in effect he knows nothing.



A warrior doesn't know remorse for anything he has done because to isolate one's acts as being mean, or ugly, or evil is to place an unwarranted importance on the self.

The trick is in what one emphasizes. We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.



People tell us from the time we are born that the world is such and such and so and so, and naturally we have no choice but to accept that the world is the way people have been telling us it is.



The art of a warrior is to balance the terror of being a man with the wonder of being a man.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "Journey to Ixtlan".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "Journey to Ixtlan".

By the time I was writing Journey to Ixtlan, a most mysterious mood was prevalent all around me. Don Juan Matus was applying some extremely pragmatic measures to my daily conduct. He had outlined some steps of action that he wanted me to follow rigorously. He had given me three tasks which had only the vaguest references to my world of everyday life, or to any other world.

He wanted me to endeavor in my daily world to erase my personal history by any means conceivable. Then, he wanted me to stop my routines, and finally, he wanted me to dethrone my sense of self-importance.

"How am I going to accomplish all this, don Juan?" I asked him.

"I have no idea," he responded. "None of us has any idea of how to do that pragmatically and effectively. Yet, if we start the work, we will accomplish it without ever knowing what came to aid us.

The difficulty that you encounter is the same difficulty that I encountered myself," he went on. "I assure you that our difficulty is born out of the total absence in our lives of the idea that would spur us to change.

"At the time that my teacher gave me this task, all I needed in order to make it work was the idea that it could be done. Once I had the idea, I accomplished it, without knowing how. I recommend that you do the same."

I went into the most contorted complaints, alluding to the fact that I was a social scientist accustomed to practical directions that had substance to them; not to something vague which was dependent on magical solutions rather than practical means.

"Say whatever you want," don Juan responded, laughing. "Once you're through complaining, forget about your qualms and do what I have asked you to do."

Don Juan was right. All that I needed, or rather, all that a mysterious part of me which was not overt needed, was the idea. The 'me' that I had known through all my life needed infinitely more than the idea. It needed coaching, spurring, direction. I became so intrigued by my success that the tasks of erasing my routines, losing my self-importance and dropping my personal history became a sheer delight.

"You are smack in front of the warriors' way," don Juan said by way of explanation for my mysterious success.

Slowly and methodically, he had guided my awareness to focus more and more intensely on an abstract elaboration of the concept of the warrior that he called the warriors' way; the warriors' path. He explained that the warriors' way was a structure of ideas established by the shamans of ancient Mexico.

Those shamans had derived their construct by means of their ability to see energy as it flows freely in the universe. Therefore, the warriors' way was a most harmonious conglomerate of energetic facts; irreducible truths determined exclusively by the direction of the flow of energy in the universe.

Don Juan categorically stated that there was nothing about the warriors' way that could be argued; nothing that could be changed. It was in itself and by itself a perfect structure, and whoever followed it was corralled by energetic facts that admitted no argument: no speculation about their function and their value.

Don Juan said that those old shamans called it the warriors' way because its structure encompassed all the living possibilities that a warrior might encounter on the path of knowledge. Those shamans were absolutely thorough and methodical in their search for such possibilities. According to don Juan, they were indeed capable of including in their abstract structure everything that is humanly possible.

Don Juan compared the warriors' way to an edifice, [* edifice- a structure that has a roof and walls and stands more or less permanently in one place] with each of the elements of this edifice being a propping device whose only function was to sustain the psyche of the warrior in his role of shaman initiate, in order to make his movements easy and meaningful. He stated unequivocally that the warriors' way was the essential construct without which shaman initiates would be shipwrecked in the immensity of the universe.

Don Juan called the warriors' way the crowning glory of the shamans of ancient Mexico. He viewed it as their most important contribution; the essence of their sobriety.

"Is the warriors' way that overwhelmingly important, don Juan?" I asked him once.

"'Overwhelmingly important' is a euphemism. The warriors' way is everything. It is the epitome of mental and physical health. I cannot explain it in any other way. For the shamans of ancient Mexico to have created such a structure means to me that they were at the height of their power; the peak of their happiness; the apex of their joy."

On the level of pragmatic acceptance or rejection in which I thought I was submerged at the time, to embrace the warriors' path thoroughly and unbiasedly was nothing short of an impossibility for me. The more don Juan explained the warriors' path, the more intense the sensation I had that he was indeed plotting to overthrow all my balance.

Don Juan's guidance was, therefore, covert. It manifested itself with stupendous clarity, however, in the quotations drawn from Journey to Ixtlan. Don Juan had advanced on me in leaps and bounds at tremendous speed, without my being aware of it, and was suddenly breathing down my neck. I thought time and time again that I was either on the verge of accepting, in a bona fide manner, the existence of another cognitive system, or I was so thoroughly indifferent that I didn't care whether it happened one way or the other.

Of course, there was always the option of running away from all that, but it wasn't tenable. Somehow, don Juan's ministrations, or my heavy use of the concept of the warrior had hardened me to the point that I was no longer that afraid. I was caught, but really, it made no difference. All I knew was that I was there with don Juan for the duration.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "Tales of Power".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "Tales of Power".


The self-confidence of the warrior is not the self-confidence of the average man. The average man seeks certainty in the eyes of the onlooker and calls that self-confidence. The warrior seeks impeccability in his own eyes and calls that humbleness. The average man is hooked to his fellow men, while the warrior is hooked only to infinity.



There are lots of things a warrior can do at a certain time which he couldn't do years before. Those things themselves did not change; what changed was his idea of himself.



The only possible course that a warrior has is to act consistently and without reservations. At a certain moment, he knows enough of the warriors' way to act accordingly, but his old habits and routines may stand in his way.



If a warrior is to succeed in anything, the success must come gently, with a great deal of effort but with no stress or obsession.



The internal dialogue is what grounds people in the daily world. The world is such and such or so and so, only because we talk to ourselves about its being such and such or so and so. The passageway into the world of shamans opens up after the warrior has learned to shut off his internal dialogue.



To change our idea of the world is the crux of shamanism. And stopping the internal dialogue is the only way to accomplish it.



When a warrior learns to stop the internal dialogue, everything becomes possible; the most far-fetched schemes become attainable.



A warrior takes his lot, whatever it may be, and accepts it in ultimate humbleness. He accepts in humbleness what he is, not as grounds for regret but as a living challenge.



The humbleness of a warrior is not the humbleness of the beggar.

The beggar falls to his knees at the drop of a hat, and scrapes the floor for anyone he deems to be higher; but at the same time, he demands that someone lower than him scrape the floor for him.

On the other hand, the warrior lowers his head to no one, and at the same time, he doesn't permit anyone to lower his head to him.



Solace, haven, fear: All of these are words which have created moods that we had learned to accept without ever questioning their value.



Our fellow men are black magicians, and whoever is with them is a black magician on the spot.

Think for a moment. Can you deviate from the path that your fellow men have lined up for you? If you remain with them, your thoughts and your actions are fixed forever in their terms. That is slavery.

The warrior, on the other hand, is free from all that. Freedom is expensive, but the price is not impossible to pay. So, fear your captors; your masters. Don't waste your time and your power fearing freedom.



The flaw with words is that they always make us feel enlightened, but when we turn around to face the world they always fail us and we end up facing the world as we always have, without enlightenment.

For this reason, a warrior seeks to act rather than to talk. As a result, he gets a new description of the world- a new description where talking is not that important, and where new acts have new reflections.



A warrior considers himself already dead, so there is nothing for him to lose. The worst has already happened to him. Therefore he's clear and calm. Judging him by his acts or by his words, one would never suspect that he has witnessed everything.



Knowledge is a most peculiar affair, especially for a warrior. Knowledge for a warrior is something that comes at once, engulfs him, and passes on.



Knowledge comes to a warrior, it might be descrived, floating like specks of gold dust; the same dust that covers the wings of moths. So for a warrior, knowledge is like being rained on by specks of golden dust.



Whenever the internal dialogue stops, the world collapses, and extraordinary facets of ourselves surface as though they had been kept heavily guarded by our words.



The world is unfathomable; as are we; as is every being that exists in the world.



Warriors do not win victories by beating their heads against walls, but by overtaking the walls. Warriors jump over walls: They don't demolish them.



A warrior must cultivate the feeling that he has everything needed for the extravagant journey that is his life. What counts for a warrior is being alive. Life in itself is sufficient, self-explanatory and complete. Therefore, one may say without being presumptuous that the experience of experiences is being alive.



An average man thinks that indulging in doubts and tribulations is the sign of sensitivity, and spirituality. The truth of the matter is that the average man is the farthest thing imaginable from being sensitive. His puny reason deliberately makes itself into a monster or a saint, but it is truthfully too little for such a big monster or saint mold.



To be a warrior is not a simple matter of wishing to be one. It is rather an endless struggle that will go on to the very last moment of our lives. Nobody is born a warrior, in exactly the same way that nobody is born an average man. We make ourselves into one or the other.



A warrior dies the hard way. His death must struggle to take him. A warrior does not give himself to death so easily.



Human beings are not objects. They have no solidity. They are round, luminous beings. They are boundless. The world of objects and solidity is only a description that was created to help them to make their passage on earth convenient.

Human beings' reason makes them forget that the description is only a description, and before they realize it, human beings have entrapped the totality of themselves in a vicious circle from which they rarely emerge in their lifetimes.



Human beings are perceivers, but the world that they perceive is an illusion: an illusion created by the description that was told to them from the moment they were born.



So in essence, the world that their reason wants to sustain is the world created by a description and its dogmatic and inviolable rules, which their reason learns to accept and defend.



Our concealed treasure as luminous beings is that we have something which is almost never used: intent.

The maneuver of shamans is similar to the maneuver of the average man. Both have a description of the world. The average man upholds it with his reason and the shaman upholds it with his intent. Both descriptions have their rules, but the advantage of the shaman is that intent is more engulfing than reason.



Only as a warrior can one withstand the path of knowledge. A warrior cannot complain or regret anything. His life is an endless challenge, and challenges cannot possibly be considered as good or bad. Challenges are simply challenges.



The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a warrior takes everything as a challenge, while an ordinary man takes everything as a blessing or as a curse.



The trump card of the warrior is that he believes without believing. But obviously a warrior can't just say he believes and let it go at that. That would be too easy. To just believe without any exertion would exonerate him from examining his situation.

Whenever a warrior has to involve himself in matters of believing, he chooses. It's not that a warrior simply chooses to believes. A warrior has to believe. Having to believe in such a fashion is the warrior's expression of his innermost predilection.



Death is an indispensable ingredient in having to believe. Without the awareness of death, we feel immortal, and everything becomes ordinary and trivial. Because of our awareness that death is stalking us, warriors come to see and realize that the world is an unfathomable mystery.



Power always makes a cubic centimeter of chance available to a warrior. The warrior's art is to be perennially fluid in order to pluck it.



The average man is aware of everything only when he thinks he should be. The condition of a warrior, however, is to be aware of everything at all times.



The totality of ourselves is a very mysterious affair. We need only a very small portion of it to fulfill the most complex tasks of life. Yet when we die, we die with the totality of ourselves.



A rule of thumb for a warrior is that he makes his decisions so carefully that nothing that may happen as a result of them can surprise him, much less drain his power.



When a warrior makes the decision to take action, he should be prepared to die. If he is prepared to die, there shouldn't be any pitfalls, any unwelcome surprises, any unnecessary acts. Everything should gently fall into place because he is expecting nothing.



A warrior, as a teacher, must first of all teach about the possibility of acting without believing; without expecting rewards- acting just for the hell of it. His success as a teacher depends on how well and how harmoniously he guides his wards in this specific respect.



In order to help his ward to erase personal history, the warrior as a teacher teaches three techniques: losing self-importance, assuming responsibility for one's acts, and using death as an adviser. Without the beneficial effect of these three techniques, erasing personal history would involve being shifty, evasive and unnecessarily dubious about oneself and one's actions.



There is no way to get rid of self-pity for good: It has a definite place and character in our lives; a definite facade which is recognizable. Thus, every time the occasion arises, the facade of self-pity becomes active. It has a history. But if one changes the facade, one shifts its place of prominence. One changes facades by shifting the component elements of the facade itself. Self-pity is useful to the user because he feels important and deserving of better conditions, better treatment, or because he is unwilling to assume responsibility for the acts that brought him to the state that elicited self-pity.



Changing the facade of self-pity means only that one has assigned a secondary place to a formerly important element. Self-pity is still a prominent feature, but it has now taken a position in the background.

In the same fashion, the idea of one's impending death, the idea of a warrior's humbleness, and the idea of taking responsibility for one's acts were all in the background at one time for a warrior without ever being used until the moment he became a warrior.



A warrior acknowledges his pain, but he doesn't indulge in it. The mood of the warrior who enters into the unknown is not one of sadness. On the contrary, he's joyful because he feels humbled by his great fortune, confident that his spirit is impeccable, and above all, is fully aware of his efficiency. A warrior's joyfulness comes from having accepted his fate, and from having truthfully assessed what lies ahead of him.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "Tales of Power".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "Tales of Power".

Tales of Power is the mark of my ultimate downfall. At the time that the events narrated in that book took place, I suffered a profound emotional upheaval; a warrior's breakdown. Don Juan Matus left this world, and left his four apprentices in it. Each of those apprentices was approached personally by don Juan, and assigned a specific task. I considered the task given to me to be a placebo that had no significance whatsoever in comparison to the loss.

Not to see don Juan anymore could not be soothed by pseudo-tasks. My first plea with don Juan had been, naturally, to tell him that I wanted to go with him.

"You are not ready, yet," he said. "Let's be realistic."

"But I could make myself ready in the blink of an eye," I assured him.

"I don't doubt that. You'll be ready, but not for me. I demand perfect efficiency. I demand an impeccable intent, an impeccable discipline. You don't have that yet. You will. You're coming to it, but you're not there yet.

"You have the power to take me, don Juan. Raw and imperfect."

"I suppose I do, but I won't, because it would be a shameful waste for you. You stand to lose everything, take my word. Don't insist. Insisting is not in the realm of warriors."

That statement was sufficient to stop me. Internally, however, I yearned to go with him; to venture beyond the boundaries of everything that I knew as normal and real.

When the moment came in which don Juan actually left the world, he turned into some colored, vaporous luminosity. He was pure energy, flowing freely in the universe. My sensation of loss was so immense at that moment that I wanted to die. I disregarded everything don Juan had said, and without any hesitation, I proceeded to throw myself off a precipice. I reasoned that if I did that, in death, don Juan would have been obliged to take me with him, and save whatever bit of awareness was left in me.

But for reasons that are inexplicable when viewed from the premises of my normal cognition, though explicable from the cognition of the shamans' world, I didn't die. I was left alone in the world of everyday life with my three cohorts; something which made my loneliness more poignant than ever.

I saw myself as an agent provocateur, [* provocateur- a secret agent who incites suspected persons to commit illegal acts] a spy of sorts, that don Juan had left behind for some obscure reasons. The quotations drawn from the corpus [* corpus- a collection of writings] of Tales of Power show the unknown quality of the world, not the world of shamans, but the world of everyday life, which, according to don Juan, is as mysterious and rich as anything can be. All we need to pluck the wonders of this world of everyday life is enough detachment. But more than detachment, we need enough affection and abandon.

"A warrior must love this world," don Juan had warned me, "in order for this world that seems so commonplace to open up and show its wonders."

We were, at the time that he voiced this statement, in the desert of Sonora.

"It is a sublime feeling," he said, "to be in this marvelous desert; to see those ragged peaks of pseudo-mountains that were really made by the flow of lava of long-gone volcanoes. It is a glorious feeling to find that some of those nuggets of obsidian were created at such high temperatures that they still retain the mark of their origin. They have power galore.

"To wander aimlessly in those ragged peaks and actually find a piece of quartz that picks up radio waves is extraordinary. The only drawback to this marvelous picture is that to enter into the marvels of this world, or into the marvels of another world, a man needs to be a warrior: calm, collected, indifferent, seasoned by the onslaughts of the unknown. You are not seasoned that way yet. Therefore, it is your duty to seek that fulfillment before you could talk about venturing into the infinite."

I have spent thirty-five years of my life seeking the maturity of a warrior. I have gone to places that defy description seeking that sensation of being seasoned by the onslaughts of the unknown. I went unobtrusively, unannounced, and I came back in the same fashion. The works of warriors are silent and solitary, and when warriors go, or come back, they do it so inconspicuously that nobody is the wiser. To seek a warrior's maturity in any other fashion would be ostentatious, [* ostentatious- intended to attract notice and impress others] and therefore, inadmissible.

The quotations from Tales of Power were the most poignant reminder to me that the intent of the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times was still impeccably at work. The wheel of time was moving inexorably around me, forcing me to look into grooves which one cannot talk about and still remain coherent.

"Suffice it to say," don Juan said to me once, "that the immensity of this world, be it the shamans' world or the average man's, is so conspicuous that only an aberration could keep us from noticing it. Trying to explain to aberrant beings what it is like to be lost in the grooves of the wheel of time is the most absurd thing that a warrior can undertake. Therefore, he makes sure that his journeys are only the property of his condition of being a warrior."





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "The Second Ring of Power".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "The Second Ring of Power".


When one has nothing to lose, one becomes courageous. We are timid only when there is something we can still cling to.



A warrior could not possibly leave anything to chance. He actually affects the outcome of events by the force of his awareness and his unbending intent.



If a warrior wants to pay back for all the favors he has received, and he has no one in particular to address his payment to, he can address it to the spirit of man. That's always a very small account, and whatever one puts in it is more than enough.



After arranging the world in a most beautiful and enlightened manner, the scholar goes back home at five o'clock in the afternoon in order to forget his beautiful arrangement.



The human form is a conglomerate of energy fields which exists in the universe, and which is related exclusively to human beings. Shamans call it the human form because those energy fields have been bent and contorted by a lifetime of habits and misuse.



A warrior knows that he cannot change, and yet he makes it his business to try to change. The warrior is never disappointed when he fails to change. That's the only advantage a warrior has over the average man.



Warriors must be impeccable in their effort to change in order to scare and shake the human form away. After years of impeccability, a moment will come when the human form cannot stand it any longer and leaves. That is to say, a moment will come when the energy fields contorted by a lifetime of habit are straightened out. A warrior gets deeply affected, and can even die as a result of this straightening out of energy fields, but an impeccable warrior always survives.



The only freedom warriors have is to behave impeccably. Not only is impeccability freedom; it is the only way to straighten out the human form.



Any habit needs all its parts in order to function. If some parts are missing, the habit is disassembled.



The fight is right here on this earth. We are human creatures. Who knows what's waiting for us, or what kind of power we may have?



The world of people goes up and down and people go up and down with their world; warriors have no business following the ups and downs of their fellow men.



The core of our being is the act of perceiving, and the magic of our being is the act of awareness. Perception and awareness are a single, functional, inextricable unit.



We choose only once. We choose either to be warriors or to be ordinary men. A second choice does not exist. Not on this earth.



The warriors' way offers a man a new life and that life has to be completely new. He can't bring to that new life his ugly old ways.



Warriors always take a first event of any series as the blueprint or the map of what is going to develop for them subsequently.



Human beings love to be told what to do, but they love even more to fight and not do what they are told, and thus they get entangled in hating the one who told them in the first place.



Everybody has enough personal power for something. The trick for the warrior is to pull his personal power away from his weaknesses to his warrior's purpose.



Everyone can see, and yet we choose not to remember what we see.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "The Second Ring of Power".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "The Second Ring of Power".

Years went by before I wrote The Second Ring of Power. Don Juan was long gone, and the quotations from that book are memories of what he had said; memories triggered by a new situation, or a new development. Another player had appeared in my life. It was don Juan's cohort, Florinda Matus. All of don Juan's apprentices understood that when don Juan left, Florinda was left behind to somehow round up the last part of our training.

"Not until you are capable of taking orders from a woman without detriment to your being will you be complete," don Juan had said. "But that woman cannot be just any woman. It must be somebody special, somebody who has power and a quality of ruthlessness that will not allow you to be the man-in-charge that you fancy yourself to be."

Of course, I laughed off his statements. I thought he was definitely joking. The truth of the matter was that he wasn't joking at all. One day, Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar returned, and we went to Mexico. We went to a department store in the city of Guadalajara, and there, we found Florinda Matus, the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen: extremely tall- five feet eleven, lean, angular, with a beautiful face, old, and yet very young.

"Ah! There you are!" she exclaimed, when she saw us. "The Three Musketeers! The Pep Boys- Eenie, Meenie and Mo! I've been looking for you all over!"

And without any more to say, she took over. Florinda Donner-Grau, of course, was delighted beyond measure. Taisha Abelar was extremely reserved, as usual, and I was mortified, almost furious. I knew that the arrangement was not going to work. I was ready to clash with this woman the first time she opened her daring mouth and came up with phrases like "Eenie, Meenie and Mo- the Pep Boys."

Unsuspected things that I had in reserve, however, came to my aid, and prevented me from any reaction of wrath or annoyance, and I got along with Florinda superbly better than I could have dreamed. She ruled us with an iron hand. She was the undisputed queen of our lives. She had the power and the detachment to carry out her job of tuning us in the most subtle way. She didn't allow us to drown in self-pity or complaining if something was not quite to our liking. She was not at all like don Juan. She lacked his sobriety, but she had another quality that balanced her lack: she was as fast as anything could be. One glance was sufficient for her to comprehend an entire situation, and to act instantaneously in accordance with what was expected of her.

One of her favorite ploys, which I enjoyed immensely, was to formally ask an audience, or a group of people she was talking to, "Does anyone here know anything about the pressure and displacement of gases?" She would ask such a question in true seriousness. And when the audience responded, "No, no, we don't," she would say, "Then, I could say anything I want, true?!"- and indeed she would go ahead and say anything she wanted. She would actually sometimes say such ridiculous things that I would fall on the floor laughing.

Her other classical question was, "Does anyone here know anything about the retina of chimpanzees? No?"- and Florinda would say barbarities about the retina of chimpanzees. Never in my life had I enjoyed my time more thoroughly. I was her admirer and unbiased follower.

I once had a fistula by the crest of the bone of my hip, a product of a fall that I had taken years before into a ravine filled with cactus needles. There had been seventy-five needles stuck in my body. One of them either hadn't come out completely or had left a residue of dirt or debris that years later produced a fistula.

My doctor said, "That's nothing. It is just a sack of pus that has to be lanced. It's a very simple operation. It would take a few minutes to clean it out."

I consulted with Florinda, and she said, "You are the nagual. You either cure yourself, or you die. No shades of meaning. No double behavior. For a nagual to be lanced by a doctor- you must have lost your power. For a nagual to die fistulated? What a shame."

Except for Florinda Donner-Grau and Taisha Abelar, the rest of don Juan's apprentices didn't care at all for Florinda. She was a threatening figure. She was someone who never allowed them the freedom that they felt was their due. She never celebrated their pseudo-exploits of shamanism, and she stopped their activities every time they strayed from the warriors' path. In the corpus of The Second Ring of Power, that struggle of the apprentices is more than manifest. Don Juan's other apprentices were a lost lot, filled with egomaniacal outbursts, each one pulling in his own direction, each one asserting his or her value.

Everything that took place in our lives from that time on was deeply influenced by Florinda Matus, and yet, she never took the front stand. She was always a figure in the background, wise, funny, ruthless. Florinda Donner-Grau and I learned to love her as we had never loved before, and when she left, she willed to Florinda Donner-Grau her name, her jewels, her money, her grace, her savoir-faire. [* savoir-faire- social skill] I felt that I could never write a book about Florinda Matus, that if anybody ever did, it would have to be Florinda Donner-Grau, her true heir, her daughter of daughters. I was, like Florinda Matus, only a figure in the background, put there by don Juan Matus to break the loneliness of a warrior, and enjoy my passage on earth.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "The Eagle's Gift".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "The Eagle's Gift".


The art of dreaming is the capacity to utilize one's ordinary dreams and transform them into controlled awareness by virtue of a specialized form of attention called the dreaming attention.



The art of stalking is a set of procedures and attitudes that enables a warrior to get the best out of any conceivable and every inconceivable situation.



The recommendation for warriors is not to have any material things on which to focus their power, but to focus it on the spirit; on the true flight into the unknown, not on trivialities.

Everyone who wants to follow the warrior's path has to rid himself of the compulsion to possess and hold onto things.



Seeing is a bodily knowledge. The predominance of the visual sense in us influences this bodily knowledge and makes it seem to be eye-related.



Losing the human form is like a spiral. It gives a warrior the freedom to remember himself as straight fields of energy and this in turn makes him even freer.



A warrior knows that he is waiting, and he knows what he is waiting for; and while he waits, he feasts his eyes upon the world. A warrior's ultimate accomplishment is to enjoy the joy of infinity.



The course of a warrior's destiny is unalterable. The challenge is how far he can go and how impeccable he can be within those rigid bounds.



People's actions no longer affect a warrior when he has no more expectations of any kind. A strange peace becomes the ruling force in his life. He has adopted one of the concepts of a warrior's life- detachment.



Detachment does not automatically mean wisdom, but it is, nonetheless, an advantage because it allows the warrior to pause momentarily to reassess situations; to reconsider one's position. In order to use that extra moment consistently and correctly, however, a warrior has to struggle unyieldingly for the duration of your life.



I am already given to the power that rules my fate.

And I cling to nothing, so I will have nothing to defend.

I have no thoughts, so I will see.

I fear nothing, so I will remember myself.

Detached and at ease,

I will dart past the Eagle to be free.



It is much easier for warriors to fare well under conditions of maximum stress than to be impeccable under normal circumstances.



Human beings are two-sided. The right side encompasses everything the intellect can conceive of. The left side is a realm of indescribable features; a realm impossible to contain in words. The left side is perhaps comprehended, if comprehension is what takes place, with the total body; thus its resistance to conceptualization. [* conceptualization- inventing or contriving an idea or explanation and formulating it mentally]



All the faculties, possibilities, and accomplishments of shamanism, from the simplest to the most astounding, are in the human body itself.



The power that governs the destiny of all living beings is called the Eagle, not because it is an eagle or has anything to do with an eagle, but because it appears to the eye of the seer as an immeasurable jet-black eagle, standing erect as an eagle stands, its height reaching to infinity.



The Eagle devours the awareness of all the creatures that, alive on earth a moment before and now dead, have floated to the Eagle's beak like a swarm of fireflies to meet their owner; their reason for having had life.

The Eagle disentangles these tiny flames, lays them flat, as a tanner stretches out a hide, and then consumes them; for awareness is the Eagle's food.



The Eagle, that power that governs the destinies of all living things, reflects equally and at once all those living things. There is no way, therefore, for man to pray to the Eagle; to ask favors; to hope for grace. The human part of the Eagle is too insignificant to move the whole.



Every living thing has been granted the power, if it so desires, to seek an opening to freedom and go through it. It is evident to the seer who sees the opening, and to the creatures that go through it, that the Eagle has granted that gift in order to perpetuate awareness.



To cross over to freedom does not mean eternal life as eternity is commonly understood- that is, as living forever. Rather, warriors can keep their awareness, which is ordinarily relinquished at the moment of dying.

At the moment of crossing, the body in its entirety is kindled with knowledge. Every cell at once becomes aware of itself and also aware of the totality of the body.



The Eagle's gift of freedom is not a bestowal. Its a chance to have a chance.



A warrior is never under siege. To be under siege implies that one has personal possessions that could be blockaded. A warrior has nothing in the world except his impeccability, and impeccability cannot be threatened.



The first principle of the art of stalking is that warriors choose their battleground. A warrior never goes into battle without knowing what the surroundings are.



To discard everything that is unnecessary is the second principle of the art of stalking. A warrior doesn't complicate things. He aims at being simple.



A warrior applies all the concentration he has to decide whether or not to enter into battle, for any battle is a battle for his life.

This is the third principle of the art of stalking. A warrior must be willing and ready to make his last stand here and now. But not in a helter-skelter way.



A warrior relaxes and abandons himself. He fears nothing. Only then will the powers that guide human beings open the road for a warrior and aid him. Only-then. That is the fourth principle of the art of stalking.



When faced with odds that cannot be dealt with, warriors retreat for a moment. They let their minds meander. They occupy their time with something else. Anything would do. That is the fifth principle of the art of stalking.



Warriors compress time. This is the sixth principle of the art of stalking. Even an instant counts. In a battle for your life, a second is an eternity, an eternity that may decide the outcome. Warriors aim at succeeding, therefore they compress time. Warriors don't waste an instant.



In order to apply the seventh principle of the art of stalking, one has to apply the other six: a stalker never pushes himself to the front. He is always looking on from behind the scenes.



Applying these principles brings about three results. The first is that stalkers learn never to take themselves seriously. They learn to laugh at themselves. If they are not afraid of being a fool, they can fool anyone. The second is that stalkers learn to have endless patience. Stalkers are never in a hurry, they never fret. And the third is that stalkers learn to have an endless capacity to improvise.



Warriors face the oncoming time. Normally we face time as it recedes from us. Only warriors can change that and face time as it advances on them.



Warriors have only one thing in mind: their freedom. To die and be eaten by the Eagle is no challenge. On the other hand, to sneak around the Eagle and be free is the ultimate audacity.



When warriors talk about time, they are not referring to something which is measured by the movement of a clock. Time is the essence of attention. The Eagle's emanations are made out of time, and properly speaking, when a warrior enters into other aspects of the self, he is becoming acquainted with time.



A warrior can no longer weep. His only expression of anguish is a shiver that comes from the very depths of the universe. It is as if one of the Eagle's emanations were made out of pure anguish, and when it hits a warrior, the warrior's shiver is infinite.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "The Eagle's Gift".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "The Eagle's Gift".

It was a remarkable sensation for me to examine the quotations drawn from The Eagle's Gift. I felt immediately the hard coil of the intent of the shamans of ancient Mexico working as vividly as ever. I knew then, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the quotations from this book were ruled by their wheel of time. Further, I knew that this had been the case with everything I had done in the past, such as writing The Eagle's Gift, and that it is the case with everything I do, as in writing the present book.

Since I am at a loss to elucidate this matter, the only option open to me is to accept it in humbleness. The shamans of ancient Mexico did have another cognitive system at work, and from the units of that cognitive system, they still affect me today in the most positive, uplifting fashion.

Due to the effort of Florinda Matus, who engaged me in learning the most elaborate variations of standard shamanistic techniques devised by the shamans of ancient times, such as the recapitulation for instance, I was able to view my experiences with don Juan with a force I never could have imagined.

The corpus of my book, The Eagle's Gift, is the result of such views that I had of don Juan Matus. For don Juan Matus, to recapitulate meant to relive and rearrange everything of one's life in one single sweep. He never bothered with the minutiae of elaborate variations of that ancient technique. Florinda, on the other hand, had an entirely different meticulousness. She spent months coaching me to enter into aspects of recapitulating that I am to this day at a loss to explain.

"It is the vastness of the warrior which you are experiencing," she explained. "The techniques are there. Big deal. What is of supreme importance is the man using them, and his desire to go all the way with them."

To recapitulate don Juan in Florinda's terms resulted in views of don Juan of the most excruciating detail and meaning. It was infinitely more intense than talking to don Juan himself had been.

It was Florinda's pragmatism that gave me astounding insights into practical possibilities that were not in the least the concern of the nagual Juan Matus. Florinda, being a true woman pragmatist, had no illusions about herself; no dreams of grandeur. She said that she was a plower who could not afford to miss a single turn of the way.

"A warrior must go very slowly," she recommended, "and make use of every available item on the warriors' path. One of the most remarkable items is the capacity we all have as warriors to focus our attention with unwavering force on events lived. Warriors can even focus it on people they have never met. The end result of this deep focusing is always the same. It reconstructs the scene. Whole chunks of behavior, forgotten or brand new, make themselves available to a warrior. Try it."

I followed her advice, and of course, I focused on don Juan, and I remembered everything that had transpired at any given moment. I remembered details that I had no business remembering. Thanks to the work of Florinda, I was able to reconstruct enormous chunks of activity with don Juan; as well as details of tremendous importance that had bypassed me completely.

The spirit of the quotations from The Eagle's Gift was most shocking to me because the quotations revealed the profound emphasis that don Juan had put on the items of his world; on the warriors' way as the epitome of human accomplishment. That drive had survived his person, and was as alive as ever. Sometimes, I sincerely felt that don Juan had never left. I got to the point of actually hearing him moving around the house. I asked Florinda about it.

She said, "Oh, that's nothing. It's just the nagual Juan Matus's emptiness that reaches out to touch you, no matter where his awareness is at the moment."

Her answer left me more puzzled, more intrigued, and more despondent than ever. Although Florinda was the closest person to the nagual Juan Matus, they were astoundingly different. One thing that they both shared was the emptiness of their persons. They were no longer people. Don Juan Matus did not exist as a person. But what existed instead of his person was a collection of stories, each of them apropos to the situation he was discussing; didactic stories and jokes that bore the mark of his sobriety and his frugality.

Florinda was the same. She had stories upon stories. But her stories were about people. They were like a high form of gossip, or gossip elevated, due to her impersonality, to inconceivable heights of effectiveness and enjoyment.

"I want you to examine one man who bears a tremendous resemblance to you," she said one day to me. "I want you to recapitulate him as if you had known him all your life. This man was transcendental in the formation of our lineage. His name was Elias, the nagual Elias. I call him 'the nagual who lost heaven.'

"The story is that the nagual Elias was reared by a Jesuit priest who taught him to read and write and to play the harpsichord. He taught him Latin. The nagual Elias could read the scriptures in Latin as fluently as any scholar could. His destiny was to be a priest, but he was an Indian, and Indians in those days did not fit into clerical hierarchies. They were too awesome-looking, too dark, too Indian. Priests were from the upper social classes; descendants of Spaniards, with white skin, blue eyes. They were handsome; presentable. The nagual Elias was a bear in comparison. But he struggled long, kindled by his mentor's promise that God would see that he was accepted into the priesthood.

"He was the sexton [* sexton- an officer of the church who is in charge of sacred objects] of the church where his mentor was the parish priest, and one day, an actual witch walked in. Her name was Amalia. They say that she was a wild card. Be that as it may, she ended up seducing the poor sexton, who fell so deeply, so hopelessly in love with Amalia that he ended up in the hut of a nagual man. In time, he became the nagual Elias, a figure to reckon with, cultured, well-read. It seemed that the niche of nagual was made for him. It allowed him the anonymity and the effectiveness that was denied him in the world.

"He was a dreamer, and so good at it that he covered the most recondite places of the universe in a bodiless state. Sometimes he even brought back objects that had attracted his eye because of the lines of their design; objects that were incomprehensible. He called them 'inventions.' He had a whole collection of them.

"I want you to focus your recapitulation attention on those inventions," Florinda commanded me. "I want you to end up sniffing them, and feeling them with your hands, although you have never seen them except through what I am telling you now. To do this focusing means to establish a point of reference, as in an algebraic equation in which something is calculated by playing on a third element. You'll be able to see the nagual Juan Matus with infinite clarity, using someone else as a point of corroboration."

The corpus of the book The Eagle's Gift is a review in depth of what don Juan had done to me while he was in the world. The views that I had of don Juan due to my new recapitulation skills- using the nagual Elias as a point of corroboration- were infinitely more intense than any views that I had of him while he was alive.

The recapitulation views I was engaged in lacked the warmth of the living, but they had instead the precision and the accuracy of inanimate objects that one can examine to one's hearts content.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "The Fire from Within".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "The Fire from Within".


There is no completeness without sadness and longing, for without them there is no sobriety, no kindness. Wisdom without kindness and knowledge without sobriety are useless.



Self-importance is man's greatest enemy. What weakens him is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of his fellow men. Self-importance requires that one spend most of one's life offended by something or someone.



In order to follow the path of knowledge, one has to be very imaginative. On the path of knowledge, nothing is as clear as we'd like it to be.



If seers can hold their own in facing petty tyrants, they can certainly face the unknown with impunity, and then they can even withstand the presence of the unknowable.



What seems natural is to think that a warrior who can hold his own in the face of the unknown can certainly face petty tyrants with impunity. But that's not necessarily so. What destroyed the superb warriors of ancient times was to rely on that assumption.

Nothing can temper the spirit of a warrior as much as the challenge of dealing with impossible people in positions of power. Only under those conditions can warriors acquire the sobriety and serenity to withstand the pressure of the unknowable.



The unknown is something that is veiled from man, shrouded perhaps by a terrifying context, but which, nonetheless, is within man's reach. The unknown becomes the known at a given time. The unknowable, on the other hand, is the indescribable; the unthinkable; the unrealizable. It is something that will never be known to us, and yet it is there; dazzling and at the same time horrifying in its vastness.



We perceive. This is a hard fact. But what we perceive is not a fact of the same kind because we learn what to perceive.



Warriors say that we think there is a world of objects out there only because of our awareness. But what's really out there are the Eagle's emanations; fluid, forever in motion, and yet unchanged; eternal.



The deepest flaw of unseasoned warriors is that they are willing to forget the wonder of what they see. They become overwhelmed by the fact that they see and believe that it's their genius that counts. A seasoned warrior must be a paragon of discipline in order to override the nearly invincible laxness of our human condition. More important than seeing itself is what warriors do with what they see.



One of the greatest forces in the lives of warriors is fear, because it spurs them to learn.



For a seer, the truth is that all living beings are struggling to die. What stops death is awareness.



The unknown is forever present, but it is outside the possibility of our normal awareness. The unknown is the superfluous part of the average man. And it is superfluous because the average man doesn't have enough free energy to grasp it.



The greatest flaw of human beings is to remain glued to the inventory of reason. Reason doesn't deal with man as energy. Reason deals with instruments that create energy, but it has never seriously occurred to reason that we are better than instruments: We are organisms that create energy. We are bubbles of energy.



Warriors who deliberately attain total awareness are a sight to behold. That is the moment when they burn from within. The fire from within consumes them. In full awareness they fuse themselves to the emanations of the Eagle at large, and glide into eternity.



Once inner silence is attained, everything is possible. The way to stop talking to ourselves is to use exactly the same method used to teach us to talk to ourselves. We were taught compulsively and unwaveringly, and this is the way we must stop it: compulsively and unwaveringly.



Impeccability begins with a single act that has to be deliberate, precise, and sustained. If that act is repeated long enough, one acquires a sense of unbending intent which can be applied to anything else. If that is accomplished the road is clear. One thing will lead to another until the warrior realizes his full potential.



The mystery of awareness is darkness. Human beings reek of that mystery; of things which are inexplicable. To regard ourselves in any other terms is madness. So a warrior doesn't demean the mystery of man by trying to rationalize it.



Realizations are of two kinds. One is just pep talk; great outbursts of emotion and nothing more. The other is the product of a shift of the assemblage point: It is not coupled with an emotional outburst, but with action. The emotional realizations come years later after warriors have solidified, by usage, the new position of their assemblage points.



The worst that could happen to us is that we have to die, and since that is already our unalterable fate, we are free. Those who have lost everything no longer have anything to fear.



Warriors don't venture into the unknown out of greed. Greed works only in the world of ordinary affairs. To venture into the terrifying loneliness of the unknown, one must have something other than greed: love. One needs love for life; for intrigue; for mystery. One needs unquenchable curiosity and guts galore.



A warrior thinks only of the mysteries of awareness: Mystery is all that matters. We are living beings. We have to die and relinquish our awareness. But if we could change just a tinge of that, what mysteries must await us? What mysteries!





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "The Fire from Within".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "The Fire from Within".

The Fire from Within as a book was another of the end results of the influence of Florinda Matus on my life. She guided me to focus this time on don Juan's teacher, the nagual Julian. Both Florinda and my detailed focusing on the man revealed to me that the nagual Julian Osorio had been an actor of some merit- but more than an actor, he had been a licentious man, concerned exclusively with the seduction of women; women of any kind with whom he came in contact during his theatrical presentations. He was so extremely licentious that ultimately, his health failed, and he became infected with tuberculosis.

His teacher, the nagual Elias, found him one afternoon in an open field on the outskirts of the city of Durango, seducing the daughter of a wealthy landowner. Due to the exertion, the actor began to hemorrhage, and the hemorrhage became so heavy that he was on the brink of dying. Florinda said that the nagual Elias saw that there was no way for him to help him. To cure the actor was an impossibility, and the only thing that he could do as a nagual was to arrest the bleeding, which he did. He saw fit to make then a proposition to the actor.

"I'm leaving at five in the morning for the mountains," he said. "Be at the entrance of the town. Don't fail. If you fail to come, you will die, sooner than you think. Your only recourse is to go with me. I'll never be able to cure you, but I will be able to deviate your inexorable walk to the abyss that marks the end of life. All of us human beings go inexorably into that abyss sooner or later. I will head you off to walk the enormous extent of that crack, either to the left or to the right of it. As long as you don't fall, you will live. You'll never be well, but you'll live."

The nagual Elias didn't have great expectations about the actor, who was lazy, slovenly, self-indulgent, and perhaps even a coward. The nagual was quite surprised when the next day at five in the morning he found the actor waiting for him at the edge of the town. He took him to the mountains, and in time, the actor became the nagual Julian- a tubercular man who was never cured, but who lived to be perhaps one hundred and seven years old, always walking along the edge of the abyss.

"Of course, it is of supreme importance to you," Florinda said to me once, "that you examine the walk of the nagual Julian along the edge of the abyss. The nagual Juan Matus didn't care to know anything about it. To him, all of that was superfluous. You're not as talented as the nagual Juan Matus. Nothing can be superfluous for you as a warrior. You must allow the thoughts, the feelings, and the ideas of the shamans of ancient Mexico to come to you freely."

Florinda was right. I don't have the splendor of the nagual Juan Matus. Just as she had said, nothing could be superfluous to me. I needed every prop; every twist. I could not afford to bypass any of the views or ideas of the shamans of ancient Mexico no matter how far-fetched they might have seemed to me.

To examine the walk of the nagual Julian on the edge of the abyss meant that the ability to focus my recollection could be extended to the feelings that the nagual Julian had about his most extraordinary struggle to remain alive. I was shocked to the marrow of my bones to find out that the struggle of that man was a second-to-second fight; with his terrifying habits of indulging and his extraordinary sensuality pitted against his rigid adherence to survival.

His fight was not sporadic. It was a most sustained, disciplined struggle to remain balanced. 'Walking on the edge of the abyss' meant the battle of a warrior enhanced to such a degree that every second counted. One single moment of weakness would have thrown the nagual Julian into that abyss.

However, he kept his view, his emphasis, and his concern focused on what Florinda called the edge of the abyss, and the pressure eased. Whatever he was viewing was not as desperate as what he was viewing when his old habits began to take hold of him. It seemed to me that when I looked at the nagual Julian at those moments, I was recapitulating a different man; a man more peaceful, more detached, and more collected.





The Wheel Of Time: Quotations from "The Power of Silence".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Quotations from "The Power of Silence".


It isn't that a warrior learns shamanism as time goes by; rather, what he learns as time goes by is to save energy. This energy will enable him to handle some of the energy fields which are ordinarily inaccessible to him. Shamanism is a state of awareness; the ability to use energy fields that are not employed in perceiving the everyday-life world that we know.



In the universe there is an immeasurable, indescribable force which shamans call intent, and absolutely everything that exists in the entire cosmos is attached to intent by a connecting link. Warriors are concerned with discussing, understanding, and employing that connecting link. They are especially concerned with cleaning it of the numbing effects brought about by the ordinary concerns of their everyday lives. Shamanism at this level can be defined as the procedure of cleaning one's connecting link to intent.



Shamans are vitally concerned with their past, but not their personal past. For shamans, their past is what other shamans in bygone days have accomplished. They consult their past in order to obtain a point of reference. Only shamans genuinely seek a point of reference in their past. For them, establishing a point of reference means a chance to examine intent.



The average man also examines the past. But it's his personal past he examines for personal reasons. He measures himself against the past, whether his personal past or the past knowledge of his time, in order to find justifications for his present or future behavior; or to establish a model for himself.



The spirit manifests itself to a warrior at every turn. However, this is not the entire truth. The entire truth is that the spirit reveals itself to everyone with the same intensity and consistency, but only warriors are consistently attuned to such revelations.



Warriors speak of shamanism as a magical, mysterious bird which has paused in its flight for a moment in order to give man hope and purpose. Warriors live under the wing of that bird which they call the bird of wisdom; the bird of freedom.



For a warrior, the spirit is an abstract only because he knows it without words or even thoughts. It's an abstract because he can't conceive what the spirit is. Yet, without the slightest chance or desire to understand it, a warrior handles the spirit. He recognizes it, beckons it, entices it, becomes familiar with it, and expresses it with his acts.



The average man's connecting link with intent is practically dead, and warriors begin with a link that is useless because it does not respond voluntarily. In order to revive that link, warriors need a rigorous, fierce purpose- a special state of mind called unbending intent.



The power of man is incalculable: Death exists only because we have intended it since the moment of our birth. However, the intent of death can be suspended by making the assemblage point change positions.



The art of stalking is learning all the quirks of your disguise, and learning them so well that no one will know you are disguised. For that you need to be ruthless, cunning, patient and sweet. Ruthlessness should not be harshness, cunning should not be cruelty, patience should not be negligence, and sweetness should not be foolishness.



Warriors have an ulterior purpose for their acts, which has nothing to do with personal gain. The average man acts only If there is the chance for profit. Warriors act not for profit, but for the spirit.



The shaman seers of ancient times, through their seeing, first noticed that any unusual behavior produced a tremor in the assemblage point. They soon discovered that if unusual behavior is practiced systematically and directed wisely, it eventually forces the assemblage point to move.



Silent knowledge is nothing but direct contact with intent.



Shamanism is a journey of return. A warrior returns victorious to the spirit, having descended into hell. And from hell he brings trophies. Understanding is one of his trophies.



Warriors, because they are stalkers, understand human behavior to perfection. They understand, for instance, that human beings are creatures of inventory. Knowing the ins and cuts of a particular inventory is what makes a man a scholar or an expert in his field.



Warriors know that when an average person's inventory fails, the person either enlarges his inventory or his world of self-reflection collapses. The average person is able to incorporate new items into his inventory if the new items don't contradict the inventory's underlying order. But if the items contradict that order, the person's mind collapses. The inventory is the mind. Warriors count on this when they attempt to break the mirror of self-reflection.



Warriors can never make a bridge to join the people of the world. But, if people desire to do so, they have to make a bridge to join warriors.



In order for the mysteries of shamanism to be available to anyone, the spirit must descend onto whoever is interested. The spirit lets its presence by itself move the man's assemblage point to a specific position. This precise spot is known to shamans as the place of no pity.



There really is no procedure involved in making the assemblage point move to the place of no pity. The spirit touches the person and his assemblage point moves. It is as simple as that.



What we need to do to allow magic to get hold of us is to banish doubts from our minds. Once doubts are banished, anything is possible.



Man's possibilities are so vast and mysterious that warriors, rather than thinking about them, have chosen to explore them with no hope of ever understanding them.



Everything that warriors do is done as a consequence of a movement of their assemblage points, and such movements are ruled by the amount of energy warriors have at their command.



Any movement of the assemblage point means a movement away from an excessive concern with the individual self. Shamans believe it is the position of the assemblage point which makes modern man a homicidal egotist; a being totally involved with his self-image. Having lost hope of ever returning to the source of everything, the average man seeks solace in his selfishness.



The thrust of the warriors' way is to dethrone self-importance. And everything warriors do is directed toward accomplishing this goal.



Shamans have unmasked self-importance and found that it is self-pity masquerading as something else.



In the world of everyday life, one's word or one's decisions can be reversed very easily. The only irrevocable thing in the everyday world is death. In the shamans' world, on the other hand, normal death can be countermanded, but not the shamans' word. In the shamans' world decisions cannot be changed or revised. Once they have been made, they stand forever.



One of the most dramatic things about the human condition is the macabre connection between stupidity and self-reflection. It is stupidity that forces the average man to discard anything that does not conform with his self-reflective expectations.

For example, as average men, we are blind to the most crucial piece of knowledge available to a human being: the existence of the assemblage point and the fact that it can move.



For the rational man to hold steadfastly to his self-image ensures his abysmal ignorance. He ignores the fact that shamanism is not incantations and hocus-pocus, but rather the freedom to perceive not only the world taken for granted, but everything else that is humanly possible to experience. He trembles at the possibility of freedom. And freedom is at his fingertips.



Man's predicament is that he intuits his hidden resources, but he does not dare use them. This is why warriors say that man's plight is the counterpoint between his stupidity and his ignorance. Man needs now, more than ever, to be taught new ideas that have to do exclusively with his inner world- not social ideas; shamans' ideas pertaining to man facing the unknown, and facing his personal death. Now, more than anything else, he needs to be taught the secrets of the assemblage point.



The spirit listens only when the speaker speaks in gestures. And gestures do not mean signs or body movements, but acts of true abandon; acts of largesse; of humor. As a gesture for the spirit, warriors bring out the best of themselves and silently offer it to the abstract.





The Wheel Of Time: Commentary on "The Power of Silence".

Version 2006.05.20


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Commentary on "The Power of Silence".

The last book that I ever wrote about don Juan as a direct result of the guidance of Florinda Matus was called The Power of Silence; a title that was chosen by my editor. My title had been Inner Silence.

At the time that I was working on the book, the views of the shamans of ancient Mexico had become extremely abstract for me. Florinda tried her best to deviate me from my absorption in the abstract. She attempted to redirect my attention to different aspects of old shamanistic techniques, or she tried to divert me by shocking me with her scandalous behavior. But nothing was sufficient to deviate me from my seemingly inexorable drive.

The Power of Silence is an intellectual review of the thoughts of the shamans of ancient Mexico in their most abstract guise. As I worked alone on the book, I was contaminated by the mood of those men; by their desire to know more in a quasi-rational way. Florinda explained that in the end, those shamans had become extremely cold and detached. Nothing warm existed for them anymore. They were set in their quest: Their coldness as men was an effort to match the coldness of infinity. They had succeeded in changing their human eyes to match the cold eyes of the unknown.

I sensed this in myself, and tried desperately to turn the tide. I haven't succeeded yet. My thoughts have become more and more like the thoughts of those men at the end of their quest. It is not that I don't laugh. Quite the contrary, my life is an endless joy. But at the same time, it is an endless, merciless quest.

Infinity will swallow me, and I want to be prepared for it. I don't want infinity to dissolve me into nothing because I hold human desires, warm affection, and attachments, no matter how vague. More than anything else in this world, I want to be like those men. I never knew them. The only shamans I knew were don Juan and his cohorts, and what they expressed was the furthest thing from the coldness that I intuit in those unknown men.

Due to the influence that Florinda had on my life, I succeeded brilliantly in learning to focus my unwavering attention on the mood of people I never knew. But as I focused my recapitulation attention on the mood of those shamans, I got trapped by it without hope of ever extricating myself from their pull.

Florinda didn't believe in the finality of my state. She humored me, and laughed at it openly.

"Your state only seems to be final," she said to me, "but it isn't. A moment will come when you will change venues. Perhaps you will chuck every thought about the shamans of ancient Mexico. Perhaps you may even chuck the thoughts and views of the very shamans you worked with so closely, like the nagual Juan Matus. You might refuse his being.

"You'll see. The warrior has no limits. His sense of improvisation is so acute that he will make constructs out of nothing- not just mere empty constructs, but rather, something workable, and pragmatic.

"You'll see. It is not that you'll forget about them, but at one moment before you plunge into the abyss- if you have the gall to walk along its edge, and if you have the daring not to deviate from it- you will then arrive at warriors' conclusions of an order and stability infinitely more suited to you than the fixation of the shamans of ancient Mexico."

Florinda's words were like a handsome, hopeful prophecy. Perhaps she was right. She was of course right in asserting that the resources of a warrior have no limits.

The only flaw is that in order for me to have a different orderly view of the world and myself, a view even more suited to my temperament, I have to walk along the edge of the abyss, and I have doubts that I have the daring and strength to accomplish that feat.

But who is there to tell?




### "The Wheel of Time" - Copyright 1998 by Carlos Castaneda - The End ###





Magical Passes. ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.

Version 2007.10.22


Magical Passes Front Cover   Magical Passes Back Cover

Magical Passes. ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Practical Wisdom of the Shamans of Ancient Mexico.


"Shamans are not spiritual at all," don Juan said. "They are very practical beings. It is a well-known fact, however, that shamans are generally regarded as eccentric, or even insane. Perhaps that is what makes you think that they are spiritual.

"They seem insane because they are trying to explain things that cannot be adequately described with words. In the course of such futile attempts to give complete explanations that cannot be completed under any circumstances, they must touch on matters outside the understanding of the average man. So of course their explanations seem to be senseless."


Note: To avoid the risk of injury, consult your physician before beginning this or any physical movement program. Special caution is advised to pregnant women to consult a physician before practicing these movements. The instructions presented are in no way intended as a substitute for medical counseling. The Author, Publisher, and Copyright Holder of this work disclaim any liability or loss in connection with the movements described herein.


Photographs by Photo Vision and Graphics, Van Nuys, California


MAGICAL PASSES. Copyright (c) 1998 by Laugan Productions. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

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FIRST EDITION

Designed by Jessica Shatan

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Castaneda, Carlos

Magical Passes : the practical wisdom of the Shamans of ancient Mexico / Carlos Castaneda : photographs by Photo Vision and Graphics in Van Nuys, California. - 1st ed. p.   cm.

ISBN 0-06-017584-2

1. Shamanism - Mexico. 2. Exercise - Religious aspects. 3. Juan, Don, 1891- . 4. Castaneda, Carlos. 5. Mexico - Religion. 6. Indians of Mexico - Religion. I. Title. BF1622.M6C37 1998 97-26884

98 99 00 01 02 +/KKH 10987654 U I


 3 female tensegrity practitioners

The two female practitioners demonstrating the magical passes throughout the rest of the book are Kylie Lundahl and Miles Reid.



To every one of the practitioners of Tensegrity, who, by rallying their forces around it, have put me in touch with energetic formulations that were never available to don Juan Matus or the shamans of his lineage.    -CC



Contents.

  • Series Introductions.
    • Introduction.
    • Magical Passes.
    • Tensegrity.
    • Six Series of Tensegrity.

  • The First Series: The Series for Preparing Intent.
    • The First Group: Mashing Energy for Intent.
    • The Second Group: Stirring Up Energy for Intent.
    • The Third Group: Gathering Energy for Intent.
    • The Fourth Group: Breathing In the Energy of Intent

  • The Second Series: The Series for the Womb.
    • The First Group: Magical Passes Belonging to Taisha Abelar.
    • The Second Group: A Magical Pass Directly Related to Florinda Donner-Grau.
    • The Third Group: Magical Passes That Have to Do Exclusively with Carol Tiggs.
    • The Fourth Group: Magical Passes That Belong to the Blue Scout.

  • The Third Series: The Series of the Five Concerns Also Known As The Westwood Series.
    • The First Group: The Center for Decisions.
      • The Magical Passes for the Center for Decisions.
    • The Second Group: The Recapitulation.
      • The Magical Passes for the Recapitulation.
    • The Third Group: Dreaming.
      • The Magical Passes for Dreaming.
    • The Fourth Group: Inner Silence.
      • The Magical Passes that Aid the Attainment of Inner Silence.

  • The Fourth Series: The Separation of the Left Body and the Right Body Via The Heat Series.
    • The First Group: Stirring Energy on the Left Body and the Right Body.
    • The Second Group: Mixing Energy from the Left Body and the Right Body.
    • The Third Group: Moving the Energy of the Left Body and the Right Body with the Breath.
    • The Fourth Group: The Predilection of the Left Body and the Right Body.
      • The Five Magical Passes for the Left Body.
      • The Three Magical Passes for the Right Body.

  • The Fifth Series: The Masculinity Series.
    • The First Group: Magical Passes in Which the Hands Are Moved in Unison but Held Separately.
    • The Second Group: The Magical Passes for Focusing Tendon Energy.
    • The Third Group: The Magical Passes for Building Endurance.

  • The Sixth Series: Devices Used in Conjunction with Specific Magical Passes.
    • The First Category.
    • The Second Category.




Magical Passes: The Series Introductions.

Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Series Introductions.

  • Introduction.
  • Magical Passes.
  • Tensegrity.
  • Six Series Of Tensegrity.

Magical Passes: Series Introductions - Introduction.

Version 2006.05.30


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Series Introductions - Introduction.

Don Juan Matus, a master sorcerer- a nagual, as master sorcerers are called when they lead a group of other sorcerers- introduced me to the world of shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times.

Don Juan was an Indian who was born in Yuma, Arizona. His father was a Yaqui Indian from Sonora, Mexico, and his mother was presumably a Yuma Indian from Arizona. Don Juan lived in Arizona until he was ten years old. He was then taken by his father to Sonora, Mexico, where they were caught in the endemic Yaqui wars against the Mexicans. His father was killed, and as a ten-year-old child, don Juan ended up in Southern Mexico, where he grew up with relatives.

At the age of twenty, he came in contact with a master sorcerer. His name was Julian Osorio. He introduced don Juan into a lineage of sorcerers that was twenty-five generations long.

The nagual Julian was not an Indian at all, but the son of European immigrants to Mexico. Don Juan related to me that the nagual Julian had been an actor, and that he was a dashing person: a raconteur, a mime, adored by everybody, influential, commanding. In one of his theatrical tours to the provinces, the actor Julian Osorio fell under the influence of another nagual, Elias Ulloa, who transmitted to him the knowledge of his lineage of sorcerers.

Don Juan Matus, following the tradition of his lineage of shamans, taught some bodily movements which he called magical passes to his four disciples: Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Figgs, and me. He taught the passes to us in the same spirit in which they had been taught for generations; with one notable departure: he eliminated the excessive ritual which had for generations surrounded the teaching and performance of those magical passes.

Don Juan's comments in this respect were that ritual had lost its impetus as new generations of practitioners became more interested in efficiency and functionalism. He recommended to me, however, that under no circumstances should I talk about the magical passes with any of his disciples or with people in general. His reasons were that the magical passes pertained exclusively to each person, and that their effect was so shattering that it was better just to practice them without discussing them.

Don Juan Matus taught me everything he knew about the sorcerers of his lineage. He stated, asserted, affirmed, and explained to me every nuance of his knowledge. Therefore, everything I say about the magical passes is a direct result of his instruction.

The magical passes were not invented. They were discovered by the shamans of don Juan's lineage who lived in Mexico in ancient times while they were in shamanistic states of heightened awareness. The discovery of the magical passes was quite accidental. It began as very simple queries about the nature of an incredible sensation of well-being that those shamans experienced in those states of heightened awareness when they held certain bodily positions, or when they moved their limbs in some specific manner. Their sensation of well-being had been so intense that their drive to repeat those movements in their normal awareness became the focus of all their endeavors.

By all appearances, they succeeded in their task, and found themselves the possessors of a very complex series of movements that, when practiced, yielded them tremendous results in terms of mental and physical prowess. In fact, the results of performing these movements were so dramatic that they called them magical passes. They taught them for generations only to shaman initiates on a personal basis following elaborate rituals and secret ceremonies.

Don Juan Matus, in teaching the magical passes, departed radically from tradition. Such a departure forced don Juan to reformulate the pragmatic goal of the magical passes. He presented this goal to me not so much as the enhancement of mental and physical balance, as it had been in the past, but as the practical possibility of redeploying energy. He explained that such a departure was due to the influence of the two naguals who had preceded him.

It was the belief of the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage that there is an inherent amount of energy existing in each one of us; an amount which is not subject to the onslaughts of outside forces for augmenting it or for decreasing it. They believed that this quantity of energy was sufficient to accomplish something which those sorcerers deemed to be the obsession of every man on Earth: breaking the parameters of normal perception.

Don Juan Matus was convinced that our incapacity to break those parameters was induced by our culture and social milieu. He maintained that our culture and social milieu deployed every bit of our inherent energy in fulfilling established behavioral patterns which don't allow us to break those parameters of normal perception.

"Why in the world would I, or anyone else, want to break those parameters?" I asked don Juan on one occasion.

"Breaking those parameters is the unavoidable issue of mankind," he replied. "Breaking them means the entrance into unthinkable worlds of a pragmatic value in no way different from the value of our world of everyday life. Regardless of whether or not we accept this premise, we are obsessed with breaking those parameters, and we fail miserably at it; hence the profusion of drugs and stimulants and religious rituals and ceremonies among modern man."

"Why do you think we have failed so miserably, don Juan?" I asked.

"Our failure to fulfill our subliminal wish," he said, "is due to the fact that we tackle it in a helter-skelter way. Our tools are too crude: They are equivalent to trying to bring down a wall by ramming it with the head. Man never considers this breakage in terms of energy. For sorcerers, success is determined only by the accessibility or the inaccessibility energy.

"Since it is impossible," he continued, "to augment our inherent energy, the only avenue open for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was the redeployment of that inherent energy. For them, this process of redeployment began with the magical passes, and the way they affected the physical body."

While imparting his instructions, Don Juan stressed in every possible way the fact that the enormous emphasis the shamans of his lineage had put on physical prowess and mental well-being had lasted to the present day. I was able to corroborate the truth of his statements by observing him and his fifteen sorcerer companions. Their superb physical and mental balance was the most obvious feature about them.

I once asked him directly why sorcerers put so much stock in the physical side of man: I had always thought that he himself was a spiritual man. Don Juan's reply was a total surprise to me.

"Shamans are not spiritual at all," don Juan said. "They are very practical beings. It is a well-known fact, however, that shamans are generally regarded as eccentric, or even insane. Perhaps that is what makes you think that they are spiritual.

"They seem insane because they are trying to explain things that cannot be adequately described with words. In the course of such futile attempts to give complete explanations that cannot be completed under any circumstances, they must touch on matters outside the coherence of the average man. So of course their explanations seem to be senseless.

"You need," he went on, "a pliable body if you want physical prowess and level headedness. These are the two most important issues in the lives of shamans because they bring forth sobriety and pragmatism: the only indispensable requisites for entering into other realms of perception.

"To navigate in a genuine way in the unknown, requires an attitude of daring, but not one of recklessness. In order to establish a balance between audacity and recklessness, a sorcerer has to be extremely sober, cautious, skillful, and in superb physical condition."

"But why in superb physical condition, don Juan?" I asked. "Isn't the desire or the will to journey into the unknown enough?"

"Not in your pissy life!" he replied rather brusquely. "Just to conceive facing the unknown- much less entering into it- requires guts of steel, and a body that would be capable of holding those guts. What would be the point of being gutsy if you didn't have mental alertness, physical prowess, and adequate muscles?"

The superb physical condition that don Juan had steadily advocated from the first day of our association- the product of the rigorous execution of the magical passes- was, by all indications, the first step toward the redeployment of our inherent energy. This redeployment of energy was, in don Juan's view, the most crucial issue in the lives of shamans, as well as in the life of any individual.

Redeployment of energy is a process which consists of transporting, from one place to another, energy which already exists within us. This energy has been displaced from centers of vitality in the body, which require that displaced energy in order to bring forth a balance between mental alertness and physical prowess.

The shamans of don Juan's lineage were deeply engaged with the redeployment of their inherent energy. This involvement wasn't an intellectual endeavor; nor was it the product of induction, nor deduction, nor logical conclusions. It was the result of their ability to perceive energy as it flowed in the universe.

"Those sorcerers called this ability to perceive energy as it flowed in the universe 'seeing'," don Juan explained to me. "They described seeing as a state of heightened awareness in which the human body is capable of perceiving energy as a flow; a current; a wind like vibration. To see energy as it flows in the universe is the product of a momentary halt of the system of interpretation proper to human beings."

"What is this system of interpretation, don Juan?" I asked.

"The shamans of ancient Mexico found out," he replied, "that every part of the human body is engaged, in one way or another, in turning this vibratory flow into some form of sensory input. The sum total of this bombardment of sensory input is then, through usage, turned into the system of interpretation that makes human beings capable of perceiving the world the way they do.

"To make this system of interpretation come to a halt," he went on, "was the result of tremendous discipline on the part of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. They called this halt 'seeing', and made it the cornerstone of their knowledge. To see energy as it flowed in the universe was, for them, an essential tool that they employed in making their classificatory schemes.

For instance, they conceived the total universe available to the perception of human beings as an onion like affair, consisting of thousands of layers. The saw that the daily world of human beings is but one such layer. Consequently, they also saw that other layers are not only accessible to human perception, but are part of man's natural heritage."

Another issue of tremendous value in the knowledge of those sorcerers, an issue which was also a consequence of their capacity to see energy as it flowed in the universe, was the discovery of the human energetic configuration. This human energetic configuration was, for them, a conglomerate of energy fields agglutinated together by a vibratory force that bound those energy fields into a luminous ball of energy.

For the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, a human being has an oblong shape like an egg, or a round shape like a ball. Thus, they called them luminous eggs or luminous balls. This sphere of luminosity was considered by them to be our true self- true in the sense that it is irreducible in terms of energy. It is irreducible because the totality of human resources are engaged in the act of perceiving it directly as energy.

Those shamans discovered that on the back face of this luminous ball there is a point of greater brilliance. They figured out through their processes of observing energy directly that this point is key in the act of our turning energy into sensory data, and then our interpreting it. For this reason, they called it the assemblage point, and deemed that perception is indeed assembled there.

They described the assemblage point as being located behind the shoulder blades, an arm's length away from them. They also found out that the assemblage point for the entire human race is located on the same spot, thus giving every human being an entirely similar view of the world.

A finding of tremendous value for them, and for shamans of succeeding generations, was that the location of the assemblage point on that spot is the result of usage and socialization. For this reason, they considered it to be an arbitrary position which gives merely the illusion of being final and irreducible.

A product of this illusion is the seemingly unshakable conviction of human beings that the world they deal with daily is the only world that exists, and that its finality is undeniable.

"Believe me," don Juan said to me once, "this sense of finality about the world is a mere illusion. Due to the fact that it is never challenged, it stands as the only possible view. To see energy as it flows in the universe is the tool for challenging it.

"Through seeing, the sorcerers of my lineage arrived at the conclusion that there are indeed a staggering number of worlds available to man's perception. They described those worlds as being all-inclusive realms; realms where one can act and struggle. In other words, they are worlds where one can live and die, as in this world of everyday life."


During the thirteen years of my association with him, don Juan taught me the basic steps toward accomplishing this feat of seeing. I have discussed those steps in all of my previous writings, but never have I touched on the magical passes as a key point in this process.

He taught me a great number of them. But along with that wealth of knowledge, don Juan also left me with the certainty that I was the last link of his lineage.

Accepting that I was the last link of his lineage automatically implied for me the task of finding new ways to disseminate the knowledge of his lineage, since its continuity was no longer an issue.

I need to clarify a very important point in this regard: Don Juan Matus had not been interested in teaching his knowledge to the masses. He had been interested in perpetuating his lineage.

His three other disciples and I were chosen, he said, by the spirit itself. He had no active part in those choices. He said we were the means to ensure his lineage's perpetuation. Therefore, he engaged himself in a titanic effort to teach us all he knew about sorcery, or shamanism, and about the development of his lineage.

In the course of training me, he later came to realize that my energetic configuration was so vastly different from his own that it couldn't mean anything else but the end of his line. I told him that I resented enormously his interpretation of whatever invisible difference existed between us. I didn't like the burden of being the last of his line, nor did I understand his reasoning.

"The shamans of ancient Mexico," he said to me once, "believed that choice, as human beings understand it, is the precondition of the cognitive world of man, but that it is only a benevolent interpretation of something which is found when awareness ventures beyond the cushion of our world, a benevolent interpretation of acquiescence. Human beings are in the throes of forces that pull them every which way. The art of sorcerers is not really to choose, but to be subtle enough to acquiesce.

"Sorcerers, although they seem to make nothing else but decisions, make no decisions at all," he went on. "I didn't decide to choose you, and I didn't decide that you would be the way you are. Since I couldn't choose to whom I would impart my knowledge, I had to accept whomever the spirit was offering me. And that person was you, and you are energetically capable only of ending, not of continuing."

He maintained that the ending of his line had nothing to do with him or his efforts, or with his success or failure as a sorcerer seeking total freedom. He understood it as something that had to do with a choice exercised beyond the human level, not by beings or entities, but by the impersonal forces of the universe.

Finally, I came to accept what don Juan called my fate. Accepting it put me face to face with another issue that he referred to as locking the door when you leave. That is to say, I assumed the responsibility of deciding exactly what to do with everything he had taught me and carrying out my decision impeccably.

First of all, I asked myself the crucial question of what to do with the magical passes: the facet of don Juan's knowledge most imbued with pragmatism and function. I decided to use the magical passes, and teach them to whoever wanted to learn them. My decision to end the secrecy that had surrounded them for an undetermined length of time was, naturally, the corollary of my total conviction that I am indeed the end of don Juan's lineage.

It became inconceivable to me that I should carry secrets which were not even mine. To shroud the magical passes in secrecy was not my decision. It was my decision, however, to end such a condition.

I endeavored from then on to come up with a more generic form of each magical pass; a form suitable to everyone. This resulted in a configuration of slightly modified forms of each one of the magical passes. I have called this new configuration of movements Tensegrity; a term which belongs to architecture, where it means 'the property of skeleton structures that employ continuous tension members and discontinuous compression members in such a way that each member operates with the maximum efficiency and economy'.

In order to explain what the magical passes of the sorcerers who lived in Mexico in ancient times are, I would like to make a clarification: 'ancient times' meant, for don Juan, a time ten thousand years ago and beyond; a figure that seems incongruous if examined from the point of view of the classificatory schemes of modern scholars. When I confronted don Juan with the discrepancy between his estimate and what I considered to be a more realistic one, he remained adamant in his conviction. He believed it to be a fact that people who lived in the New World ten thousand years ago were deeply concerned with matters of the universe and perception that modern man has not even begun to fathom.

Regardless of our differing chronological interpretations, the effectiveness of the magical passes is undeniable to me, and I feel obligated to elucidate the subject strictly following the manner in which it was presented to me. The directness of their effect on me has had a deep influence on the way in which I deal with them. What I am presenting in this work is an intimate reflection of that influence.





Magical Passes: Series Introductions - Magical Passes.

Version 2006.05.30


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Series Introductions - Magical Passes.

The first time don Juan talked to me at length about magical passes was when he made a derogatory comment about my weight.

"You are way too chubby," he said, looking at me from head to toe shaking his head in disapproval. "You are one step from being fat. Wear and tear is beginning to show in you. Like any other member of our race, you are developing a lump of fat on your neck, like a bull. It's time that you take seriously one of the sorcerers' greatest findings: the magical passes."

"What magical passes are you talking about, don Juan?" I asked. "You never mentioned this topic to me before. Or, if you have, it must have been so lightly that I can't recall anything about it."

"Not only have I told you a great deal about magical passes," he said, "you know a great number of them already. I have been teaching them to you all along."

As far as I was concerned, it wasn't true that he had taught me any magical passes all along. I protested vehemently.

"Don't be so passionate about defending your wonderful self," he joked, making a ridiculous gesture of apology with his eyebrows. "What I meant to say is that you imitate everything I do, so I have been cashing in on your imitation capacity. I have shown you various magical passes, all along, and you have always taken them to be my delight in cracking my joints. I like the way you interpret them: cracking my joints! We are going to keep on referring to them in that manner.

"I have shown you ten different ways of cracking my joints," he continued. "Each one of them is a magical pass that fits to perfection my body and yours. You could say that those ten magical passes are in your line and mine. They belong to us personally and individually, as they belonged to other sorcerers who were just like the two of us in the twenty-five generations that preceded us."

The magical passes don Juan was referring to, as he himself had said, were ways in which I thought he cracked his joints. He used to move his arms, legs, torso, and hips in specific ways, I thought, in order to create a maximum stretch of his muscles, bones, and ligaments. The result of these stretching movements, from my point of view, was a succession of cracking sounds which I always thought that he was producing for my amazement and amusement. He, indeed, had asked me time and time again to imitate him. In a challenging manner, he had even dared me to memorize the movements and repeat them at home until I could get my joints to make cracking noises, just like his.

I had never succeeded in reproducing the sounds, yet I had definitely but unwittingly learned all the movements. I know now that not achieving that cracking sound was a blessing in disguise, because the muscles and tendons of the arms and back should never be stressed to that point. Don Juan was born with a facility to crack the joints of his arms and back, just as some people have the facility to crack their knuckles.

"How did the old sorcerers invent those magical passes, don Juan?" I asked.

"Nobody invented them," he said sternly. "To think that they were invented implies instantly the intervention of the mind, and this is not the case when it comes to those magical passes. They were, rather, discovered by the old shamans. I was told that it all began with the extraordinary sensation of well-being that those shamans experienced when they were in shamanistic states of heightened awareness. They felt such tremendous, enthralling vigor that they struggled to repeat it in their hours of vigil.

"At first," don Juan explained to me once, "those shamans believed that it was a mood of well-being that heightened awareness created in general. Soon, they found out that not all the states of shamanistic heightened awareness which they entered produced in them the same sensation of well-being. A more careful scrutiny revealed to them that whenever that sensation of well-being occurred, they had always been engaged in some specific kind of bodily movement. They realized that while they were in states of heightened awareness, their bodies moved involuntarily in certain ways, and that those certain ways were indeed the cause of that unusual sensation of physical and mental plenitude."

Don Juan speculated that it had always appeared to him that the movements that the bodies of those shamans executed automatically in heightened awareness were a sort of hidden heritage of mankind; something that had been put in deep storage to be revealed only to those who were looking for it. He portrayed those sorcerers as deep-sea divers who, without knowing it, reclaimed it.

Don Juan said that those sorcerers arduously began to piece together some of the movements they remembered. Their efforts paid off. They were capable of re-creating movements that had seemed to them to be automatic reactions of the body in a state of heightened awareness.

Encouraged by their success, they were capable of re-creating hundreds of movements which they performed without ever attempting to classify them into an understandable scheme. Their idea was that in heightened awareness, the movements happened spontaneously; and that there was a force that guided their effect without the intervention of their volition.

Don Juan commented that the nature of the ancient sorcerers' findings always led him to believe that those sorcerers were extraordinary people because the movements that they discovered were never revealed in the same fashion to modern shamans who also entered into heightened awareness.

He thought that perhaps this was because modern shamans had learned the movements beforehand in some fashion or another from their predecessors; or perhaps because the sorcerers of ancient times had more energetic mass.

"What do you mean, don Juan, that they had more energetic mass?" I asked. "Were they bigger men?"

"I don't think they were physically any bigger," he said, "but energetically, they appeared to the eye of a seer as an oblong shape. They called themselves luminous eggs. I have never seen a luminous egg in my life. All I have seen are luminous balls. It is presumable, then, that man has lost some energetic mass over the generations."

Don Juan explained to me that to a seer, the universe is composed of an infinite number of energy fields. They appear to the eye of the seer as luminous filaments that shoot out every which way. Don Juan said that those filaments crisscross through the luminous balls that human beings are, and that it was reasonable to assume that if human beings were once oblong shapes, like eggs, they were much higher than a ball. Therefore, energy fields that touched human beings at the crown of the luminous egg are no longer touching them now that they are luminous balls. Don Juan felt that this meant to him a loss of energy mass, which seemed to have been crucial for the purpose of reclaiming that hidden treasure: the magical passes.

"Why are the passes of the old shamans called magical passes, don Juan?" I asked him on one occasion.

"They are not just called magical passes," he said, "they are magical! They produce an effect that cannot be accounted for by means of ordinary explanations. These movements are not physical exercises or mere postures of the body: They are real attempts at reaching an optimal state of being.

"The magic of the movements," he went on, "is a subtle change that the practitioners experience on executing them. It is an ephemeral quality that the movement brings to their physical and mental states; a kind of shine; a light in the eyes. This subtle change is a touch of the spirit. It is as if the practitioners, through the movements, re-establish an unused link with the life force that sustains them."

He further explained that another reason that the movements are called magical passes is that by means of practicing them, shamans are transported in terms of perception to other states of being in which they can sense the world in an indescribable manner.

"Because of this quality, because of this magic," don Juan said to me, "the passes must be practiced not as exercises, but as a way of beckoning power."

"But can they be taken as physical movements, although they have never been taken as such?" I asked.

"You can practice them any way you wish," don Juan replied. "The magical passes enhance awareness, regardless of how you take them. The intelligent thing would be to take them as what they are: Magical passes that on being practiced lead the practitioner to drop the mask of socialization."

"What is the mask of socialization?" I asked.

"The veneer that all of us defend and die for," he said. "The veneer we acquire in the world. The one that prevents us from reaching all our potential. The one that makes us believe we are immortal. The intent of thousands of sorcerers permeates these movements. Executing them, even in a casual way, makes the mind come to a halt."

"What do you mean that they make the mind come to a halt?" I asked.

"Everything," he said, "that we do in the world, we recognize and identify by converting it into lines of similarity; lines of things that are strung together by purpose. For example, if I say to you fork, this immediately brings to your mind the idea of spoon, knife, tablecloth, napkin, plate, cup and saucer, glass of wine, chili con carne, banquet, birthday, fiesta. You could certainly go on naming things strung together by purpose, nearly forever. Everything we do is strung like this. The strange part for sorcerers is that they see that all these lines of affinity, all these hues of things strung together by purpose, are associated with man's idea that things are unchangeable and forever, like the word of God."

"I don't see, don Juan, why you bring the word of God into this elucidation. What does the word of God have to do with what you are trying to explain?"

"Everything!" he replied. "It seems to be that in our minds, the entire universe is like the word of God: absolute and unchanging. This is the way we conduct ourselves. In the depths of our minds, there is a checking device that doesn't permit us to stop to examine that the word of God, as we accept it and believe it to be, pertains to a dead world. A live world, on the other hand, is in constant flux. It moves. It changes. It reverses itself.

"The most abstract reason why the magical passes of the sorcerers of my lineage are magical," he went on, "is that in practicing them, the body of the practitioner realizes that everything, instead of being an unbroken chain of objects that have affinity for each other, is a current, a flux. And if everything in the universe is a flux or a current, that current can be stopped. A dam can be put on it, and in this manner its flux can be halted or deviated."

Don Juan explained to me on one occasion the overall effect that the practice of the magical passes had on the sorcerers of his lineage, and correlated this effect with what would happen to modern practitioners.

"The sorcerers of my lineage," he said, "were shocked half to death upon realizing that practicing their magical passes brought about the halt of the otherwise uninterrupted flux of things. They constructed a series of metaphors to describe this halt, and in their effort to explain it, or reconsider it, they flubbed it. They lapsed into ritual and ceremony. They began to enact the act of halting the flux of things. They believed that if certain ceremonies and rituals were focused on a definite aspect of their magical passes, the magical passes themselves would beckon a specific result. Very soon, the number and complexity of their rituals and ceremonies became more encumbering than the number of their magical passes.

"It is very important," he went on, "to focus the attention of the practitioner on some definite aspect of the magical passes. However, that fixation should be light, funny, and void of morbidity and grimness. They should be done for the hell of it without really expecting returns."

He gave the example of one of his cohorts, a sorcerer by the name of Silvio Manuel, whose delight and predilection was to adapt the magical passes of the sorcerers of ancient times to the steps of his modern dancing. Don Juan described Silvio Manuel as a superb acrobat and dancer who actually danced the magical passes.

"The nagual Elias Ulloa," don Juan continued, "was the most prominent innovator of my lineage. He was the one who threw all the ritual out the window, so to speak, and practiced the magical passes exclusively for the purpose for which they were originally used at one time in the remote past; for the purpose of redeploying energy.

"The nagud Julian Osorio, who came after him," don Juan continued, "was the one who gave ritual the final death blow. Since he was a bona fide professional actor who at one time had made his living acting in the theater, he put enormous stock into what sorcerers called the shamanistic theater. He called it the theater of infinity, and into it, he poured all the magical passes that were available to him. Every movement of his characters was imbued to the gills with magical passes. Not only that, but he turned the theater into a new avenue for teaching them. Between the nagual Julian, the actor of infinity, and Silvio Manuel, the dancer of infinity, they had the whole thing pegged down. A new era was on the horizon! The era of pure redeployment!"

Don Juan's explanation of redeployment was that human beings are perceived as conglomerates of energy fields; sealed energetic units that have definite boundaries which don't permit the entrance or the exit of energy. Therefore, the energy existing within that conglomerate of energy fields is all that each human individual can count on.

"The natural tendency of human beings," he said, "is to push energy away from the centers of vitality, which are located: on the right side of the body at the edge of the rib cage on the area of the liver and gallbladder; on the left side of the body, again, at the edge of the rib cage on the area of the pancreas and spleen; on the back directly behind the other two centers around the kidneys and above them on the area of the adrenal glands; at the base of the neck on the V spot made by the sternum and clavicle; and around the uterus and ovaries in women."

"How do human beings push this energy away, don Juan?" I asked.

"By worrying," he replied. "By succumbing to the stress of everyday life. The duress of daily actions takes its toll on the body."

"And what happens to this energy, don Juan?" I asked.

"It gathers on the periphery of the luminous ball," he said, "sometimes to the point of making a thick bark like deposit. The magical passes relate to the total human being as a physical body, and as a conglomerate of energy fields. They agitate the energy that has been accumulated in the luminous ball and return it to the physical body itself. The magical passes engage both the body itself as a physical entity that suffers the dispersion of energy, and the body as an energetic entity which is capable of redeploying that dispersed energy.

"Having energy on the periphery of the luminous ball," he continued, "energy that is not being redeployed, is as useless as not having any energy at all. It is truly a terrifying situation to have a surplus of energy stashed away; inaccessible for all practical purposes. It is like being in the desert, dying of dehydration, while you carry a tank of water that you cannot open, because you don't have any tools. In that desert, you can't even find a rock to bang it with."

The true magic of the magical passes is the fact that they cause crusted-down energy to enter again into the centers of vitality, hence the feeling of well-being and prowess which is the practitioner's experience.

The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage- before they entered into their excessive ritualism and ceremony- had formulated the basis for this redeployment. They called it saturation; meaning that they inundated their bodies with a profusion of magical passes in order to allow the force that binds us together to guide those magical passes to cause the maximum redeployment of energy.

I asked him once, without really meaning to be sarcastic, "But don Juan, are you telling me that every time you crack your joints, or every time I try to imitate you, we are really redeploying energy!"

"Every time we execute a magical pass," he replied, "we are indeed altering the basic structures of our beings. Energy which is ordinarily crusted down is released and begins to enter into the vortexes of vitality of the body. Only by means of that reclaimed energy can we put up a dike; a barrier to contain an otherwise uncontainable and always deleterious flow."

I asked don Juan to give me an example of putting a dam on what he was calling a deleterious flow. I told him that I wanted to visualize it in my mind.

"I'll give you an example," he said. "For instance, at my age, I should be prey to high blood pressure. If I went to see a doctor, the doctor, upon seeing me, would assume that I must be an old Indian, plagued with uncertainties, frustrations, and bad diet; all of this, naturally, resulting in a most expected and predictable condition of high blood pressure: an acceptable corollary of my age.

"I don't have any problems with high blood pressure," he went on, "not because I am stronger than the average man or because of my genetic frame, but because my magical passes have made my body break through any patterns of behavior that result in high blood pressure. I can truthfully say that every time I crack my joints following the execution of a magical pass, I am blocking off the flow of expectations and behavior that ordinarily result in high blood pressure at my age.

"Another example I can give you is the agility of my knees," he continued. "Haven't you noticed how much more agile I am than you? When it comes to moving my knees, I'm a kid! With my magical passes, I put a dam on the current of behavior and physicality that makes the knees of people, both men and women, stiff with age."

One of the most annoying feelings I had ever experienced was caused by the fact that don Juan Matus, although he could have been my grandfather, was infinitely younger than I. In comparison, I was stiff, opinionated, repetitious. I was senile.

He, on the other hand, was fresh, inventive, agile, and resourceful. In short, he possessed something which, although I was young, I did not possess: youth. He delighted in telling me repeatedly that young age was not youth, and that young age was in no way a deterrent to senility. He pointed out that if I watched my fellow men carefully and dispassionately, I would be able to corroborate that by the time they reached twenty years of age, they were already senile, repeating themselves inanely.

"How is it possible, don Juan," I said, "that you could be younger than I?"

"I have vanquished my mind," he said, opening his eyes wide to denote bewilderment. "I don't have a mind to tell me that it is time to be old. I don't honor agreements in which I didn't participate. Remember this: It is not just a slogan for sorcerers to say that they do not honor agreements in which they did not participate. To be plagued by old age is one such agreement."

We were silent for a long time. Don Juan seemed to be waiting, I thought, for the effect that his words might cause in me. What I thought to be my psychological unity was further ripped apart by a clearly dual response on my part. On one level, I repudiated with all my might the nonsense that don Juan was verbalizing; on another level, however, I couldn't fail to notice how accurate his remarks were.

Don Juan was old, and yet he wasn't old at all. He was ages younger than I. He was free from encumbering thoughts and habit patterns. He was roaming around in incredible worlds. He was free, while I was imprisoned by heavy thought patterns and habits; by petty and futile considerations about myself, which I felt on that occasion for the first time weren't even mine.


I asked don Juan on another occasion something that had been bothering me for a long time. He had stated that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico had discovered the magical passes as some sort of hidden treasure placed in storage for man to find. I wanted to know who would put something like that in storage for man. The only idea that I could come up with was derived from Catholicism. I thought of God doing it, or a guardian angel, or the Holy Spirit.

"It is not the Holy Spirit," he said, "which is only holy to you because you're secretly a Catholic. And certainly it is not God; a benevolent father as you understand God. Nor is it a goddess; a nurturing mother watching over the affairs of men as many people believe to be the case.

"It is rather an impersonal force that has endless things in storage for those who dare to seek them. It is a force in the universe; just as light and gravity are forces. This impersonal force is an agglutinate factor; a vibratory force that joins the conglomerate of energy fields that human beings are into one concise, cohesive unit. This vibratory force is the factor that does not allow the entrance or the exit of energy from the luminous ball.

"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico," he went on, "believed that the performance of their magical passes was the only factor that prepared and led the body to the otherworldly verification of the existence of that agglutinating force."

From don Juan's explanations, I derived the conclusion that the vibratory force he spoke about which agglutinates our fields of energy is apparently similar to what modern-day astronomers believe must happen at the core of all the galaxies that exist in the cosmos. They believe that at their cores, a force of incalculable strength holds the stars of galaxies in place. This force, called a 'black hole', is a theoretical construct which seems to be the most reasonable explanation as to why stars do not fly away, driven by their own rotational speeds.

Don Juan said that the old sorcerers knew that human beings, taken as conglomerates of energy fields, are held together not by energetic wrappings or energetic ligaments, but by some sort of vibration that renders everything at once alive and in place. Don Juan explained that those sorcerers, by means of their practices and their discipline, became capable of handling that vibratory force once they were fully conscious of it. Their expertise in dealing with it became so extraordinary that their actions were transformed into legends; mythological events that existed only as fables. For instance, one of the stories that don Juan told about the ancient sorcerers was that they were capable of dissolving their physical mass by merely placing their full consciousness and intent on that force.

Don Juan stated that, although they were capable of actually going through a pinhole if they deemed it necessary, they were never quite satisfied with the result of this maneuver of dissolving their mass. The reason for their discontent was that once their mass was dissolved, their capacity to act vanished. They were left with the ability of only witnessing events in which they were incapable of participating.

Their ensuing frustration, the result of being unable to act, turned, according to don Juan, into their damning flaw: their obsession with uncovering the nature of that vibratory force; an obsession driven by their concreteness, which made them want to hold and control that force. Their fervent desire was to strike from the ghostlike condition of masslessness; something which Jon Juan said could not ever be accomplished.

Modern-day practitioners, the cultural heirs of those sorcerers of antiquity, found out that it is not possible to be concrete and utilitarian about that vibratory force. Modern-day practitioners have opted for the only rational alternative: to become conscious of that force with no other purpose in sight except the elegance and well-being brought about by knowledge.

Don Juan said to me once, "The only permissible time when modern-day sorcerers use the power of this vibratory agglutinating force is when they burn from within; when the time comes for them to leave this world. It is simplicity itself for sorcerers to place their absolute and total consciousness on the binding force with the intent to burn; and off they go like a puff of air."





Magical Passes: Series Introductions - Tensegrity.

Version 2009.11.08


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Series Introductions - Tensegrity.

'Tensegrity' is the modern version of the magical passes of the shamans of ancient Mexico. The word Tensegrity is a most appropriate definition, because it is a mixture of the two terms 'tension' and 'integrity'. These terms express the two driving forces of the magical passes.

Tension is the activity created by contracting and relaxing the tendons and muscles of the body. Integrity is the act of regarding the body as a sound, complete, perfect unit.

Tensegrity is taught as a system of movements because that is the only manner in which the mysterious and vast subject of the magical passes could be faced in a modern setting. The people who now practice Tensegrity are not shaman practitioners in search of shamanistic alternatives that involve rigorous discipline, exertion, and hardships. Therefore, the emphasis of the magical passes has to be on their value as movements, and all the consequences that such movements bring forth.

Don Juan Matus explained that the ancient Mexican sorcerers of his lineage, in relating to the magical passes, first strove to saturate themselves with movement.

They arranged every posture and movement of the body that they could remember into groups. They believed that the longer the group, the greater its effect of saturation; and the greater the need for the practitioners to use their memory to recall it.

The shamans of don Juan's lineage, after arranging the magical passes into long groups and practicing them as sequences, deemed that this criterion of saturation had fulfilled its purposes, and they dropped it. From then on, what was sought was the opposite: the fragmentation of the long groups into single segments, which were practiced as individual, independent units. The manner in which don Juan Matus taught the magical passes to his four disciples- Taisha Abelar, Florinda Donner-Grau, Carol Figgs, and myself- was the product of this drive for fragmentation.

Don Juan's personal opinion was that the benefit of practicing the long groups was patently obvious; such practice forced the shaman initiates to use their kinesthetic memory. He considered the use of kinesthetic memory to be a real bonus, which those shamans had stumbled upon accidentally, and which had the marvelous effect of shutting off the noise of the mind: the internal dialogue.


Don Juan had explained to me that the way in which we reinforce our perception of the world, and keep it fixed at a certain level of efficiency and function, is by talking to ourselves.

"The entire human race," he said to me on one occasion, "keeps a determined level of function and efficiency by means of the internal dialogue. The internal dialogue is the key to maintaining the assemblage point stationary at the position shared by the entire human race: at the height of the shoulder blades, an arm's length away from them.

"By accomplishing the opposite of the internal dialogue," he went on, "that is to say, maintaining inner silence, practitioners can break the fixation of their assemblage points, and thus acquire an extraordinary fluidity of perception."


The practice of Tensegrity has been arranged around the performance of the long groups, which in Tensegrity have been renamed 'series' to avoid the generic implication of calling them just groups, as don Juan called them. In order to accomplish this arrangement, it was necessary to reestablish the criteria of saturation which had prompted the creation of the long groups. It took the practitioners of Tensegrity years of meticulous and concentrated work to reassemble a great number of the dismembered groups.

Reestablishing the criteria of saturation by performing the long series gave as a result something which don Juan had already defined as the modern goal of the magical passes: the redeployment of energy.

Don Juan was convinced that this had always been the unspoken goal of the magical passes even at the time of the old sorcerers. The old sorcerers didn't seem to have known this, but even if they did, they never conceptualized it in those terms. By all indications, what the old sorcerers sought avidly and experienced as a sensation of well-being and plenitude when they performed the magical passes was, in essence, the effect of unused energy being reclaimed by the centers of vitality in the body.

In Tensegrity, the long groups have been reassembled, and a great number of the fragments have been kept as single, functioning units. These single units have been strung together by purpose- for instance, the purpose of intending, or the purpose of recapitulation, or the purpose of inner silence, and so on- creating in this fashion the Tensegrity series. In this manner, a system has been achieved in which the best results are obtained by performing long sequences of movements that definitely tax the kinesthetic memory of the practitioners.

In every other respect, the way Tensegrity is taught is a faithful reproduction of the way in which don Juan taught the magical passes to his disciples. He inundated us with a profusion of detail, and let our minds be bewildered by the number and variety of magical passes taught to us; and let us be bewildered by the implication that each of the passes individually was a pathway to infinity.

His disciples spent years overwhelmed, confused, and above all despondent, because they felt that being inundated in such a manner was an unfair onslaught on them.

"When I teach you the magical passes," he explained to me once when I questioned him about the subject, "I am following the traditional sorcerers' device of clouding your linear view. By saturating your I kinesthetic memory, I am creating a pathway for you to inner silence.

"Since all of us," he continued, "are filled to the brim with the doings and undoings of the world of everyday life, we have very little room for kinesthetic memory. You may have noticed that you have none. When, you want to imitate my movements, you cannot remain facing me. You have to stand side by side with me in order to establish in your own body what's right and what's left.

"Now, if a long sequence of movements were presented to you, it would take you weeks of repetition to remember all the movements. While you're trying to memorize the movements, you have to make room for them in your memory by pushing other things out of the way. That was the effect that the old sorcerers sought."

Don Juan's contention was that if his disciples kept on doggedly practicing the magical passes in spite of their confusion, they would arrive at a threshold when their redeployed energy would tip the scales, and they would be able to handle the magical passes with absolute clarity.

When don Juan made those statements, I could hardly believe them. Nevertheless, at one moment, just as he had said, I ceased to be confused and despondent. In a most mysterious way, the magical passes, since they are magical, arranged themselves into extraordinary sequences that cleared up everything. Don Juan explained that the clarity I was experiencing was the result of the redeployment of my energy.


The concern of people practicing Tensegrity nowadays matches exactly my concern and the concern of don Juan's other disciples when we first began to perform the magical passes. They feel bewildered by the number of movements. I reiterate to them what don Juan reiterated to me over and over; that what is of supreme importance is to practice whatever Tensegrity sequence is remembered.

The saturation that has been carried on will give, in the end, the results sought by the shamans of ancient Mexico: the redeployment of energy, and its three concomitants the shutting off of the internal dialogue, the possibility for inner silence, and the fluidity of the assemblage point.

As a personal assessment, I can say that by saturating me with the magical passes, don Juan accomplished two formidable feats: One, he brought to the surface a flock of hidden resources that I had but didn't know existed- such as the ability to concentrate and the ability to remember detail; and two, he gently broke my obsession with my linear mode of interpretation.

When I questioned don Juan about what I was experiencing in this respect, he explained, "What is happening to you is that you are feeling the advent of inner silence when your internal dialogue has been minimally offset. A new flux of things has begun to enter into your field of perception. These things were always there on the periphery of your general awareness, but you never had enough energy to be deliberately conscious of them. As you chase away your internal dialogue, other items of awareness begin to fill in the empty space, so to speak.

"The new flux of energy," he went on, "which the magical passes have brought to your centers of vitality is making your assemblage point more fluid. Your assemblage point is no longer rigidly palisaded. You are no longer driven by our ancestral fears which make us incapable of taking a step in any direction. Sorcerers say that energy makes us free, and that is the absolute truth."

The ideal state of Tensegrity practitioners in relation to the Tensegrity movements is the same as the ideal state of a practitioner of shamanism in relation to the execution of the magical passes. Both are being led by the movements themselves into an unprecedented culmination. From there, the practitioners of Tensegrity will be able to execute- by themselves and for whatever effect they see fit without any coaching from outside sources- any movement from the bulk of movements with which they have been saturated. They will be able to execute any movement with precision and speed as they walk, or eat, or rest, or do anything; because they will have the energy to do so.

The execution of the magical passes, as shown in Tensegrity, doesn't necessarily require a particular space or prearranged time. However, the movements should be done away from sharp currents of air. Don Juan dreaded currents of air on a perspiring body. He firmly believed that not every current of air was caused by the rising or lowering of temperature in the atmosphere, and that some currents of air were actually caused by conglomerates of consolidated energy fields moving purposefully through space.

Don Juan was convinced that such conglomerates of energy fields possessed a specific type of awareness particularly deleterious because human beings cannot ordinarily detect them and become exposed to them indiscriminately. The deleterious effect of such conglomerates of energy fields is especially prevalent in a large metropolis where they could be easily disguised as, if nothing else, the momentum created by the speed of passing automobiles.

Something else to bear in mind when practicing Tensegrity is that since the goal of the magical passes is something foreign to Western man, an effort should be made to keep the practice of Tensegrity detached from the concerns of our daily world. The practice of Tensegrity should not be mixed with elements with which we are already thoroughly familiar, such as conversation, music, or the sound of a radio or TV newsman reporting the news, no matter how muffled the sound might be.

The setting of modern urban life facilitates the formation of groups, and under these circumstances, the only manner in which Tensegrity can he taught and practiced in the seminars and workshops is in groups of practitioners. Practicing in groups is beneficial in many aspects and deleterious in others. It is beneficial because it allows the creation of a consensus of movement and the opportunity to learn by examination and comparison. It is deleterious because it fosters the reliance on others, and the emergence of syntactic commands and solicitations dealing with hierarchy.

Don Juan conceived that since the totality of human behavior was ruled by language, human beings have learned to respond to what he called syntactic commands, praising or deprecatory formulas built into language- for example, the responses that each individual makes, or elicits in others, with slogans such as: No problem, Piece of cake, It's time to worry, You could do better, I can't do it, My butt is too big, I'm the best, I'm the worst in the world, I could live with that, I'm coping, Everything's going to be okay, etc., etc. Don Juan maintained that what sorcerers have always wanted, as a basic rule of thumb, is to run away from activities derived from syntactic commands.

Originally, as don Juan described it, the magical passes were performed by the shamans of ancient Mexico individually and in solitariness, on the spur of the moment, or as the necessity arose. He taught them to his disciples in the same fashion. Don Juan stated that for the shaman practitioners, the challenge of performing the magical passes has always been to execute them perfectly; holding in mind only the abstract view of their perfect execution. Ideally, Tensegrity should be taught and practiced in the same fashion.

However, the conditions of modern life and the fact that the goal of the magical passes has been formulated to apply to a great number of people make it imperative that a new approach be taken. Tensegrity should be practiced in whatever form is easiest: either in groups, or alone, or both.

In my particular case, the practice of Tensegrity in very large groups has been more than ideal because it has given me the unique opportunity of witnessing something which don Juan Matus and all the sorcerers of his lineage never did: the effects of human mass. Don Juan and all the shamans of his lineage, which he considered to be twenty-seven generations long, never were capable of witnessing the effects of human mass. They practiced the magical passes alone or in groups of up to five practitioners. For them, the magical passes were highly individualistic.

If the number of Tensegrity practitioners is in the hundreds, an energetic current is nearly instantaneously formed among them. This energetic current, which a shaman could easily see, creates in the practitioners a sense of urgency. It is like a vibratory wind that sweeps through them, and gives them the primary elements of purpose. I have been privileged to see something I considered to be a portentous sight: the awakening of purpose; the energetic basis of man. Don Juan Matus used to call this unbending intent. He taught me that unbending intent is the essential tool of those who journeyed into the unknown.

A very important issue to consider when practicing Tensegrity is that the movements must be executed with the idea that the benefit of the magical passes comes by itself. This idea must be stressed at any cost. At the beginning, it is very difficult to discern the fact that Tensegrity is not a standard system of movements for developing the body. It indeed develops the body, but only as a by-product of a more transcendental effect. By redeploying unused energy, the magical passes can conduce the practitioner to a level of awareness in which the parameters of normal, traditional perception are canceled out by the fact that they are expanded. The practitioner can thus be allowed even to enter into unimaginable worlds.

"But why would I want to enter into those worlds?" I asked don Juan when he described this post-effect of the magical passes.

"Because you are a creature of awareness; a perceiver, like the rest of us," he said. "Human beings are on a journey of awareness which has been momentarily interrupted by extraneous forces. Believe me, we are magical creatures of awareness. If we don't have this conviction, we have nothing."

He further explained that human beings, from the moment their journey of awareness was interrupted, have been caught in an eddy, so to speak, and are spinning around, having the impression of moving with the current, and yet remaining stationary.

"Take my word," don Juan went on, "because mine are not arbitrary statements. My word is the result of corroborating for myself what the shamans of ancient Mexico found out: that we human beings are magical beings."

It has taken me thirty years of hard discipline to come to a point where don Juan's statements are recognizable, and their validity is established beyond the shadow of a doubt. I know now that human beings are creatures of awareness involved in an evolutionary journey of awareness; beings indeed unknown to themselves; filled to the brim with incredible resources that can be used.





Magical Passes: Series Introductions - Six Series Of Tensegrity.

Version 2006.05.30


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Series Introductions - Six Series Of Tensegrity.

The six series which are going to be discussed are the following:

1. The Series for Preparing Intent

2. The Series for the Womb

3. The Series of the Five Concerns: The Westwood Series

4. The Separation of the Left Body and the Right Body: The Heat Series

5. The Masculinity Series

6. The Series for Devices Used in Conjunction with Specific Magical Passes




The particular magical passes of Tensegrity that comprise each of the six series conform with a criterion of maximum efficiency. In other words, each magical pass is a precise ingredient of a formula. This is a replica of the way in which the long series of magical passes were originally used: Each series was sufficient in itself to produce the maximum release of redeployable energy.

In executing the magical passes, there are certain things that must be taken into consideration in order to perform the movements with maximum efficiency:


  1. All the magical passes of the six series can be repeated as many times as desired, unless otherwise specified. If they are first done with the left side of the body, they must be repeated an equal number of times with the right side. As a rule, every magical pass of the six series begins with the left side.


  2. The feet are kept separate by a distance equivalent to the shoulders' width. This is a balanced way to distribute the weight of the body. If the legs are spread too far apart, the balance of the body is impaired. The same thing happens if they are too close together. The best way to arrive at this distance is to begin from a position where the two feet are close together (fig. 1). The tips of the feet are then pivoted on the fixed heels and opened in a letter V shape (fig. 2). Shifting the weight to the tips of the feet, the heels are pivoted out to the sides an equal distance (fig. 3). The tips of the feet are brought into parallel alignment, and the distance between the feet is roughly the width of the shoulders. Further adjustment may be necessary here in order to reach that desired width and to get the optimal balance of the body.


  3. During the execution of all the magical passes of Tensegrity, the knees are kept slightly bent, so that when one is looking down, the kneecaps block the view of the tips of the feet (figs. 4, 5), except in the case of specific magical passes in which the knees have to be locked. Such cases are indicated in the description of those passes. To have the knees locked doesn't mean that the hamstrings are injuriously tense, but rather that they are locked in a gentle way, without unnecessary force.

    This position of bending the knees is a modern addition to the execution of the magical passes; one that stems from influences of recent times. One of the leaders of don Juan Matus's lineage was the nagual Lujan, a sailor from China whose original name was something like Lo Ban.

    He came to Mexico around the turn of the nineteenth century, and stayed there for the rest of his life. One of the women sorcerers in don Juan Matus's own party went to the Orient and studied martial arts. Don Juan Matus himself recommended that his disciples learn to move in a disciplined fashion by taking up some form of martial arts training.

    Another issue to consider in reference to the slightly bent knees is that when the legs are moved forward in a kicking motion, the knees are never whipped. Rather, the whole leg should be moved by the tension of the muscles of the thighs. Moving in this fashion, the tendons of the knees are never injured.


  4. The back muscles of the legs must be tensed (fig. 6). This is a very difficult accomplishment. Most people can learn quite easily to tense the front muscles of the legs, but the back muscles of the legs still remain flaccid. Don Juan said that the back muscles of the thighs are where personal history is always stored in the body. According to him, feelings find their home there and get stagnant. He maintained that difficulty in changing behavior patterns could be easily attributed to the flaccidity of the back muscles of the thighs.


  5. While performing all these magical passes, the arms are always kept slightly bent at the elbows- never fully extended- when they are moved to strike, preventing, in this manner, the tendons of the elbows from becoming irritated (fig. 7).


  6. The thumb must always be kept in a locked position, meaning that it is folded over the edge of the hand. It should never stick out (fig. 8). The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage considered the thumb to be a crucial element in terms of energy and function. They believed that at the base of the thumb exist points where energy can become stagnant, and points that can regulate the flow of energy in the body. In order to avoid unnecessary stress on the thumb or injury resulting from jolting the hand forcefully, they adopted the measure of pressing the thumbs against the inside edges of the hands.


  7. When the hand is made into a fist, the little finger is raised to avoid an angular fist (fig. 9) in which the middle, fourth, and fifth fingers droop. The idea is that in making a square fist (fig. 10), the fourth and fifth fingers have to be raised, thus creating a peculiar tension in the axilla, a tension which is most desirable for general well-being.


  8. The hands, when they have to be opened, are fully extended. The tendons of the back of the hand are at work, presenting the palm as an even, flat surface (fig. 11). Don Juan preferred a flat palm to counteract the tendency (established, he felt, through socialization) to present the hand as a hollow palm (fig. 12). He said that a hollow palm was the palm of a beggar, and that whoever practices the magical passes is a warrior, not a beggar in the least.


  9. When the fingers have to be contracted at the second knuckle and bent tightly over the palm, the tendons on the back of the hand are tensed to the maximum, especially the tendons of the thumb (fig. 13). This tension of the tendons creates a pressure on the wrists and forearms, areas which sorcerers of ancient Mexico believed were key in promoting health and well-being.


  10. In many Tensegrity movements, the wrists have to be bent forward or backward to an approximately ninety-degree angle by contracting the tendons of the forearm (fig. 14). This bending must be accomplished slowly, because most of the time the wrist is quite inflexible, and it is important that the wrist acquire the flexibility to turn the back of the hand to make a maximum angle with the forearm.


  11. Another important issue in the practice of Tensegrity is an act which has been termed turning the body on. This is a unique act in which all the muscles of the body, and specifically the diaphragm, are contracted in one instant. The muscles of the stomach and abdomen are jolted, as are the muscles around the shoulders and shoulder blades. The arms and legs are tensed in unison with equal force, but only for an instant (figs. 15, 16). As practitioners of Tensegrity progress in their practice, they can learn to sustain this tension for a while longer.

    Turning the body on has nothing to do with the state of perennial bodily tension that seems to be the mark of our times. When the body is tense with preoccupation or overwork, and the muscles of the neck are as hard as they can be, the body is not in any way turned on. Relaxing the muscles or arriving at a state of tranquillity is not turning the body off, either. The idea of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was that with their magical passes, the body was alerted: It was made to be ready for action. Don Juan Matus termed this condition turning the body on. He said that when the muscular tension of turning the body on ceases, the body is turned off naturally.


  12. Breath and breathing were, according to don Juan, of supreme importance for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico. They divided breath into breathing with the tops of the lungs, breathing with the midsection of the lungs, and breathing with the abdomen (figs. 17, 18, 19). Breathing by expanding the diaphragm they called the animal breath, and they practiced it assiduously, don Juan said, for longevity and health.

    It was don Juan Matus's belief that many of the health problems of modern man could be easily corrected by deep breathing. He maintained that the tendency of human beings nowadays is to take shallow breaths. One of the aims of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was to train their bodies, by means of the magical passes, to inhale and exhale deeply.

    It is highly recommended, therefore, in the movements of Tensegrity that call for deep inhalations and exhalations, that these be accomplished by slowing down the inflow or outflow of air in order to make the inhalations and exhalations longer and more profound.

    Another important issue concerning the breathing in Tensegrity is that breathing is normal while executing the Tensegrity movements, unless otherwise specified in the description of any given magical pass.


  13. Another consideration in performing the Tensegrity movements is the realization that has to come to practitioners that Tensegrity is in essence the interplay between relaxing and tensing the muscles of choice parts of the body in order to arrive at a most coveted physical explosion, which the sorcerers of ancient Mexico knew only as the energy of the tendons. This is a veritable explosion of the nerves and tendons below or at the core of the muscles.

    Given that Tensegrity is the tension and relaxation of muscles, the intensity of the muscle tension, and the length of time that the muscles are kept in that state in any given magical pass, depends on the strength of the participant. It is recommended that at the beginning of the practice, the tension be minimal and the length of time as brief as possible. As the body gets warmer, the tension should become greater and the length of time extended, but always in a moderate fashion.





Magical Passes: The First Series - The Series for Preparing Intent

Version 2006.05.30


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The First Series: Introduction - The Series for Preparing Intent.

  • The First Group: Mashing Energy for Intent.
  • The Second Group: Stirring Up Energy for Intent.
  • The Third Group: Gathering Energy for Intent.
  • The Fourth Group: Breathing In the Energy of Intent.


Don Juan Matus stated that human beings as organisms perform a stupendous maneuver of perception which, unfortunately, creates a misconception; a false front. Human beings take the influx of sheer energy in the universe at large and turn it into sensory data which they interpret according to a strict system of interpretation that sorcerers call the human form. This magical act of interpreting pure energy gives rise to a misconception; the peculiar conviction of human beings that their interpretation system is all that exists.

Don Juan elucidated this phenomenon with an example. He said that tree, as tree is known to human beings, is more interpretation than perception. He pointed out that for human beings to establish the presence of tree, all they need is a cursory glance that tells them hardly anything. The rest is a phenomenon which he described as the calling of intent; the intent of tree; that is to say, the interpretation of sensory data pertaining to the specific phenomenon that human beings call tree.

He declared that, just as in the tree example, the entire world of human beings is composed of an endless repertoire of interpretations where human senses play a minimal role. In other words, only the visual sense touches the energy influx which comes from the universe at large, and it does so only in a cursory fashion.

He maintained that the majority of the perceptual activity of human beings is interpretation, and that human beings are the kind of organisms that need only a minimal input of pure perception in order to create their world; or, that they perceive only enough to trigger their interpretation system.

The example that don Juan liked the best was the way in which he said we construct, by intending, something as overwhelming and as crucial as the White House.

He called the White House the site of power of today's world, the center of all our endeavors, hopes, fears, and so on, as a global conglomerate of human beings- for all practical purposes, the capital of the civilized world. He said that all this wasn't in the realm of the abstract, or even in the realm of our minds, but in the realm of intending, because from the point of view of our sensory input, the White House was a building that in no way had the richness, the scope, or the depth of the concept of the White House. He added that from the point of view of the input of sensory data, the White House, like everything else in our world, was cursorily apprehended with our visual senses only; our tactile, olfactory, auditory, and taste senses were not engaged in any way. The interpretation that those senses could make of sensory data in relation to the building where the White House is would have no meaning whatsoever.

The question that don Juan asked as a sorcerer was where the White House was. He said, answering his own question, that it was certainly not in our perception, not even in our thoughts, but in a special realm of intending, where it was nurtured with everything pertinent to it. Don Juan's assertion was that to create a total universe of intending in such a manner was our magic.


Since the theme of the first series of Tensegrity is preparing the practitioners for intending, it's important to review the sorcerers' definition of intending.

For don Juan, intending was the unstated and unrealized act of filling out the empty spaces left from direct sensory perception; or the act of enriching observable phenomena by means of intending a completeness that doesn't exist from the point of view of pure perception.

The act of intending this completeness was referred to by don Juan as 'calling intent'. Everything he explained about intent pointed to the fact that the act of intending is not in the realm of the physical. In other words, it is not part of the physicality of the brain or any other organ. Intent, for don Juan, transcended the world we know. It is something like an energetic wave, a beam of energy which attaches itself to us.

Because of the extrinsic nature of intent, don Juan made a distinction between the body as part of the cognition of everyday life, and the body as an energetic unit which was not part of that cognition.

This energetic unit of our bodies outside normal awareness included: the unseen parts of the body, such as the internal organs; and the energy that flowed through them. Don Juan asserted that it was with this part of our totality that energy could be directly perceived.

He pointed out that because of the predominance of sight in our habitual way of perceiving the world, the shamans of ancient Mexico described the act of directly apprehending energy as 'seeing'.

For them to perceive energy as it flowed in the universe meant this: Since energy at large is independent of us as individuals, and is arranged in specific configurations that repeats itself consistently, those configurations could be perceived in the same terms by anyone who sees.

The most important example don Juan Matus could give of this consistency of energy in adopting specific configurations was the perception of the human body when it was seen directly as energy. As it was already said, shamans like don Juan perceive a human being as a conglomerate of energy fields that gives the total impression of a clear-cut sphere of luminosity.

Taken in this sense, energy is described by shamans as a vibration that agglutinates itself into cohesive units. Shamans describe the entire universe as being composed of energy configurations that appear to the seeing eye as filaments, or luminous fibers that are strung in every which way without ever being entangled. This is an incomprehensible proposition for the linear mind. It has a built-in contradiction that can't be resolved: How could those fibers extend themselves every which way and yet not be entangled?

Don Juan emphasized the point that shamans were able only to describe events, and that if their terms of description seemed inadequate and contradictory, it was because of the limitations of syntax. Yet their descriptions were as strict as anything could be.

The shamans of ancient Mexico, according to don Juan, described intent as a perennial force that permeates the entire universe- a force that is aware of itself to the point of responding to the beckoning or to the command of shamans. By means of intent, those shamans were capable of unleashing not only all the human possibilities of perceiving, but all the human possibilities of action. Through intent, they realized the most far-fetched formulations.


Don Juan taught me that the limit of man's capability of perceiving is called the band of man, meaning that there is a boundary that marks human capabilities as dictated by the human organism. These boundaries are not merely the traditional boundaries of orderly thought, but the boundaries of the totality of resources locked within the human organism.

The bulk of these resources are never used, and are kept out of our normal awareness by our preconceived ideas about human limitations; limitations that have nothing to do with actual human potential.

Don Juan stated as categorically as he was able to that since perceiving energy as it flows in the universe is not arbitrary or idiosyncratic, seers witness formulations of energy that happen by themselves and are not molded by human interference. Thus, the perception of such formulations is, in itself and by itself, the key that releases the locked-in human potential that ordinarily has never entered into play. In order to elicit the perception of those energetic formulations, the totality of human capabilities to perceive has to be engaged.


The Series for Preparing Intent is divided into four groups. The first is called Mashing Energy for Intent. The second is called Stirring Up Energy for Intent. The third group is called Gathering Energy for Intent, and the fourth group is called Breathing In the Energy of Intent.





Magical Passes: The First Series: First Group: Mashing Energy for Intent.

Version 2006.05.30


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The First Series: First Group - Mashing Energy for Intent.

Don Juan gave me explanations which covered all the nuances of every group of magical passes which are the core of the long Tensegrity Series.


"Energy which is essential for handling intent," he said when he was explaining to me the energetic implications of this group, "is continuously dispelled from the vital centers located around the liver, pancreas, and kidneys; and settles down at the bottom of the luminous sphere that we are.

"This energy ought to be constantly stirred and rerouted. The sorcerers of my lineage were very emphatic in recommending a systematic and controlled stirring of energy with the legs and feet. However, long walks, which were an unavoidable feature of their lives, resulted in an excessive stirring of energy which served no purpose."

In don Juan's view, energy for intending that was stirred up excessively ended up further depleting the centers of vitality, and long walks were their nemesis for this reason.

The inflow of excessive energy had to be balanced by the execution of specific magical passes performed while they were walking.


Don Juan Matus told me that this set of fifteen magical passes functions to stir energy with the feet and legs, and was considered by the shamans of his lineage to be the most effective way of doing what they called 'mashing energy'. He stated that each of the steps is a magical pass which has a built-in control for the mashing of energy. Practitioners can repeat these magical passes hundreds of times, if they so desire, without worrying about an excessive stirring of energy.




The first five magical passes of this group allow practitioners a quick surge of energy, in cases when energy is needed in the midsection or the groin, or, for instance, when they need to perform a long-distance run or a quick climbing of rocks or trees.


1. Grinding Energy with Three Toe Pivots of the Feet

Among other things, this pass is used to gain balance for the passes which follow.

The feet start about shoulder length apart pointing straight ahead. The body pivots on the balls of the feet from right to left and left to right in unison. The heels are slightly off the ground while swiveling, and touch the ground when the feet reach the maximum slant.

The first movement is to the left. After the third touch of the heels to the right, the feet return to a straight position.

For each of the first three passes, there is a pause that lasts an instant, and then the feet are swiveled three times again. The effect of these passes is increased by making the grinding of energy a discontinuous affair.

It is important to notice that in all the first three magical passes of this series, a key issue is the engagement of the arms, which move back and forth briskly.

The arms are kept bent at the elbows with the hands pointing out, palms facing each other. The arms move with an impulse from the shoulders and the shoulder blades. This movement of the arms in unison with the legs, as in walking (the right arm moves when the left leg moves, and vice versa), accounts for a total engagement of the limbs and the internal organs (figs. 20, 21).

A physical by-product of grinding energy in this fashion is an increase in circulation in the feet, calves, and thighs up to the groin area. Shamans throughout the centuries have also used it to restore flexibility to limbs that were injured in daily use.


2. Grinding Energy with Three Heel Pivots of the Feet

In the second pass, the weight of the body is shifted to the heels, and the pivoting is done on them with the toes slightly off the ground while swiveling, and touching the ground when the feet reach the maximum slant.

The feet are swiveled on the heels, in the same manner as in the previous magical pass, three times.

A physical by-product of this magical pass is a quick surge of energy for instances of running or fleeing danger, or for anything that requires a quick intervention.


3. Grinding Energy by a Sideways Slide of the Feet

Both feet, pivoting on the heels, move to the left; they pivot on the balls of the feet to the left again. Next, they pivot a third time, still to the left, but on the heels again (figs. 22, 23, 24). The sequence is reversed by pivoting on the heels to the right; next, on the balls of the feet to the right; and then on the heels again, to the right.

A physical consequence of these three magical passes is the spurring of the circulation in the total body.


4. Mixing Energy by Striking the Floor with the Heels

This magical pass resembles walking in place. The knee moves up briskly while the tip of the foot rests on the ground. The weight of the body is carried by the other leg. The body weight shifts back and forth, resting on whichever leg stays put, while the other one performs the movement. The arms are moved in the same fashion as in the previous magical passes (fig. 25).

A physical consequence of this magical pass and the following one is very much like that of the three preceding magical passes: a sensation of well-being that permeates the pelvic region after performing the movements.


5. Mixing Energy by Striking the Ground with the Heels Three Times

This magical pass is exactly like the preceding one, with the exception that the movement of the knees and feet is not continuous. It is interrupted after the heels are brought to the ground three times, in an alternating fashion. The sequence is left, right, left- pause- right, left, right, and so on.




6. Gathering Energy with the Soles of the Feet and Moving It Up the Inner Legs

The soles of the left and the right foot move alternately up the inner part of the opposite leg, almost brushing it. It is important to arch the legs a little bit by standing with the knees bent (fig. 26).

In this magical pass, energy for intending is forced up the inner side of the legs, which shamans consider to be the storage place of kinesthetic memory. This magical pass is used as an aid to release the memory of movements, or to facilitate retaining the memory of new ones.


7. Stirring Energy with the Knees

The knee of the left leg is bent and swung to the right as far as it can reach, as if to give a sideways kick with the knee, while the trunk and the arms arc gently twisted as far as possible in the opposite direction (fig. 27). The left leg is then brought back to a standing position. The same movement is performed with the right knee, alternating then back and forth.


8. Pushing the Energy Stirred with the Knees into the Trunk

This magical pass is the energetic continuation of the preceding one. The left knee, bent to the maximum, is pushed up as far as possible into the trunk. The trunk is bent slightly forward. At the moment the knee is pushed up, the tip of the foot points to the ground (fig. 28). The same movement is performed with the right leg, alternating then between the two legs.

Pointing the foot to the ground ensures that the tendons of the ankles are tense, in order to jolt minute centers there where energy accumulates. Shamans consider those centers to be perhaps the most important in the lower limbs, so important that they could awaken the rest of the minute energy centers in the body through the performance of this magical pass. This magical pass and the preceding one are executed together for the purpose of projecting the energy for intending gathered with the knees up into the two centers of vitality around the liver and the pancreas.


9. Kicking Energy in Front and in Back of the Body

A front kick of the left leg is followed by a hook kick to the back with the right leg (figs. 29, 30). Then the order is reversed and a front kick is made with the right leg, followed by a hook kick to the back with the left leg.

The arms are kept to the sides, because this magical pass engages only the lower limbs, giving them flexibility. The aim is to lift the leg that kicks to the front as high as possible, and the leg that kicks to the back also as high as possible. When executing the back kick, the trunk should bend slightly forward to facilitate the movement. This slight bending forward of the trunk is used as a natural means of absorbing the energy stirred with the limbs.

This magical pass is performed to aid the body when problems of digestion arise, due to a change in diet, or when there is a need to travel over great distances.


10. Lifting Energy from the Soles of the Feet

The left knee is bent acutely as it is lifted toward the trunk, as far up as possible. The trunk is bent slightly forward, almost touching the knee. The arms jut down, making a vise that grabs the sole of the foot (fig. 31). The ideal would be to grab the sole of the foot in a very light fashion, releasing it immediately. The foot comes down to the ground as the arms and hands, with a powerful jolt that engages the shoulders and pectoral muscles, lift up along the sides of the legs to the level of the pancreas and spleen (fig. 32). The same movements are performed with the right foot and arm, lifting the hands from the feet to the level of the liver and gallbladder. The movements are performed alternating between the two legs.

As in the case of the previous magical pass, bending the trunk forward allows the energy from the soles of the feet to be transferred to the two vital centers of energy around the liver and the pancreas.

This magical pass is used to aid the attainment of flexibility, and to relieve problems of digestion.




Shamans call the last five magical passes of this group Steps in Nature. They are magical passes that practitioners can perform as they walk, or conduct business, or even as they are sitting, talking to people. Their function is gathering energy with the feet and using it with the legs for situations in which concentration and the quick use of memory are required.


11. Pushing Down a Wall of Energy

The left foot, with the knee acutely bent, is lifted to the height of the hips; then it pushes forward with the tip of the foot arched upward, as if pushing away a solid object (fig. 33). As soon as the foot is brought down, the right foot is lifted in the same fashion and the movement is repeated, alternating the feet.


12. Stepping Over a Barrier of Energy

The left leg is nimbly lifted as if going over a hurdle which is located edgewise in front of the body. The leg makes a circle from left to right (fig. 34), and once the foot lands, the other leg is lifted to perform the same movement.


13. Kicking a Lateral Gate

This is a kick-push with the soles of the feet. The left leg is lifted to mid-calf and the foot pushes to the right of the body as if to hit a solid object, using the total sole of the foot as a striking surface (fig. 35). The foot is retrieved then to the left side, and the same movement is repeated with the right leg and foot.


14. Cracking a Nugget of Energy

The left foot is lifted with the tip pointing acutely to the ground. The knee protrudes straight forward, deeply bent. Then the foot descends with a controlled motion, striking toward the ground as if it were cracking a nugget (fig. 36). Once the tip of the foot strikes, the foot is returned to its original standing position and the same movement is repeated with the other leg and foot.


15. Scraping Off the Mud of Energy

The left foot is lifted a few inches above the ground; the entire leg is brought forward and then pushed backward sharply, with the foot lightly brushing the ground as if it were scraping something off the sole of the foot (fig. 37). The weight of the body is carried by the opposite leg, and the trunk leans a bit forward in order to engage the muscles of the stomach as this magical pass is executed. Once the left foot returns to its normal position, the same movement is repeated with the right foot and leg.





Magical Passes: The First Series: Second Group - Stirring Up Energy for Intent.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The First Series: Second Group - Stirring Up Energy for Intent.

The ten magical passes of the second group have to do with stirring up energy for intending from areas just below the knees, above the head, around the kidneys, the liver and pancreas, the solar plexus, and the neck. Each of these magical passes is a tool that stirs up exclusively the energy pertinent to intending, which is accumulated on those areas. Shamans consider these magical passes to be essential for daily living, because for them, life is ruled by intent. This set of magical passes is perhaps for shamans what a cup of coffee is for modern man: The slogan of the day, "I'm not myself until I drink my cappuccino," or the slogan of a past generation, "I'm not awake until I drink my cup of Java," is rendered for them as "I am not ready for anything until I have performed these magical passes." The second group of this series begins by the act that has been termed turning the body on. (See three pages back: "The Series Introductions - Six Series of Tensegrity", figs. 15, 16.)


16. Stirring Up Energy with the Feet and the Arms

After the body has been turned on, it is held in a slightly stooped-over position (fig. 38). The weight is placed on the right leg while the left leg makes a complete circle, brushing the ground with the tips of the toes, and landing on the ball of the foot, in front of the body. The left arm, in synchronization with the leg, makes a circle, the top of which goes above the level of the head (fig. 39). There is a slight pause of the leg and arm and they draw two more circles in succession, making a total of three (fig. 40). The rhythm of this magical pass is given by counting one, slight pause, one-one, then a very slight pause, two, pause, two-two, then a very slight pause, and so on. The same movement is performed with the right leg and arm.

This magical pass stirs energy at the bottom of the luminous ball with the feet, and projects it with the arms to the area just above the head.


17. Rolling Energy on the Adrenals

The forearms are placed behind the body, over the area of the kidneys and adrenals. The elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle and the hands are held in fists, a few inches away from the body, without touching it. The fists move downward in a rotational fashion, one on top of the other, beginning with the left fist moving downward; the right fist follows, moving downward as the left fist moves back up. The trunk leans slightly forward (fig. 41). Then the movement is reversed, and the fists roll in the opposite direction as the trunk leans slightly backward (fig. 42). Leaning the body forward and backward in this fashion engages the muscles of the upper arms and the shoulders.

This magical pass is used to supply the energy of intending to the adrenals and kidneys.


18. Stirring up Energy for the Adrenals

The trunk is bent forward, with the knees protruding beyond the line of the toes. The hands rest above the kneecaps, the fingers draping over them. The left hand then rotates to the right over the kneecap, making the elbow protrude as far forward as possible in alignment with the left knee (fig. 43). At the same time, the right forearm, with the hand still above the kneecap, rests us full length over the right thigh, while the right knee is straightened engaging the hamstring. It is important to move only the knees, and not to swing the rear end from side to side.

The same movements are performed with the right arm and leg (fig. 44). This magical pass is employed for stirring up the energy of intending around the kidneys and adrenals. It brings the practitioner long-range endurance and a sensation of daring and self-confidence.


19. Fusing Left and Right Energy

A deep inhalation is taken. A very slow exhalation begins as the left forearm is brought in front of the shoulders, with the elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle. The wrist is bent backward as acutely as possible, with the fingers pointing forward, and the palm of the hand facing to the right (fig. 45).

While the arm maintains this position, the trunk is bent forward sharply until the protruding left arm reaches the level of the knees. The left elbow must be kept from sagging toward the floor, and must be maintained away from the knees, and as far forward as possible. The slow exhalation continues, as the right arm makes a full circle over the head and the right hand comes to rest an inch or two away from the fingers of the left hand. The palm of the right hand faces the body and the fingers point toward the floor. The head is facing downward, with the neck held straight. The exhalation ends, and a deep breath is taken in that position. All the muscles of the back and the arms and legs are contracted as the air is slowly and deeply inhaled (fig. 46).

The body straightens up as an exhalation is made, and the complete magical pass is started again with the right arm.

The maximum stretch of the arms forward permits the creation of an opening in the energetic vortex of the center of the kidneys and adrenals; such an opening allows the optimal utilization of redeployed energy. This magical pass is essential for the redeployment of energy to that center, which accounts, in general terms, for an overall vitality and youth of the body.


20. Piercing the Body with a Beam of Energy

The left arm is placed against the body in front of the navel, and the right arm just behind the body at the same level. The wrists are bent sharply, and the fingers point to the floor. The palm of the left hand faces right, and the palm of the right hand faces left (fig. 47). The fingertips of both hands are raised briskly to point in a straight line forward and backward. The whole body is tensed and the knees are bent at the instant that the fingers point forward and backward (fig. 48). The hands are kept in that position for a moment. Then the muscles are relaxed, the legs are straightened, and the arms are swiveled around until the right arm is in front and the left behind. As at the beginning of this magical pass, the fingertips point to the floor, and are raised again briskly to point in a straight line forward and backward, again with a light exhalation; the knees are bent. By means of this magical pass, a dividing line is established in the middle of the body, which separates left energy and right energy.


21. Twisting Energy Over Two Centers of Vitality

It's a good idea to begin by placing the hands facing each other, as a device to keep the hands in line. The fingers are kept open and clawed, as if to grab the lid of a jar the size of the hand. Then the right hand is placed over the area of the pancreas and spleen, facing the body. The left hand is placed behind the body, over the area of the left kidney and adrenal, also with the palm facing the body. Both wrists are then bent backward sharply, as the trunk turns as far to the left as possible, keeping the knees in place. Next, both hands pivot at the wrists in unison, in a side-to-side movement, as if to unscrew the lids of two jars, one on the pancreas and spleen, and the other on the left kidney (fig. 49).

The same movement is executed by reversing the order, putting the left hand in the front, at the level of the liver and gallbladder and the right arm in the back at the level of the right kidney.

With the aid of this magical pass, energy is stirred on the three main centers of vitality: the liver and gallbladder, the pancreas and spleen, and the kidneys and adrenals. It is an indispensable magical pass for those who have to be on the lookout. It facilitates an all-around awareness and it increases the practitioners' sensibility to their surroundings.


22. The Half-Circle of Energy

A half-circle is drawn with the left hand, commencing in front of the face. The hand moves slightly to the right until it reaches the level of the right shoulder (fig. 50). There the hand turns and draws the inner edge of a half-circle close to the left side of the body (fig. 51). The hand turns again in the back (fig. 52) and draws the outer edge of the half-circle, then returns to its initial position (fig. 53). The complete half-circle is slanted from the level of the eyes, in front, to a level below the rear end, in the back. It is important to follow the movement of the hand with the eyes. Once the half-circle drawn with the left arm is completed, another one is drawn with the right arm, surrounding the body in this fashion with two half-circles. These two half-circles are drawn to stir energy and to facilitate the sliding of energy from above the head to the region of the adrenals. This magical pass is a vehicle for acquiring intense, sustained sobriety.


23. Stirring Energy Around the Neck

The left hand, with the palm facing upward, and the right hand, with the palm facing downward, are placed in front of the body, at the level of the solar plexus. The right hand is on top of the left, nearly touching it. The elbows are bent sharply. A deep breath is taken; the arms are raised slightly as the trunk is made to rotate as far to the left as possible without moving the legs, especially the knees, which are slightly bent in order to avoid any unnecessary stress on the tendons. The head is kept in alignment with the trunk and shoulders. An exhalation begins as the elbows are then gently pulled away from each other to a maximum stretch, keeping the wrists straight (fig. 54). An inhalation is taken. An exhalation begins when the head is turned very gently to the back to face the left elbow, and then to the front to face the right elbow; the rotation of the head back and forth is repeated two more times as the exhalation ends.

The trunk is turned to the front, and the hands reverse position there. The right hand is made to face upward while the left hand is made to face downward, on top of the right one. An inhalation is taken again. The trunk is then turned to the right, and the same movements are repeated on the right.

Shamans believe that a special type of energy for intending is dispersed from the center for decisions, located in the hollow V spot at the base of the neck, and that this energy is exclusively gathered with this magical pass.


24. Kneading Energy with a Push of the Shoulder Blades

Both arms are placed in front of the face, at the level of the eyes, with the elbows bent enough to give the arms a bowlike appearance (fig. 55). The trunk is bent forward slightly, in order to allow the shoulder blades to expand laterally. The movement begins by pushing the left arm forward while it is kept arched and tense (fig. 56). The right arm follows; and the arms move in an alternating fashion. It is important to note that the arms are kept extremely tense. The palms of the hands face forward and the fingertips face each other. The driving force of the arms is created by the deep movement of the shoulder blades and the tenseness of the stomach muscles.

Shamans believe that energy on the ganglia around the shoulder blades gets easily stuck and becomes stagnant, bringing about the decay of the center for decisions, located on the V spot at the base of the neck. This magical pass is employed to stir that energy.


25. Stirring Energy Above the Head and Cracking It

The left arm moves in a relaxed fashion, making two and a half circles above and around the head (fig. 57). Those circles are then cracked with the outer edge of the forearm and the hand, which comes down forcefully, but very slowly (fig. 58). The impact is absorbed by the stomach muscles, which are tensed at that moment. The muscles of the arm are kept fight, in order to avoid injuries to the tendons which could occur if the muscles of the arm were loose, or if the arm were whipped. Air is exhaled lightly as the arm strikes downward. The same movement is repeated with the right arm.

The energy stirred and cracked in this fashion is allowed to seep downward over the entire body. When practitioners are overtired, and can't afford to go to sleep, executing this magical pass dispels sleepiness and brings forth a sensation of temporary alertness.






Magical Passes: The First Series: Third Group - Gathering Energy for Intent.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The First Series: Third Group - Gathering Energy for Intent.

The nine magical passes of the third group are employed to bring to the three centers of vitality around the liver, the pancreas, and the kidneys the specialized energy which has been stirred up by the magical passes of the previous group. The magical passes of this group must be performed slowly and with ultimate deliberation. Shamans recommend that the state of mind on executing these passes be one of total silence and the unwavering intent to gather the energy necessary for intending.

All of the magical passes of the third group begin with a fast shake of the hands, which are held at the sides of the body, with the arms hanging at a normal position. The hands shake as if the fingers were vibrating downward, taken by a tremor. A vibration of this nature was thought to be the means to stir energy around the hips and also the means to stimulate minute centers of energy where energy could get stagnant on the backs of the hands and the wrists.

The overall effect of the first three magical passes of this group is one of general vitality and well-being, since energy is carried to the three main vital centers in the lower part of the body.


26. Reaching for Energy Stirred Below the Knees

A small jump forward is made with the left leg, which is propelled by the right one. The trunk is bent markedly forward, and the left arm is stretched out to grab something that is almost at the floor level (fig. 59). The left leg is then retrieved to a standing position, and the left palm brushes immediately over the vital center of energy on the right: the liver and gallbladder.

The same movement is repeated with the right leg and arm, brushing the palm over the vital center on the left: the pancreas and spleen.


27. Transporting Front Energy to the Adrenals

A deep inhalation is taken while the hands shake. Then the left arm shoots straight in front of the body ;it the level of the shoulders with the palm of the hand turned toward the left, as all the air is sharply exhaled (fig. 60). Next, a very slow inhalation begins while the wrist rotates from left to right, making a complete circle, as if scooping a ball of solid matter (fig. 61). Then the inhalation continues while the wrist rotates hack again to its initial position with the palm facing to the left. Next, us if carrying the ball, the left arm makes a semi-circle, keeping the same shoulder level; this movement ends when the back of the bent wrist is placed over the left kidney. It is important that the continuous inhalation be made to last for the duration of the swinging of the arm from front to back.

As this swinging movement is executed, the right arm makes a circular movement to the front of the body, ending when the hack of the bent wrist is brought to touch the area just above the pubis. The head is turned to the left to face the back (fig. 62). Next, the left hand, which is holding the ball, turns to face the body and smashes the Kill against the left kidney and adrenal. The palm is then gently rubbed over that area as an exhalation is made.

The same movement is executed by reversing the arms and turning the head to the right.


28. Scooping Energy from the Left and the Right

The arms are moved to the sides of the body and then raised with the hands curled inward toward the body, brushing upward against the torso to reach the armpits, as a deep inhalation is taken (fig. 63). Next, the arms are extended laterally, with the palms down, as the air is exhaled forcefully. A deep inhalation is taken then as the hands are cupped and made to rotate on the wrists until the palms face up, as if scooping something solid (fig. 64). Next, the hands are brought back to the shoulder level by bending the elbows sharply as the inhalation continues (fig. 65). This movement engages the shoulder blades and the muscles of the neck. After holding this position for a moment, the arms are extended laterally again, with a sharp exhalation. The palms face front. The palms of the hands are cupped and made to rotate backward, again as if scooping a solid substance.

The slightly cupped hands are brought back to the shoulder level as before. These movements are repeated one more time, for a total of three. The palms then rub gently over the two vital centers around the liver and around the pancreas as the air is exhaled.


29. Cracking the Circle of Energy

A circle is made by moving the left arm to the right shoulder (fig. 66), then close around the front of the body to the back (fig. 67) and out again to in front of the face (fig. 68). This movement of the left arm is coordinated with the same movement done with the right arm. Both arms move in an alternate fashion, creating a slanted circle around the total body. Then a backward step to the left is taken with the right foot, followed by a step to the right taken with the left foot, so as to turn around to face the opposite direction. The left arm is arched then around the left side of the circle, as if the circle were a solid object movement which the left arm presses against the armpit and chest area. The right arm then performs the same on the right side, treating the circle as if it were a solid object (fig. 69). A deep breath is taken, and the circle is cracked from both sides by tensing the whole body, especially the arms, which are brought together to the chest.

The palms then rub gently on the respective centers of vitality on the front of the body as the air is exhaled. The uses of this pass are quite esoteric, because they have to do with the clarity of intent needed for decision making. This magical pass is used for .pleading the energy of decisions accumulated around the neck.


30. Gathering Energy from the Front of the Body, Right Above the Head

A deep inhalation is taken as the hands shake. Both arms are brought to level of the face with clenched fists, crossed in an X, with the left arm closer to the face, and the inside of the fisted palms toward the face. The arms are then extended a few inches to the front as the wrists are made to rotate on each other until the fisted palms are facing down (fig. 70). From this position, the left shoulder and shoulder blade are extended forward, an exhalation begins. The left shoulder is pulled back as the right one comes forward. Next, the crossed arms are lifted above the head and the exhalation ends.

A slow, deep inhalation is taken as the crossed arms make a complete circle, moving to the right around the front of the body, almost to the level of the knees, then to the left, and back to their initial position, right above the head (fig. 71). Then the arms are forcefully separated as a long exhalation begins (fig. 72). From there, the arms move as far back as possible, as the exhalation continues, drawing a circle which is completed when the fists are brought to the front to the level of the eyes, with the inside of the fisted palms toward the face (fig. 73). Then the arms are crossed again. The wrists pivot on each other as the hands are opened and are placed against the body, the right hand on the area of the pancreas and spleen, and the left hand on the area of the liver and gallbladder. The body bends forward at the waist, at a ninety-degree angle, as the exhalation ends (fig. 74).

The use of this magical pass is twofold: First, it stirs energy around the shoulder blades and transports it to a place above the head. From there, it makes the energy circulate in a broad circle that touches the edges of the luminous sphere. Second, it mixes the energy of the left and the right by placing it on the two centers of vitality around the pancreas and the liver, with each hand on the opposite center.

Mixing energy in such a fashion provides a jolt of great magnitude to the respective centers of vitality. As the practitioners became more proficient in their practice, the jolt becomes more acute, and acquires the quality of a filter of energy, which is an incomprehensible statement until this pass is practiced. The sensation that accompanies it could be described as breathing mentholated air.


31. Stirring and Grabbing Energy from Below the Knees and Above the Head

An inhalation is taken as the hands shake. Both hands are brought up by the sides of the body to the level of the waist, and held relaxed. The knees are bent as the left hand is pushed downward with the wrist turned so that the palm faces outward, away from the body, as if it were reaching into a bucket full of liquid substance. This movement is performed at the same time that the right hand shoots up above the head with equal force; the right wrist is also turned so that the palm faces outward, away from the body (fig. 75). A slow exhalation begins when both arms reach their maximum extension. The wrists are returned with great force to a straight position at the same time that the hands clasp into fists, as if grabbing something solid. Keeping the fists clenched, the exhalation continues while the right arm is brought down and the left arm is brought up to the level of the waist, slowly and with great strength, as if wading through a heavy liquid (fig. 76). Then the palms rub gently on the areas of the liver and gallbladder and the pancreas and spleen. The knees are straightened and the exhalation ends at this point (fig. 77). The same movement is executed by shifting the arms; the right arm plunges downward while the left arm pushes upward.

The energy for intending that is extracted from below the knees and above the head in this magical pass can also be rubbed on the areas of the left and right kidneys.


32. Mixing Energy of the Left and the Right

An inhalation is taken as the hands shake. The left arm reaches diagonally to the extreme right above the head and in line with the right shoulder as an exhalation begins (fig. 78). The hand grabs as if clasping a handful of matter, yanks it out, and brings it to a position above the head and in line with the left shoulder, where the exhalation ends. The left hand remains clasped, and a sharp inhalation is taken as the left arm circles backward (fig. 79), ending in a fisted position at the level of the eyes. The fist is then brought down with an exhalation to the vital center around the pancreas, slowly, but with great force, and the palm rubs softly on that area (fig. 80).

The same movement is repeated with the right arm, but instead of moving in a backward circle, the right arm moves in a frontward circle.

In the belief of shamans, the energy of the two sides of the body is different. The energy of the left is portrayed as being undular, and the energy of the right as being circular. This magical pass is used to apply circular energy to the left and undular energy to the right in order to strengthen the centers of vitality around the liver and pancreas by the inflow of slightly different energy.


33. Grabbing Energy from Above the Head for the Two Vital Centers

Starting at the level of the ear, the left arm circles forward twice (fig. 81) and is then extended over the head, as if to grab something (fig. 82). As this movement is executed, a deep breath is taken, winch ends at the moment that the hand grabs upward as if to fetch something above the head. Don Juan recommended that the eyes select, with a quick glance upward, the target for the hand to grab. Whatever is selected and grabbed is then yanked forcefully downward and placed over the vital center around the pancreas and spleen. The air is exhaled at this point. The same movement is performed with the right arm, and the energy is placed over the center around the liver and gallbladder.

According to shamans, the energy of intent tends to gravitate downward, and a more rarefied aspect of the same energy remains in the area above the head. This energy is gathered with this magical pass.


34. Reaching for Energy Above the Head

The left arm is extended upward as far as possible, with the hand open as if to grab something. At the same time, the body is propelled upward with the right leg. When the jump reaches its maximum height, the hand turns inward at the wrist, making a hook with the forearm (fig. 83), which then slowly and forcefully scoops downward. The left hand rubs immediately around the vital center of the pancreas and spleen.

This movement is performed with the right arm in exactly the same fashion as it was done with the left. The right hand immediately brushes across the vital center around the liver and gallbladder.

Shamans believe that the energy stored around the periphery of the luminous sphere that human beings are can be stirred and gathered by jumping forcefully upward. This magical pass is used as a help to dispel problems brought about by concentrating on a given task for long periods of time.






Magical Passes: The First Series: Fourth Group - Breathing In the Energy of Intent.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The First Series: Fourth Group - Breathing In the Energy of Intent.

The three magical passes of this group are for stirring, gathering, and transporting energy for intent from three centers- around the feet, on the ankles, and right below the kneecaps- and placing it on the centers of vitality around the kidneys, the liver, the pancreas, the womb, and the genitals. The recommendation to practitioners on the execution of these magical passes is that since they are accompanied by breaths, the inhalations and exhalations should be slow and profound; and that there should be a crystal clear intent on the part of the practitioners that the adrenals receive an instantaneous boost while the deep breaths are taken.


35. Dragging Energy from the Kneecaps Along the Front of the Thighs

A deep inhalation is taken as the arms hang by the sides and the hands waver in a continuous tremor, as if stirring a gaseous matter. An exhalation begins as the hands are lifted to the waist, and the palms of the hands strike down in unison, on each side of the body, with great force (fig. 84). The arms are only slightly bent, so that the palms of the hands are a few inches below the stomach. The hands are three or four inches apart, held at ninety-degree angles with the forearms, the fingers pointing forward. Slowly and without touching, the hands make one circle inward toward the front of the body; the muscles of the arms, stomach, and legs are fully contracted (fig. 85). A second circle is drawn in the same fashion as the air is totally expelled through clenched teeth.

Another deep inhalation is taken, and the air is slowly exhaled as three more inward circles are drawn in front of the body. The hands are then retrieved to the front of the hips, and they slide down the front of die thighs with the heels of the palms, fingers slightly turned up, all the way to the kneecaps. The air is fully exhaled then. A third deep inhalation is taken while the tips of the fingers press the bottom of the kneecaps. The head is held facing downward, in line with the spine (fig. 86). Then, as the bent knees are straightened, the hands, with the fingers clawed, are dragged up the thighs to the hips, as the air is slowly exhaled. With the last portion of the exhalation, the hands are then brushed on the respective centers of vitality around the pancreas and the liver.


36. Dragging Energy from the Sides of the Legs

A deep inhalation is taken as the hands, held by the sides of the body, shake with a continuous tremor. The hands strike down exactly as in the previous magical pass. An exhalation begins there, while the hands draw, in a similar fashion, two small outward circles by the sides of the body. The muscles of the arms, stomach, and legs are tensed to the maximum. The elbows are held fight but slightly bent (fig. 87).

After the two circles have been drawn, all the air is expelled, and a deep inhalation is taken. Three more outward circles are drawn as the air is slowly exhaled. The hands are then brought to the sides of the hips. The fingers are slightly raised as the heels of the hands rub all the way down the sides of the legs until the fingers reach the outside knobs of the ankles. The head is facing downward, in line with the body (fig. 88). The exhalation ends there, and a deep inhalation is taken with the index and middle fingers pressing the bottom of the knobs (fig. 89). A slow exhalation begins as the hands, with the fingers clawed, are dragged up the sides of the legs to the hips. The exhalation is completed while the palms are brushed on the two respective centers of vitality.


37. Dragging Energy from the Front of the Legs

Again, a deep inhalation is taken as the hands, held by the sides of the body, are shaken. Both arms make a circle by the sides of the body, beginning toward the back, and going over the head (fig. 90) to strike forcefully in front of the body with the palms down and the fingers pointing forward. A slow exhalation begins there, while the hands, starting with the left, move forward and backward three times in alternating succession, as if sliding over a smooth surface. The exhalation ends when the heels of both hands are touching the rib cage (fig. 91). A deep inhalation is taken then. The left hand moves in a sliding motion to the left followed by the right hand sliding to the right; this sequence is executed a total of three times in alternating succession. They end with the heels of the palms against the rib cage, the thumbs nearly touching each other (fig. 92). Next, both hands are made to slide down the front of the legs until they reach the tendons on the front of the ankles (fig. 93).

The exhalation ends there. A deep inhalation is taken as the tendon is tensed by lifting the big toe until the tendon seems to pop/up; the index and middle fingers of each hand vibrate the tendons by pressing on them (fig. 94). With the fingers clawed, the hands are dragged up the front of the legs to the hips as a slow exhalation begins. The palms are gently rubbed on the centers of vitality as the exhalation ends.






Magical Passes: The Second Series - The Series for the Womb.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Second Series - The Series for the Womb.

  • The First Group: Magical Passes Belonging to Taisha Abelar.
  • The Second Group: A Magical Pass Directly Related to Florinda Donner-Grau.
  • The Third Group: Magical Passes That Have to Do Exclusively with Carol Tiggs.
  • The Fourth Group: Magical Passes That Belong to the Blue Scout.


According to don Juan Matus, one of the most specific interests of the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times was what they called the liberation of the womb.

He explained that the liberation of the womb entailed the awakening of its secondary functions. The primary function of the womb under normal circumstances is reproduction, but sorcerers are solely concerned with what they consider to be the womb's secondary function of evolution.

This evolution is the awakening and full exploitation of the womb's capacity to utilize direct knowledge by apprehending sensory data directly, and interpreting those perceptions directly without the aid or need of the processes of interpretation with which we are familiar.

The women practitioners are transformed from beings that have been 'socialized to reproduce' into beings 'capable of evolving' at the moment they become conscious of perceiving energy as it flows in the universe.

The womb's characteristics allow females to perceive energy directly more readily than males. However, in spite of this facility, under normal social conditions it is nearly impossible for women, or men for that matter, to become deliberately conscious that they perceive energy directly. The reason for this seeming incapacity is something which shamans consider to be a travesty; the fact that there is no one to point out to human beings that it is natural for them to perceive energy directly.

Shamans maintain that women, because they have a womb, are so versatile and so individualistic in their ability to see energy directly that this accomplishment, which should be a triumph of the human spirit, is taken for granted. Women are almost never conscious of their ability.

Since it is more difficult for men to see energy directly, when they do accomplish this feat, they don't take it for granted. Therefore, male sorcerers were the ones who who tried to describe the phenomenon.


"The basic premise of sorcery," don Juan said to me one day, "discovered by the shamans of my lineage who lived in Mexico in ancient times is that we are perceivers. The totality of the human body is an instrument of perception. However, the predominance of the visual in us gives to perception the overall mood of the eyes. This mood, according to the old sorcerers, is merely the heritage of a purely predatorial state.

"The effort of the old sorcerers, which has lasted to our days," don Juan continued, "was geared toward placing themselves beyond the realm of the predator's eye. They conceived the predator's eye to be visual par excellence, and that the realm beyond the predator's eye is the realm of pure perception, which is not visually oriented."


On another occasion, he said that it was a bone of contention for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico that women, who have the organic frame, the womb, that could facilitate their entrance into the realm of pure perception, have no interest in using it. Those shamans viewed it as a woman's paradox to have endless power at her disposal and no interest whatsoever in gaining access to it. However, don Juan had no doubt that this lack of desire to do anything wasn't natural; it was learned.

The aim of the magical passes for the womb is to give the female practitioners of Tensegrity an inkling, which has to be more than an intellectual titillation, of the possibility of canceling out the effect of this noxious socialization that renders women indifferent. Nevertheless, a warning is in order; don Juan Matus advised his female disciples to proceed with great caution when practicing these magical passes. The magical passes for the womb are passes that foster the awakening of the secondary functions of the uterus and ovaries, and those secondary functions are the apprehension of sensory data and the interpretation of them.

Don Juan called the womb the perceiving box. He was as convinced as the other sorcerers of his lineage that the uterus and ovaries, if they are pulled out of the reproductive cycle, can become tools of perception, and become indeed the epicenter of evolution.

He considered that the first step of evolution is the acceptance of the premise that human beings are perceivers. It was not redundancy on his part to insist ceaselessly that this realization has to be come before anything else.

"We already know that we are perceivers. What else can we be?" I would say in protest every time he insisted.

"Think about it!" he would reply every time I protested. "Perception plays only a minute role in our lives, and yet, the only thing we are for a fact is perceivers. Human beings apprehend energy at large and turn it into sensory data. Then they interpret these sensory data into the world of everyday life. This interpretation is what we call perception.

"The shamans of ancient Mexico, as you already know," don Juan went on, "were convinced that interpretation took place on a point of intense brilliance, the assemblage point, which they found when they saw the human body as a conglomerate of energy fields that resembled a sphere of luminosity.

"The advantage of women is their capacity to transfer the interpretation function of the assemblage point to the womb. The result of this transfer function is something that cannot be talked about, not because it is something forbidden, but because it is something indescribable.

"The womb," don Juan continued, "is veritably in a chaotic state of turmoil because of this veiled capacity that exists in remission from the moment of birth until death and which typically is never utilized. This function of interpretation never ceases to act and yet it has never been raised to the level of full consciousness."

Don Juan's assurance was that the shamans of ancient Mexico, by means of their magical passes, had raised among their female practitioners the interpretive capacity of the womb to the level of consciousness, and by doing this, they had instituted an evolutionary change among them; that is to say, they had turned the womb from an organ of reproduction into the tool of evolution.

Evolution is defined in the world of modern man as the capacity of different species to modify themselves through the processes of natural selection or the transmission of traits, until they can successfully reproduce in their offspring the changes brought about in themselves.

The evolutionary theory that has lasted to our day, from the time it was formulated over a hundred years ago, says that the origin and the perpetuation of a new species of animal or plant is brought about by the process of natural selection, which favors the survival of individuals whose characteristics render them best adapted to their environment, and that the evolution is brought about by the interplay of three principles: first, heredity, the conservative force that transmits similar organic forms from one generation to another; second, variation, the differences present in all forms of life; and third, the struggle for existence, which determines which variations confer advantages in a given environment. This last principle gave rise to the phrase still in current use: "the survival of the fittest."

Evolution, as a theory, has enormous loopholes; it leaves tremendous room for doubt. It is at best an open-ended process for which scientists have created classificatory schemes; they have created taxonomies to their hearts' content. But the fact remains that it is a theory full of holes. What we know about evolution doesn't tell us what evolution is.

Don Juan Matus believed that evolution was the product of intending at a very profound level. In the case of sorcerers, that profound level was marked by what he had called inner silence.

"For instance," he said, when he was explaining this phenomenon, "sorcerers are sure that dinosaurs flew because they intended flying. But what is very difficult to understand, much less accept, is that wings are only one solution to flying, in this case, the dinosaurs' solution. Nevertheless, this solution is not the only one that is possible. It's the only one available to us by imitation. Our airplanes are flying with wings imitating the dinosaurs, perhaps because flying has never been intended again since the dinosaurs' time. Perhaps wings were adopted because they were the easiest solution."

Don Juan was of the opinion that if we were to intend it now, there is no way of knowing what other options for flying would be available besides wings. He insisted that because intent is infinite, there was no logical way in which the mind, following processes of deduction or induction, could calculate or determine what these options for flying might be.

The magical passes of the Series for the Womb are extremely potent, and should be practiced sparingly. In ancient times, men were barred from executing them. In more recent times, there has been a tendency among sorcerers to render these magical passes more generic, and thus the possibility arose that they could also be of service to men. This possibility, however, is very delicate and requires careful handling, great concentration, and determination.

The male practitioners of Tensegrity who teach the magical passes have opted, because of their potent effect, to practice them by brushing the energy that they generate only lightly on the area of the genitals themselves. This measure has proven to he enough to provide a beneficial jolt without any profound or deleterious effects.

Don Juan explained that the sorcerers of his lineage, at a given moment, allowed males to practice these magical passes because of the possibility that the energy engendered by them would awaken the secondary function of the male sexual organs. He said that those sorcerers considered that the secondary function of the male sexual organs is not at all similar to that of the womb; no interpretation of sensory data can take place because the male sexual organs hang outside of the cavity of the body. Because of these particular circumstances, their conclusion was that the secondary function of the male organs is something which they termed evolutionary support: a sort of springboard that catapults men to perform extraordinary feats of what sorcerers of ancient Mexico called unbending intent, or clearheaded purpose and concentration.

The Series for the Womb is divided into four sections which correspond to the three female disciples of don Juan Matus: Taisha Abelar, Horinda Donner-Grau, and Carol Tiggs; and to the Blue Scout, who was born into don Juan's world.

The first is composed of three magical passes belonging to Taisha Abelar; the second is composed of one magical pass directly related to Florinda Donner-Grau; the third, of three magical passes that have to do exclusively with Carol Tiggs; and the fourth, of five magical passes that belong to the Blue Scout. The magical passes of each section are pertinent to a specific type of individual. Tensegrity has rendered them capable of being utilized by anybody, although they are still slanted in the direction of the type of person that each of those four women is.






Magical Passes: The Second Series: First Group - Magical Passes Belonging to Taisha Abelar.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Second Series: First Group - Magical Passes Belonging to Taisha Abelar.

The three magical passes of this group are geared to gathering energy for the womb from six specific areas: the left and right front of the body, the left and right sides of the body at the height of the hips, and from behind the shoulder blades and above the head. The explanation that The shamans of ancient Mexico gave was that energy especially suited for the womb accumulates on those areas, and that the movements of these magical passes are the appropriate antennas that gather that energy exclusively.


1. Extracting Energy from the Front of the Body with the Index and Middle Fingers

The first sensation that a Tensegrity practitioner seeks while executing this magical pass is a pressure on the tendons of the back of the hand, a sensation which is obtained by opening the index and middle fingers as far as possible while they are fully extended. The last two fingers are curled over the palm of the hand, and the thumb holds them in place (fig. 95).

The magical pass starts by placing the left foot in front of the body in a T position, perpendicular to the right one. The left arm and the left leg make a series of synchronized forward circling movements. The leg circles by first lifting the ball of the foot, and then the whole foot, and a step is taken that rolls forward in the air and ends on the heel, with the toes up, as the body leans forward, creating pressure on a muscle on the front of the left calf.

In synchronization with this movement, the left arm rotates forward over the head, also making a complete circle. The index and middle fingers are fully extended, and the palm faces to the right. The pressure on the tendons of the back of the hand has to be maintained with maximum stress during the entire movement (fig. 96). At the end of the third circling movement of the arm and foot, the entire foot is placed on the ground with a forceful stomp, shifting the weight of the body forward. At the same time, the arm shoots out in a stabbing motion, with the index and middle fingers fully extended and the palm of the hand facing right; the muscles of the entire left side of the body are kept tense and contracted (fig. 97).

An undulating movement is made, as if drawing, with the two extended fingers pointing forward, a letter S that is lying on its side. The wrist is bent so that the fingers point upward once the S is completed (fig. 98). Next, the wrist bends so the fingers again point forward and the S is cut in half with a horizontal stroke of the two fingers from right to left. Then the wrist is bent so the two fingers point upward once more, and a sweeping movement is made from left to right with the palm turned toward the face. The palm of the hand is turned to face outward, as the arm sweeps from right to left. The left arm is retrieved to the level of the chest, and two forward stabbing motions are executed with the fingers fully extended and the palm of the hand facing downward. The palm of the hand is turned toward the face once more, and the hand sweeps again from left to right and from right to left, exactly as before.

The body leans back slightly, shifting the weight to the back leg. Then the hand, with the two fingers curved like a claw, reaches out at waist level in front of the body as if to grab something, contracting the muscles and tendons of the forearm and hand as if forcefully extracting some heavy substance (fig. 99). The clawed hand is retrieved to the side of the body. All the fingers of the hand are then fully extended, with The thumb locked and the fingers separated at the middle and fourth fingers, making a letter V, which is brushed over the womb, or over the sexual organs, in the case of men (fig. 100). A quick jump is made to shift legs, so that the right foot is in front of the left one, again making a T. The same movements are repeated with the right arm and leg.


2. Jumping to Stir Energy for the Womb and Grabbing It with the Hand

This magical pass begins by placing the right foot perpendicular to the left one in a T position. A tap is made with the right heel; this tap serves as an impulse for a small hop of the right foot which ends with the right toes pointing forward, followed immediately by a one-step lateral hop of the left foot that ends with the left heel on the ground, perpendicular to the right foot. The rest of the left foot touches the ground, shifting the weight to the left leg, as the left arm moves in a grabbing motion to clasp something in front of the body with a clawed hand (fig. 101). The hand then rubs gently on the area of the left ovary.

A tap of the left heel serves as an impulse for a sequence of movements that is a mirror image of the preceding ones.

Energy stirred up by the motion of the feet in this magical pass bounces upward, is caught with each hand in turn, and is placed over the uterus and the left and the right ovaries.


3. Slapping Energy on the Ovaries

The third magical pass begins by circling the left arm over the head, to the back, in toward the shoulder blades, and out again to the front until it reaches the level of the chin; the palm faces up. The hand draws another circle that goes up and over toward the right; it continues downward, all the way to the right waist and then sweeps upward over the head, completing the figure of a number eight. The palm flips to face the front (fig. 102). Then the hand descends forcefully, as if slapping the area just in front of the left ovary (fig. 103). The hand then brushes gently on the area of the left ovary. The same pattern is repeated with the right arm.






Magical Passes: The Second Series: Second Group - A Magical Pass Directly Related to Florinda Donner-Grau.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Second Series: Second Group - A Magical Pass Directly Related to Florinda Donner-Grau.

In this group, there is only one magical pass. The effect of this magical pass is utterly congruous with the personality of Florinda Donner-Grau. Don Juan Matus regarded her as being very straightforward, so to-the-point that sometimes her directness became unbearable. Her activities in the sorcerers' world, as a consequence of her directness, have always been geared toward the goal of evolution, or the transformation of the womb from a receptacle and promoter of fertility to an organ of awareness, through which thoughts which are not part of our normal cognition can be processed.


4. Sphinx Paws

This magical pass begins with a quick, deep inhalation. The air is sharply exhaled with a forceful strike of the wrists to the front of the body. This is achieved with the hands turned downward sharply, at right angles to the forearms; the fingers point to the ground, and the striking surface is the backs of the hands at the wrists. The hands are pulled upward to the level of the shoulders, the palms facing forward, in a straight line with the forearms. A deep inhalation is taken. The hands are held in this position as the trunk turns to the left. The hands then strike, with the palms down, to the level of the hips (fig. 104). The air is exhaled sharply. The hands are raised above the shoulders again as the trunk turns to the front, and a deep inhalation is taken. With the hands still above the shoulders, the trunk is turned to the right. Next both hands strike, with the palms down, to the level of the hips as the air is exhaled.

Both hands move then to the right of the body, with the palms slightly cupped and turned to the left, as if to scoop a liquid substance. Both arms move from right to left to right, drawing the figure of a reclining number eight in front of the body. This is achieved by first moving the arms all the way to the left, following a twist of the waist, and then returning back to the right, following a reverse twist of the waist. The slightly cupped palms are turned to face the right, as if to continue scooping a liquid substance in the opposite direction (fig. 105).

As the figure eight is completed, the left hand stops to rest on the left hip, while the right arm continues moving to the right; the arm goes up over the head and makes a big loop to the back that ends when the hand is brought back to the front, to the level of the chin; the palm of the hand faces up. The hand continues moving, making another loop to the left, going in front of the face, over the left shoulder. Next it moves in a straight line across the body at the level of the hip, cutting through the figure eight (fig. 106). From there, the palm moves back toward the body and is made to slide over the right ovary, as if the hand were a knife that comes to rest in its sheath.

The exact same movements are performed, but striking to the right side of the body first, in order to allow the left arm to execute the last movement.






Magical Passes: The Second Series: Third Group - Magical Passes That Have to Do Exclusively with Carol Tiggs.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Second Series: Third Group - Magical Passes That Have to Do Exclusively with Carol Tiggs.

The three magical passes of the third group deal with the energy that is directly on the area of the womb. This emphasis makes these three magical passes extraordinarily potent. Moderation is strongly recommended in order to bring the sensations of awakening the womb to a manageable level. In this fashion the linear-minded interpretation of these sensations as premenstrual pangs or heaviness on the ovaries can be avoided.

Don Juan Matus told his three female disciples that the secondary functions of the womb, upon being awakened by the appropriate magical passes, give the sensorial input of discomfort, but that what takes place at an energetic level is the influx of energy into the vortex of the womb. Energy which has, up to this point, remained unused and on the periphery of the luminous sphere is suddenly dropped into that vortex.


5. Packing Energy on the Womb

The first magical pass begins by bringing the two hands to the area of the womb. The wrists are bent sharply, and the hands are cupped, the lingers pointing to the womb.

The two hands are extended so that the tips of the fingers point inward each other. Then they make an ample circle, first going upward and out, and then down, with both hands together, ending right over the womb (fig. 107). Next, the hands separate to the width of the body (fig. 108), and are brought forcefully toward the center of the womb as if thick ball were being squashed. The same movement is repeated, and the hands are brought closer together, as if the ball were being further squashed. Then it is torn apart by a powerful movement of the hands, which grab and rip (fig. 109). The hands are then brushed over the area of the uterus and the ovaries.


6. Stirring and Guiding Energy Directly into the Womb

This magical pass begins with an exhalation as the arms are stretched out in front of the body, with the backs of the hands touching. A deep breath is taken as the arms move laterally away from each other, drawing half-circles which end with the forearms touching in front of the body at the level of the chest, and the arms extended forward with the elbows slightly bent. The palms face up. Then the trunk bends forward slightly as the forearms move backward so that the elbows are moored on the solar plexus with the forearms still touching, side by side (fig. 110). Next, a slow exhalation begins, which must last through the following movements: The back side of the left wrist is placed on top of the inner side of the right wrist, maneuvering the arms to make the figure of the letter X; the wrists rotate so that the palms circle in toward the body, and then back out to face front, without losing the X shape of the wrists; the left hand ends up on top of the right one (fig. 111). The hands are made into fists and separated vigorously (fig. 112), and then brought to the area of the left and right ovaries as the exhalation ends.


7. Squeezing Out Injurious Energy from the Ovaries

The left hand is held in front of the body with the palm up. The elbow is bent at a right angle and tucked against the rib cage. The index and middle fingers of the left hand are extended while the thumb holds the other two fingers against the palm. The two extended fingers of the left hand are grabbed from underneath by the right hand, and squeezed as if drawing something from the base of the two extended fingers of the left hand and making it move to the tips (fig. 113). Then the right hand shakes vigorously whatever it drew from those two fingers with a backhanded, downward striking motion on the right side of the body. The left thumb releases the other two fingers, and the hand is held in a letter V shape, with the index and middle fingers together, and the fourth and fifth fingers together. The palm of the hand is lightly brushed over the area of the left ovary. The same movements are repeated with the right hand.

For the second part of this magical pass, the trunk is bent sharply forward. The left arm hangs in between the legs, the elbow cushioned against the umbilical region. Exactly the same movements performed in the first part of the magical pass are executed again, except this time the two extended fingers of the left hand are grabbed by the right hand from above (figs. 114, 115). The same movements are repeated on the right.






Magical Passes: The Second Series: Fourth Group - Magical Passes That Belong to the Blue Scout.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Second Series: Fourth Group - Magical Passes That Belong to the Blue Scout.

The magical passes of this group are the natural conclusion of the whole series. An impersonal mood is the driving force of this group of passes. The inhalations and exhalations are sharp, but not deep, and the movements are accompanied by an explosive hissing sound of air being expelled.

The value of the Blue Scout's magical passes resides in the capacity of each of them to give the womb the hardness that it requires in order to arrive at its secondary functions, which can be easily defined, in the case of the Blue Scout, as the ability to be alert without pause. The criticism of sorcerers about our normal state of being is that we seem to be perennially on automatic pilot; we say things that we don't mean to say, we ignore things that we shouldn't ignore. In other words, we are aware of what surrounds us only in very short spurts. Most of the time, we function on sheer momentum, habit, and that habit is, in essence, to be oblivious to everything. The idea of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico was that, in women, the womb is the organ that can resolve this impasse, and for that, it needs to acquire hardness.


8. Drawing Energy from the Front with Insect Antennas

The index and middle fingers are held by the sides of the chest in a letter V position, while the thumbs press the other two fingers against the palms; the palms are up (fig. 116). Next, the palms turn downward, and the two fingers strike out in front of the body, as a sharp exhalation is made, with clenched teeth and a hissing, whistlelike sound (fig. 117). A deep inhalation is taken as the hands are retrieved with the palms up to the sides of the chest. The same movement is repeated one more time, and the palms of the hands are brushed on the area of the ovaries, with the fingers separated between the middle and fourth fingers.


9. Drawing Energy from the Sides at an Angle

This magical pass begins by pivoting on the right foot and putting the left leg in front, at a forty-five-degree angle. The right foot is the horizontal bar of the letter T, and the left foot, the vertical. The body rocks back and forth. Then the left elbow is bent, and the hand is brought to The level of the chest with the palm up. The index and middle fingers are held in the shape of the letter V. The thumb holds the other two fingers against the palm (fig. 118). A strike is made, leaning the body forward sharply. The palm of the hand turns down as the fingers strike. The air is exhaled with a hiss (fig. 119). An inhalation is taken as the kind retrieves to the side of the chest with the palm up. The palm of the hand is then lightly brushed on the left ovary, with the fingers separated between the middle and fourth fingers.

A jump is taken to switch feet and face a new direction to the right, still at a forty-five degree angle. The same movements arc repeated with the right arm.


10. Drawing Energy Laterally with an Insect Cut

The hands are held on the sides of the chest, with the index and middle fingers of each hand in a V shape and the thumbs holding the other two fingers against the palms. The palms face up. Remaining at the level of the chest, the hands are pivoted on the heels of the palms and brought to face each other. Next, a hissing exhalation is made as both arms are fully extended laterally, with the palms facing the front. The index and middle fingers are moved with a cutting motion as if they were indeed scissors, as the exhalation ends in a whistlelike fashion (fig. 120).

An inhalation is taken as the arms are retrieved; the elbows are down, and the arms come to rest on the sides of the body by the chest hands pointing sideways (fig. 121). Next the hands are pivoted on the heel of the palm so the index and middle fingers point to the front The fingers are then separated at the middle and fourth fingers, and a hissing exhalation is made as the palms of the hands brush over the area of the ovaries.


11. Drilling Energy from Between the Feet with Each Hand

A deep inhalation is taken. A long hissing exhalation follows while the left hand descends with a rotating movement of the wrist, which makes the hand resemble a drill that seems to perforate a substance in front of the body between the legs. Then the index and middle fingers make a two-pronged claw and grab something from the area between the feet (fig. 122) and pull it upward, with a deep inhalation, to the level of the hips. The arm moves over the head to the back of the body and the palm is placed on the area of the left kidney and adrenal (fig. 123)

The left hand is held there while the right hand performs the same movements. Once the right hand is placed on the area of the right kidney and adrenal, an inhalation is taken. The left hand moves over the head to the front of the body, and brushes, with the fingers separated at the middle and fourth fingers, over the left ovary. This movement of the arm from back to front is accompanied by the whistlelike sound of a sharp exhalation. Another deep inhalation is taken, and the right hand is brought to the right ovary in the same fashion.


12. Drilling Energy from Between the Feet with Both Hands

This magical pass is similar to the preceding one, except that instead of performing the movements separately, the hands execute the drilling movements in unison. Then the index and middle fingers of both hands make two-pronged claws, and grab something from the area between the feet at the same time.

They return to the level of the hips, and then circle around the sides of the body to the area of the kidneys and adrenals; a deep breath is taken as the palms rub those areas (fig. 124). Then an exhalation is made as the arms draw another circle around the sides of the body to the front to brush the area over the left and right ovaries with the fingers of each hand separated at the middle. Again, this movement of the arms from back to front is accompanied by a whistlelike exhalation.






Magical Passes: The Third Series - The Series of the Five Concerns Also Known As The Westwood Series.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series - The Series of the Five Concerns Also Known As The Westwood Series.

  • The First Group: The Center for Decisions.
    • The Magical Passes for the Center for Decisions.
  • The Second Group: The Recapitulation.
    • The Magical Passes for the Recapitulation.
  • The Third Group: Dreaming.
    • The Magical Passes for Dreaming.
  • The Fourth Group: Inner Silence.
    • The Magical Passes that Aid the Attainment of Inner Silence.


One of the most important series for the practitioners of Tensegrity is called The Series of the Five Concerns. A nickname for this series is The Westwood Series, given to it because it was taught publicly for the first rime in the Pauley Pavilion at the University of California at Los Angeles, which is located in an area called Westwood. This series was conceived as an attempt to integrate what don Juan Matus called the five concerns of the shamans of ancient Mexico. Everything those sorcerers did rotated around five concerns: one, the magical passes; two, the energetic center in the human body called the center for decisions; three, recapitulation, the means for enhancing the scope of human awareness; four, dreaming, the bona fide art of breaking the parameters of normal perception; five, inner silence, the stage of human perception from which those sorcerers launched every one of their perceptual attainments. This sequence of five concerns was an arrangement patterned on The understanding that those sorcerers had of the world around them.

One of the astounding findings of those shamans, according to what don Juan taught, was the existence in the universe of an agglutinating force that binds energy fields together into concrete, functional units. The sorcerers who discovered the existence of this force described it as a vibration, or a vibratory condition, that permeates groups of energy fields and glues them together.

In terms of this arrangement of the five concerns of the shamans of ancient Mexico, the magical passes fulfill the function of the vibratory condition those shamans talked about. When those sorcerers put together this shamanistic sequence of five concerns, they copied the patterning of energy that was revealed to them when they were capable of seeing energy as it flows in the universe. The binding force was the magical passes. The magical passes were the unit that permeated through the four remaining units and grouped them together into one functional whole.

The Westwood Series, following the patterning of the shamans of ancient Mexico, has consequently been divided into four groups, arranged in terms of their importance as envisioned by the sorcerers who formulated them: one, the center for decisions; two, recapitulation; three, dreaming; four, inner silence.






Magical Passes: The Third Series: First Group - The Center for Decisions.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: First Group - The Center for Decisions.

The most important topic for the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times, and for all the shamans of don Juan's lineage, was the center for decisions. Shamans are convinced, by the practical results of their endeavors, that there is a spot on the human body which accounts for decision making, the V spot- the area on the crest of the sternum at the base of the neck, where the clavicles meet to form a letter V. It is a center where energy is rarefied to the point of being tremendously subtle, and it stores a specific type of energy which shamans are incapable of defining.

They are utterly certain, however, that they can feel the presence of that energy, and its effects. It is the belief of shamans that this special energy is always pushed out of that center very early in the lives of human beings, and it never returns to it, thus depriving human beings of something perhaps more important than all the energy of the other centers combined: the capacity to make decisions.

In relation to the issue of making decisions, don Juan expressed the hard opinion of the sorcerers of his lineage. Their observations, over the centuries, had led them to conclude that human beings are incapable of making decisions, and that for this reason, they have created the social order: gigantic institutions that assume responsibility for decision making. They let those gigantic institutions decide for them, and they merely fulfill the decisions already made on their behalf.

The V spot at the base of the neck was, for those shamans, a place of such importance that they rarely touched it with their hands; if it was touched, the touch was ritualistic and always performed by someone else with the aid of an object. They used highly polished pieces of hardwood or polished bones of animals, utilizing the round head of the bone so as to have an object of the perfect contour, the size of the hollow spot on the neck. They would press with those bones or pieces of wood to create pressure on the borders of that hollow spot. Those objects were also used, although rarely, for self-massage, or for what we understand nowadays as accupressure.

"How did they come to find out that that hollow spot is the center for decisions!" I asked don Juan once.

"Every center of energy in the body," he replied, "shows a concentration of energy; a sort of vortex of energy, like a funnel that actually seems to rotate counterclockwise from the perspective of the seer who gazes into it. The strength of a particular center depends on the force of that movement. If it barely moves, the center is exhausted, depleted of energy.

"When the sorcerers of ancient times," don Juan continued, "were scanning the body with their seeing eye, they noticed the presence of those vortexes. They became very curious about them, and made a map of them."

"Are there many such centers in the body, don Juan?" I asked.

"There are hundreds of them," he replied, "if not thousands! One can say that a human being is nothing else but a conglomerate of thousands of twirling vortexes, some of them so very small that they are, let's say, like pinholes, but very important pinholes. Most of the vortexes are vortexes of energy. Energy flows freely through them, or is stuck in them. There are, however, six which are so enormous that they deserve special treatment. They are centers of life and vitality. Energy there is never stuck, but sometimes the supply of energy is so scarce that the center barely rotates."

Don Juan explained that those enormous centers of vitality were located on six areas of the body. He enumerated them in terms of the importance that shamans accorded them.

The first was on the area of the liver and gallbladder; the second on the area of the pancreas and spleen; the third on the area of the kidneys and adrenals; and the fourth on the hollow spot at the base of the neck on the frontal part of the body. The fifth was around the womb, and the sixth was on the top of the head.

The fifth center, pertinent only to women, had, according to what don Juan said, a special kind of energy that gave sorcerers the impression of liquidness. It was a feature that only some women had. It seemed to serve as a natural filter that screened out superfluous influences.

The sixth center, located on top of the head, don Juan described as something more than an anomaly, and refrained absolutely from having anything to do with it. He portrayed it as possessing not a circular vortex of energy, like the others, but a pendulumlike, back-and-forth movement somehow reminiscent of the beating of a heart.

"Why is the energy of that center so different, don Juan?" I asked him.

"That sixth center of energy," he said, "doesn't quite belong to man. You see, we human beings are under siege, so to speak. That center has been taken over by an invader, an unseen predator. And the only way to overcome this predator is by fortifying all the other centers."

"Isn't it a bit paranoiac to feel that we are under siege, don Juan?" I asked.

"Well, maybe for you, but certainly not for me," he replied. "I see energy, and I see that the energy over the center on the top of the head doesn't fluctuate like the energy of the other centers. It has a back-and-forth movement, quite disgusting, and quite foreign. I also see that in a sorcerer who has been capable of vanquishing the mind, which sorcerers call a foreign installation, the fluctuation of that center has become exactly like the fluctuation of all the others."

Don Juan, throughout the years of my apprenticeship, systematically refused to talk about that sixth center. On this occasion when he was telling me about the centers of vitality, he dismissed my frantic probes, rather rudely, and began to talk about the fourth center, the center for decisions.

"This fourth center," he said, "has a special type of energy, which appears to the eye of the seer as possessing a unique transparency, something that could be described as resembling water: energy so fluid that it seems liquid. The liquid appearance of this special energy is the mark of a filterlike quality of the center for decisions itself, which screens any energy coming to it, and draws from it only the aspect of it that is liquidlike. Such a quality of liquidness is a uniform and consistent feature of this center. Sorcerers also call it the watery center.

"The rotation of the energy at the center for decisions is the weakest of them all," he went on. "That's why man can rarely decide anything. Sorcerers see that after they practice certain magical passes, that center becomes active, and they can certainly make decisions to their hearts' content, while they couldn't even take a first step before."

Don Juan was quite emphatic about the fact that the shamans of ancient Mexico had an aversion that bordered on phobia about touching their own hollow spot at the base of the neck. The only way in which they accepted any interference whatsoever with that spot was through the use of their magical passes, which reinforce that center by bringing dispersed energy to it, clearing away, in this manner, any hesitation in decision making born out of the natural energy dispersion brought about by the wear and tear of everyday life.

"A human being," don Juan said, "perceived as a conglomerate of energy fields, is a concrete and sealed unit into which no energy can be injected, and from which no energy can escape. The feeling of losing energy, which all of us experience at one time or another, is the result of energy being chased away, dispersed from the five enormous natural centers of life and vitality. Any sense of gaining energy is due to the redeployment of energy previously dispersed from those centers. That is to say, The energy is relocated onto those five centers of life and vitality."






Magical Passes: The Third Series: First Group - The Magical Passes for the Center for Decisions.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: First Group - The Magical Passes for the Center for Decisions.

1. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Back-and Forth Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Downward. The arms shoot out to the front at a forty-five-degree angle with an exhalation, the palms of the hands facing down (fig. 125). Then they are retrieved to the sides of the chest, under the axilla, with an inhalation. The shoulders are raised in order to main the same degree of inclination (fig. 126).

In the second facet of this movement, the arms are extended downward with an inhalation, and pulled back with an exhalation.


2. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Back-and-Forth Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Upward

This magical pass is like the preceding one, and it is executed in exactly the same fashion, except that it is done with the palms of the hands turned upward (fig. 127). The inhalations and exhalations are also exactly as in the preceding movement. Air is exhaled as the hands and arms move forward at a forty-five-degree level of inclination, and it is inhaled as the arms move backward. Then air is inhaled as the hands and arms move downward, and exhaled as the hands and arms retrieve.


3. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions with a Circular Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Downward

This magical pass begins exactly like the first one of this group, except that when the hands reach their fully extended position, two complete circles are drawn with the hands and the arms going away from each other to reach a point about six inches beyond the rib cage. When the hands complete the circles (fig. 128), the arms are retrieved to the sides of the rib cage under the axilla.

This magical pass consists of two facets. In the first, air is exhaled as the circles are drawn and inhaled as the arms are retrieved backward. In the second, air is inhaled as the hands and arms draw the circles and exhaled as the arms are retrieved.


4. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions in a Circular Motion of the Hands and Arms with the Palms Turned Upward

This magical pass is exactly like the preceding one, with the same two facets of inhalation and exhalation, but the two circles are drawn by the hands and arms with the palms of the hands turned upward (fig. 129).


5. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Midsection of the Body

The arms are bent at the elbows and kept high, at the level of the shoulders. The fingers are kept loosely pointing toward the V spot, but without touching it (fig. 130). The arms move in a teeter-totter fashion from right to left and left to right. The motion is not accomplished by moving the shoulders or the hips, but by the contraction of the muscles of the stomach, which moves the midsection to the right, to the left, and to the right again, and so on.


6. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Area of the Shoulder Blades

The arms are bent, as in the previous movement, hut the shoulders are rounded so that the elbows are heavily drawn toward the front. The left hand is placed on top of the right. The fingers are held loose, pointing toward the V spot without touching n, and the chin juts out and rests on the hollow spot between the thumb and index finger of the left Figure 130 hand (fig. 131). The bent elbows are pushed forward, extending the shoulder blades, one at a time, to the maximum.


7. Stirring Energy Around the Center for Decisions with a Bent Wrist

Both hands are brought to the V spot on the base of the neck, without touching it. The hands are gently curved; the fingers point at the center for decisions. Then the hands begin to move, the left first, followed by the right, as if stirring a liquid substance around that area, or as if they were fanning air into the V spot with a series of gentle movements of each hand; these movements are accomplished by extending the whole arm laterally and then bringing it back to the area in front of the V spot (fig. 132). Then the left arm strikes out in front of the V spot, with the hand turned sharply inward, using the wrist and the back of the hand as a striking surface (fig. 133). The right arm executes the same movement. In this manner, a series of forceful blows are delivered to the area right in front of the V spot.


8. Transferring Energy from the Two Centers of Vitality on the Front of the Body to the Center for Decisions

Both hands are brought to the area of the pancreas and spleen, a few inches in front of the body. The left hand, with the palm turned upward, is held four or five inches below the right one, which has the palm turned downward. The left forearm is held at a ninety-degree angle, extended straight out to the front. The right forearm is also at a ninety-degree angle, but held close to the body, so that the fingertips point to the left (fig. 134). The left hand makes two inward circles about a foot in diameter around the area of the pancreas and spleen. Once it has completed the second circle, the right hand shoots out to the front and strikes with the edge of the hand, to the area an arm's length in front of the liver and gallbladder (fig.135).

The exact same movements are performed on the other side of the body by reversing the position of the hands, which arc brought to the area of the liver and gallbladder, with the right hand circling and the left hand striking forward to the area an arm's length in front of the pancreas and spleen.


9. Bringing Energy to the Center for Decisions from the Knees

The left hand and arm draw two circles about a foot in diameter in front of the V spot, a bit toward the left (fig. 136). The palm of the hand is facing downward. Once the second circle has been drawn, the forearm is raised to the level of the shoulder and the hand strikes away from the (ace, diagonally to the right, at the level of the V spot, with a flick of the wrist, as if holding a whip (fig. 137). The same movements are performed with the right hand.

Then a deep inhalation is taken, and an exhalation follows as the hands and arms slide downward until they reach the tops of the knees, with the palms facing up. A deep inhalation is taken there and the arms are raised, with the left arm in the lead; the right arm crosses over the left as they go over the head until the fingers rest on the back of the neck. The breath is held as the top of the trunk moves three times in succession in a teeter-totter motion; the left shoulder goes down first, then the right, and so on (fig. 138). Then the air is exhaled as the arms and hands move back downward to the tops of the knees, again with the palms of the hands facing up.

A deep inhalation is taken, and then the air is exhaled as the hands are raised from the knees to the level of the V spot, with the fingers pointing toward it, without touching it (fig. 139). The hands are brought once more to the knees with an exhalation. A final deep inhalation is taken and the hands are raised to the level of the eyes, and then brought down to the sides as the air is exhaled.

The next three magical passes, according to don Juan, transfer energy which belongs only to the center for decisions from the frontal edge of the luminous sphere, where it has accumulated over the years, to the back, and then from the back of the luminous sphere to the front. He said that this energy transferred back and forth goes through the V spot, which acts as a filter, utilizing only the energy that is proper to it and discarding the rest. He pointed out that because of this selective process of the V spot, it is essential to perform these three magical passes as many times as possible.


10. Energy Going Through the Center for Decisions from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with Two Blows

A deep inhalation is taken. Then the air is slowly exhaled as the left arm strikes out at the level of the solar plexus, with the palm of the hand turned upward; the palm is held flat and the fingers are together.

Then the hand is clasped into a fist. The arm moves to the back, striking from the height of the hips with a backhand blow (fig. 140). The exhalation ends as the hand opens.

Another deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation follows while the palm of the open hand, still in back of the body, taps ten times as if lightly hitting a solid round object. Then the hand is clasped into a fist before the arm moves to the front in a swinglike punch that strikes an area in front of the V spot, an arm's length away from it (fig. 141). The hand opens as if releasing something held in it. The arm moves down, back, and then over the head and strikes with the palm down in front of the V spot, as if breaking whatever it has released. The exhalation ends then (fig. 142). The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.


11. Transferring Energy from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with the Hook of the Arm

A deep inhalation is made. Then the air is slowly exhaled as the left .inn moves forward with the palm of the hand turned upward. The hand is quickly clasped into a fist. The fisted hand rotates until the back of the hand is turned upward and strikes over the shoulder to the back. The fisted palm faces upward. The hand opens and turns to face downward, and the exhalation ends. Another deep inhalation is taken. Then a slow exhalation begins as the hand, made into a downward hook, scoops three times, as if rolling a solid substance into a ball (fig. 143). The ball is tossed upward to the level of the head with a flick of the hand and forearm (fig. 144), and quickly grabbed with the hand bent again at the wrist like a hook (fig. 145). The arm moves to the front, then to the height of the right shoulder and strikes forward to an area right in front of the V spot an arm's length away from it, using the wrist and the back of the hand as a striking surface (fig. 146). The hand then opens as if to release whatever it had trapped, and the arm moves down to the back and over the head to strike it with great force with the flat palm. The exhalation ends as the whole body shakes with the force of the strike. The same movements are repeated with the other arm.


12. Transferring Energy from the Front to the Back and the Back to the Front with Three Blows

A deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation follows as the left arm strikes forward with the hand open, the flat palm turned upward. The hand is quickly clasped into a fist, and the arm retrieves as if to deliver an elbow blow to the back. Then it moves laterally to the right and delivers a side punch with the forearm rubbing on the body (fig. 147). The elbow is retrieved again as if to deliver an elbow blow to the back. The arm is extended and moved out to the left side and to the back, to deliver the fourth blow behind the body with the back of the fisted hand. The exhalation ends as the hand opens (fig. 148).

A deep inhalation is taken again. A slow exhalation follows as the hand, bent downward into a hook, scoops three times. Then the hand grabs as if it were clasping something solid (fig. 149). The arm swings to the front at the level of the center for decisions. It continues to the right shoulder; there the forearm makes a loop upward and delivers a back-fist blow to the area in front of the V spot, an arm's length away from it (fig. 150). The hand opens as if to release something that it was clasping. Then it moves down, goes behind the body, comes above the head, with the palm of the hand down, and smashes whatever it released with a forceful blow of the open hand. The slow exhalation ends there (fig. 151).

The same movements are repeated with the right arm.






Magical Passes: The Third Series: Second Group - The Recapitulation.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Second Group - The Recapitulation.

The recapitulation, according to what don Juan taught his disciples, was a technique discovered by the sorcerers of ancient Mexico, and used by every shaman practitioner from then on, to view and relive all the experiences of their lives, in order to achieve two transcendental goals: one, the abstract goal of fulfilling a universal code that demands that awareness must be relinquished at the moment of death; and two, the extremely pragmatic goal of acquiring perceptual fluidity.

He said that the formulation of their first goal was the result of observations that those sorcerers made by means of their capacity to see energy directly as it flows in the universe. They had seen that there exists in the universe a gigantic force, an immense conglomerate of energy fields which they called the Eagle, or the dark sea of awareness. They observed that the dark sea of awareness is the force that lends awareness to all living beings, from viruses to men. They believed that it lends awareness to a newborn being, and that this being enhances that awareness by means of its life experiences until a moment in which the force demands its return.

In the understanding of those sorcerers, all living beings die because they are forced to return the awareness lent to them. Sorcerers throughout the ages have understood that there is no way for what modern man calls our linear mode of thinking to explain such a phenomenon, because there is no room for a cause-and-effect line of reasoning as to why and how awareness is lent and then taken back. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico viewed it as an energetic fact of the universe, a fact that can't be explained in terms of cause and effect, or in terms of a purpose which can be determined a priori.

The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage believed that to recapitulate meant to give the dark sea of awareness what it was seeking: their life experiences. They believed that by means of the recapitulation, however, they could acquire a degree of control that could permit them to separate their life experiences from their life force. For them, the two were not inextricably intertwined; they were joined only circumstantially.

Those sorcerers affirmed that the dark sea of awareness doesn't want to take the lives of human beings; it wants only their life experiences. Lack of discipline in human beings prevents them from separating the two forces, and in the end, they lose their lives, when it is meant that they lose only the force of their life experiences. Those sorcerers viewed the recapitulation as the procedure by which they could give the dark sea of awareness a substitute for their lives. They gave up their life experiences by recounting them, but they retained their life force.

The perceptual claims of sorcerers, when examined in terms of the linear concepts of our Western world, make no sense whatsoever. Western civilization has been in contact with the shamans of the New World for five hundred years, and there has never been a genuine attempt on the part of scholars to formulate a serious philosophical discourse based on statements made by those shamans. For instance, the recapitulation may seem to any member of the Western world to be congruous with psychoanalysis, something in the line of a psychological procedure, a sort of self-help technique. Nothing could be further from the truth.

According to don Juan Matus, man always loses by default. In the case of the premises of sorcery, he believed that Western man is missing a tremendous opportunity for the enhancement of his awareness, and that the way in which Western man relates himself to the universe, life, and awareness is only one of a multiplicity of options.

To recapitulate, for shaman practitioners, means to give to an incomprehensible force- the dark sea of awareness- the very thing it seems to be looking for: their life experiences, that is to say, the awareness that they have enhanced through those very life experiences. Since don Juan could not possibly explain these phenomena to me in terms of standard logic, he said that all that sorcerers could aspire to do was to accomplish the feat of training their life force without knowing how it was done. He also said that there were thousands of sorcerers who had achieved this. They had retained their life force after they had given the dark sea of awareness the force of their life experiences. This meant to don Juan that those sorcerers didn't die in the usual sense in which we understand death, but that they transcended it by retaining their life force and vanishing from the face of the earth, embarked on a definitive journey of perception.

The belief of the shamans of don Juan's lineage was that when death takes place in this fashion, all of our being is turned into energy, a special kind of energy that retains the mark of our individuality. Don Juan tried to explain this in a metaphorical sense, saying that we are composed of a number of single nations: the nation of the lungs, the nation of the heart, the nation of the stomach, the nation of the kidneys, and so on. Each of these nations sometimes works independently of the others, but at the moment of death, all of them are unified into one single entity. The sorcerers of don Juan's lineage called this state total freedom. For those sorcerers, death is a unifier, and not an annihilator, as it is for the average man.

"Is this state immortality, don Juan?" I asked.

"This is in no way immortality," he replied. "It is merely the entrance into an evolutionary process, using the only medium for evolution that man has at his disposal: awareness. The sorcerers of my lineage were convinced that man could not evolve biologically any further; therefore, they considered man's awareness to be the only medium for evolution. At the moment of dying, sorcerers are not annihilated by death, but are transformed into inorganic beings: beings that have awareness, but not an organism. To be transformed into an inorganic being was evolution for them, and it meant that a new, indescribable type of awareness was lent to them, an awareness that would last for veritably millions of years, but which would also someday have to be returned to the giver: the dark sea of awareness."

One of the most important findings of the shamans of don Juan's lineage was that, like everything else in the universe, our world is a combination of two opposing, and at the same time complementary, forces. One of those forces is the world we know, which those sorcerers called the world of organic beings. The other force is something they called the world of inorganic beings.

"The world of inorganic beings," don Juan said, "is populated by beings that possess awareness, but not an organism. They are conglomerates of energy fields, just like we are. To the eye of a seer, instead of being luminous, as human beings are, they are rather opaque. They are not round, but long, candlelike energetic configurations. They are, in essence, conglomerates of energy fields which have cohesion and boundaries just like we do. They are held together by the same agglutinating force that holds our energy fields together."

"Where is this inorganic world, don Juan?" I asked.

"It is our twin world," he replied. "It occupies the same time and space as our world, but the type of awareness of our world is so different from the type of awareness of the inorganic world that we never notice the presence of inorganic beings, although they do notice ours."

"Are those inorganic beings human beings that have evolved?" I asked.

"Not at all!" he exclaimed. "The inorganic beings of our twin world have been intrinsically inorganic from the start, the same way that we have always been intrinsically organic beings, also from the start. They are beings whose consciousness can evolve just like ours, and it doubtlessly does, but I have no firsthand knowledge of how this happens. What I do know, however, is that a human being whose awareness has evolved is a bright, luminescent, round inorganic being of a special kind."

Don Juan gave me a series of descriptions of this evolutionary process, which I always took to be poetic metaphors. I singled out the one that pleased me the most, which was total freedom. I fancied a human being that enters into total freedom to be the most courageous, the most imaginative being possible. Don Juan said that I was not fancying anything at all - that to enter into total freedom, a human being must call on his or her sublime side, which, he said, human beings have, but which it never occurs to them to use.

Don Juan described the second, the pragmatic goal of the recapitulation as the acquisition of fluidity. The sorcerers' rationale behind this had to do with one of the most elusive subjects of sorcery: the assemblage point, a point of intense luminosity the size of a tennis ball, perceivable when sorcerers see a human being as a conglomerate of energy fields.

Sorcerers like don Juan see that trillions of energy fields in the form of filliments of light from the universe at large converge on the assemblage point and go through it. This confluence of filaments gives the assemblage point its brilliancy. The assemblage point makes it possible for a human being to perceive those trillions of energy filaments by turning them into sensorial data.

The assemblage point then interprets this data as the world of everyday life, that is to say, in terms of human socialization and human potential.

To recapitulate is to relive every, or nearly every, experience that we have had, and in doing so to displace the assemblage point, ever so slightly or a great deal, propelling it by the force of memory to adopt the position that it had when the event being recapitulated took place. This act of going back and forth from previous positions to the current one gives the shaman practitioners the necessary fluidity to withstand extraordinary odds in their journeys into infinity. To the Tensegrity practitioners, the recapitulation gives the necessary fluidity to withstand odds which are not in any way part of their habitual cognition.

The recapitulation as a formal procedure was done in ancient times by recollecting every person the practitioners knew and every experience in which they had taken part. Don Juan suggested that in my case, which is the case of modern man, I make a written list of all the persons that I had met in my life, as a mnemonic device. Once I had written that list, he proceeded to tell me how to use it. I had to take the first person on the list, which went backwards in time from the present to the time of my very first life experience, and set up, in my memory, my last interaction with that first person on my list. This act is called arranging the event to be recapitulated.

A detailed recollection of minutiae is required as the proper means to hone one's capacity to remember. This recollection entails getting all the pertinent physical details, such as the surroundings where the event being recollected took place. Once the event is arranged, one should enter into the locale itself, as if actually going into it, paying special attention to any relevant physical configurations. If, for instance, the interaction took place in an office, what should be remembered is the floor, the doors, the walls, the pictures, the windows, the desks, the objects on the desks, everything that could have been observed in a glance and then forgotten.

The recapitulation as a formal procedure must begin by the recounting of events that have just taken place. In this fashion, the primacy of the experience takes precedence. Something that has just happened is something that one can remember with great accuracy. Sorcerers always count on the fact that human beings are capable of storing detailed information that they are not aware of, and that that detail is what the dark sea of awareness is after.

The actual recapitulation of the event requires that one breathe deeply, fanning the head, so to speak, very slowly and gently from side to side, beginning on one side, left or right, whichever. This fanning of the head was done as many times as needed, while remembering all the details accessible. Don Juan said that sorcerers talked about this act as breathing in all of one's own feelings spent in the event being recollected, and expelling all the unwanted moods and extraneous feelings that were left with us.

Sorcerers believe that the mystery of the recapitulation lies in the act of inhaling and exhaling. Since breathing is a life-sustaining function, sorcerers are certain that by means of it, one can also deliver to the dark sea of awareness the facsimile of one's life experiences. When I pressed don Juan for a rational explanation of this idea, his position was that things like the recapitulation could only be experienced, not explained. He said that in the act of doing, one can find liberation, and that to explain it was to dissipate our energy in fruitless efforts. His invitation was congruous with everything related to his knowledge: the invitation to take action.

The list of names is used in the recapitulation as a mnemonic device that propels memory into an inconceivable journey. Sorcerers' position in this respect is that remembering events that have just taken place prepares the ground for remembering events more distant in time with the same clarity and immediacy. To recollect experiences in this way is to relive them, and to draw from this recollection an extraordinary impetus that is capable of stirring energy dispersed from our centers of vitality, and returning it to them. Sorcerers refer to this redeployment of energy that the recapitulation causes as gaining fluidity after giving the dark sea of awareness what it is looking for.

On a more mundane level, the recapitulation gives practitioners the capacity to examine the repetition in their lives. Recapitulating can convince them, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all of us are at the mercy of forces which ultimately make no sense, although at first sight they seem perfectly reasonable; such as being at the mercy of courtship. It seems that for some people, courtship is the pursuit of a lifetime. I have personally heard from people of advanced age that the only ideal that they had was to find a perfect companion, and that their aspiration was to have perhaps one year of happiness in love.

Don Juan Matus used to say to me, over my vehement protests, that the problem was that nobody really wanted to love anybody, but that every one of us wanted to be loved. He said that this obsession with courtship, taken at face value, was the most natural thing in the world to us. To hear a seventy-five year old man or woman say that they are still in search of a perfect companion is an affirmation of something idealistic, romantic, beautiful. However, to examine this obsession in the context of the endless repetitions of a lifetime makes it appear as it really is: something grotesque.

Don Juan assured me that if any behavioral change is going to be accomplished, it has to be done through the recapitulation, since it is the only vehicle that can enhance awareness by liberating one from the unvoiced demands of socialization, which are so automatic, so taken for granted, that they are not even noticed under normal conditions, much less examined.

The actual act of recapitulating is a lifetime endeavor. It takes years to exhaust the list of people, especially for those who have made the acquaintance of and have interacted with thousands of individuals. This list is augmented by the memory of impersonal events in which no people are involved, but which have to be examined because they are somehow related to the person being recapitulated.

Don Juan asserted that what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico sought avidly in recapitulating was the memory of interaction, because in interaction lie the deep effects of socialization, which they struggled to overcome by any means available.






Magical Passes: The Third Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes for the Recapitulation.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes for the Recapitulation.

The recapitulation affects something that don Juan called the energy body. He formally explained the energy body as a conglomerate of energy fields that are the mirror image of the energy fields that make up the human body when it is seen directly as energy. He said that in the case of sorcerers, the physical body and the energy body are one single unit. The magical passes for the recapitulation bring the energy body to the physical body, which are essential for navigating into the unknown.


13. Forging the Trunk of the Energy Body

Don Juan said that the trunk of the energy body was forged with three strikes delivered with the palms of the hands. The hands are held at the level of the ears with the palms facing forward, and from that position they strike forward, at the level of the shoulders, as if they were striking the shoulders of a well-developed body. The hands then move back to their original position around the ears, with the palms facing forward, and strike the midtrunk of that imaginary body at the level of the chest. The second strike is not as wide as the first one, and the third strike is much narrower, because it strikes the waistline of a triangular-shaped trunk (fig. 152).


14. Slapping the Energy Body

The left and the right hands each come down from above the head. The palm of each hand bears down, creating a current of energy that defines each arm, forearm, and hand of the energy body. The left hand hits across the body to strike the left hand of the energy body (fig. 153) and then the right hand does the same: it hits across the body to strike the right hand of the energy body. This magical pass defines the arms and forearms, especially the hands, of the energy body.


15. Spreading the Energy Body Laterally The wrists are crossed in the shape of a letter X in front of the body, almost touching it. The wrists are held bent backwards at a ninety-degree angle to the forearm, at the level of the solar plexus. The left wrist is on top of the right one (fig. 154). From there, the hands spread to the sides in unison, in a slow motion, as if they met with tremendous resistance (fig. 155).

When the arms reach their maximum aperture, they are brought back to the center, with the palms turned at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, creating in this fashion the sensation of pushing solid matter from both sides to the center of the body. The left hand crosses on top of the right as the hands get ready for another lateral strike.

While the physical body as a conglomerate of energy fields has super-defined boundaries, the energy body lacks that feature. Spreading energy laterally gives the energy body the defined boundaries that it lacks.


16. Establishing the Core of the Energy Body

The forearms are held in a vertical position at the level of the chest, with the elbows kept in close to the body, at the width of the trunk. The wrists are snapped back gently, and then forward with great force, without moving the forearms (fig. 156).

The human body, as a conglomerate of energy fields, has not only super-defined boundaries, but a core of compact luminosity, which shamans call the band of man, or the energy fields with which man is most familiar. The idea of shamans is that within the luminous sphere, which is also the totality of man's energetic possibilities, there are areas of energy of which human beings are not at all aware. Those are the energy fields located at the maximum distance from the band of man. To establish the core of the energy body is to fortify the energy body in order for it to venture into those areas of unknown energy.


17. Forging the Heels and the Calves of the Energy Body

The left foot is held in front of the body with the heel raised to midcalf. The heel is turned out to a position perpendicular to the other leg. Then the left heel strikes to the right as if a kick with the heel were being delivered, about six or seven inches away from the shinbone of the right leg (figs. 157, 158).

The same movement is then executed with the other leg.


18. Forging the Knees of the Energy Body

This magical pass has two facets. In the first facet the left knee is bent and raised to the level of the hips, or if possible even higher. The total weight of the body is placed on the right leg, which stands with the knee slightly bent forward. Three circles are drawn with the left knee, moving it inward toward the groin (fig. 159). The same movement is repeated with the right leg.

In the second facet of this magical pass, the movements are repeated again with each leg, but I Ins time, the knee draws an outward circle (fig. 160).


19. Forging the Thighs of the Energy Body

Beginning with an exhalation, the body bends slightly at the knees as the hands slide down the thinks. The hands stop on top of the kneecaps, and then they are pulled back up the thighs to the level of the hips with an inhalation, as if they were dragging a solid substance. There is a slight quality of a claw to each hand. The body straightens as this part of the movement is executed (fig. 161). With the opposite breathing pattern, the movement is repeated, inhaling as the knees bend and the hands go down to the tops of the kneecaps, and exhaling as they are pulled back.


20. Stirring Up Personal History by Making It Flexible

This magical pass stretches the hamstring and relaxes it by bringing each leg, one at a time, bent at the knee, to strike the buttocks with a gentle tap of the heel (fig. 162). The left heel strikes the left buttock, and the right heel strikes the right one.

Shamans put an enormous emphasis on tightening the muscles of the backs of the thighs. They believe that the fighter those muscles, the greater the facility of the practitioner to identify and get rid of behavioral patterns that are useless.


21. Stirring Up Personal History with the Heel to the Ground by Tapping It Repeatedly

The right leg is set at a ninety-degree angle with the left. The left foot is placed as far as possible in front of the body as the body almost sits on the right leg. The tension and contraction of the back muscles of the right leg are maximum, as is the stretching of the back muscles of the left leg. The left leg taps the ground repeatedly with the heel (fig. 163). The same movements are then executed with the other leg.


22. Stirring Up Personal History with the Heel to the Ground by Sustaining That Position

The same movements are executed in this magical pass as in the previous one, again with each leg, but instead of tapping with the heel, the body is kept at an even tension by holding the stretch of the leg (fig. 164). The following four magical passes, since they entail deep inhalations and exhalations, have to be done sparingly.


23. The Recapitulation Wings

A deep inhalation is taken as both forearms are raised to the level of the shoulders, with the hands at the level of the ears, palms facing forward. The forearms are held vertically and equidistant from Figure 164 each other. An exhalation follows as the forearms are pulled back as far as possible without slanting them in any direction (fig. 165). Another deep inhalation is taken. Within the duration of one long exhalation, both arms each draw a winglike semicircle, beginning with the left arm moving forward as far as it can be extended and then laterally, drawing a semicircle to the back as far as possible. The arm makes a curve at the end of this extension and returns to the front (fig. 166) to its initial resting position by the side of the body (fig. 167). Then the right arm follows the same pattern within the same exhalation. Once these movements are completed, a deep abdominal breath is taken.


24. The Window of Recapitulation

The first part of this magical pass is exactly like the preceding one; a deep breath is taken with the hands raised to the ear level, with the palms facing forward. The forearms maintain a perfect verticality. This is followed by a long exhalation as the arms are pulled backwards. A deep inhalation is taken as the elbows are extended laterally at the level of the shoulders. The hands are bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, the fingers pointing upward. The hands are slowly pushed toward the center of the body until the forearms cross. The left arm is held closer to the body and the right arm is placed in front of the left. The hands create in this fashion what don Juan called the window of recapitulation: an opening in front of the eyes that looks like a small window, through which, don Juan affirmed, a practitioner could peer into infinity (fig. 168). A deep exhalation follows as the body straightens; the elbows are extended laterally and the hands are straightened out and kept at the same level as the elbows (fig. 169).


25. The Five Deep Breaths

The beginning of this magical pass is exactly like the previous two. At the second inhalation, the arms go down and cross at the level of the knees as the practitioner adopts a semi-squatting position. The hands are placed behind the knees; the right hand grabs the tendons in back of the left knee, and the left hand, with the left forearm on top of the right, grabs the tendons in back of the right knee. The index and middle fingers grab the outer tendons there and the thumb is wrapped around the inner part of the knee. The exhalation ends then, and a deep inhalation is taken, accompanied by pressing the tendon (fig. 170). Five breaths are taken in this fashion.

This magical pass causes the back to be straight and the head to be in alignment with the spine, and is used to take deep breaths that fill the top as well as the lower part of the lungs by pushing the diaphragm downward.


26. Drawing Energy from the Feet

The first part of this magical pass is exactly the same as the beginning of the other three of this series. On the second inhalation, the forearms go down and wrap around the ankles, going from the inside to the outside as the practitioner adopts a squatting position. The backs of the hands rest on top of the toes, and in this fashion, three deep inhalations and three deep exhalations are made (fig. 171). After the last exhalation, the body straightens as a deep inhalation is taken to finish the magical pass.

The only glow of awareness left in human beings is at the bottom of Their luminous spheres, a fringe that extends in a circle and reaches the level of the toes. With this magical pass, that fringe is tapped with the Kicks of the fingers, and stirred with the breath.





Magical Passes: The Third Series: Third Group - Dreaming.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Third Group - Dreaming.

Don Juan Matus defined dreaming as the act of using normal dreams as a bona fide entrance for human awareness into other realms of perceiving; This definition implied for him that ordinary dreams could be used as a hatch that led perception into other regions of energy different from the energy of the world of everyday life, and yet utterly similar to it at a basic core. The result of such an entrance was, for sorcerers, the perception of veritable worlds where they could live or die, worlds which were astoundingly different from ours, and yet utterly similar.

Pressed for a linear explanation of this contradiction, don Juan Matus reiterated the standard position of sorcerers: that the answers to all those questions were in the practice, not in the intellectual inquiry. He said that in order to talk about such possibilities, we would have to use the syntax of language, whatever language we spoke, and that syntax, by the force of usage, limits the possibilities of expression. The syntax of any language refers only to perceptual possibilities found in the world in which we live.

Don Juan made a significant differentiation, in Spanish, between two verbs: one was to dream, sonar; and the other was ensueno, which is to dream the way sorcerers dream. In English, there is no clear distinction between these two states: the normal dreaming, sueno, and the more complex state that sorcerers call ensueno.

The art of dreaming, according to what don Juan taught, originated in a very casual observation that the shamans of ancient Mexico made when they saw people who were asleep. They noticed that during sleep the assemblage point was displaced in a very natural, easy way from its habitual position, and that it moved anywhere along the periphery of the luminous sphere, or to any place in the interior of it. Correlating their seeing with the reports of the people who had been observed sleeping, they realized that the greater the observed displacement of the assemblage point, the more astounding the reports of events and scenes experienced in dreams.

After this observation took hold of them, those sorcerers began to look avidly for opportunities to displace their own assemblage points. They ended up using psychotropic plants to accomplish this. Very quickly, they realized that the displacement brought about by using these plants was erratic, forced, and out of control. In the midst of this failure, nonetheless they discovered one thing of great value. They called it dreaming attention.

Don Juan explained this phenomenon, referring first to the daily awareness of human beings as the attention placed on the elements of the world of everyday life. He pointed out that human beings took only a cursory and yet sustained look at everything that surrounded them.

More than examining things, human beings simply established the presence of those elements by a special type of attention, a specific aspect of their general awareness. His contention was that the same type of cursory and yet sustained "look," so to speak, could be applied to the elements of an ordinary dream. He called this other, specific aspect of general awareness dreaming attention or the capacity that practitioners acquire to maintain their awareness unwaveringly fixed on the items of their dreams.

The cultivation of dreaming attention gave the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage a basic taxonomy of dreams. They found out that most of their dreams were imagery, products of the cognition of their daily world; however, there were some which escaped that classification. Such dreams were veritable states of heightened awareness in which the elements of the dream were not mere imagery, but energy-generating affairs. Dreams which had energy-generating elements were, for those shamans, dreams in which they were capable of seeing energy as it (lowed in the universe.

Those shamans were able to focus their dreaming attention on any element of their dreams, and found out, in this fashion, that there are two kinds of dreams. One is the dreams that we are all familiar with, in which phantasmagorical elements come into play, something which we could categorize as the product of our mentality, our psyche; perhaps something that has to do with our neurological makeup. The other kind of dreams they called energy-generating dreams. Don Juan said that those sorcerers of ancient times found themselves in dreams which were not dreams, but actual visitations made in a dreamlike state to bona fide places other than this world - real places, just like the world in which we live; places where the objects of the dream generated energy, just as lives, or animals, or even rocks generate energy in our daily world, for a seeing sorcerer.

Their visions of such places were, however, for those shamans, too fleeting, too temporary, to be of any value to them. They attributed this flaw to the fact that their assemblage points could not be held fixed for any considerable time at the position to which they had been displaced. Their attempts to remedy the situation resulted in the other high art of sorcery: the art of stalking.

Don Juan defined the two arts very clearly one day when he said to me that the art of dreaming consisted of purposely displacing the assemblage point from its habitual position. The art of stalking consisted in volitionally making it stay fixed on the new position to which it had been displaced.

This fixation allowed the shamans of ancient Mexico the opportunity to witness other worlds in their full extent. Don Juan said that some of those sorcerers never returned from their journeys. In other words, they opted for staying there, wherever "there" might have been.

"When the old sorcerers finished mapping human beings as luminous spheres," don Juan said to me once, "they had discovered no less than six hundred spots in the total luminous sphere that were the sites of bona fide worlds. Meaning that, if the assemblage point became attached to any of those places, the result was the entrance of the practitioner into a total new world."

"But where are those six hundred other worlds, don Juan?" I asked.

"The only answer to that question is incomprehensible," he said, laughing. "It's the essence of sorcery, and yet it means nothing to the average mind. Those six hundred worlds are in the position of the assemblage point. Incalculable amounts of energy are required to make sense out of this answer. We have the energy. What we lack is the facility or disposition to use it."

I could add that nothing could be truer than all these statements, and yet, nothing could make less sense.

Don Juan explained usual perception in the terms in which the sorcerers of his lineage understood it: The assemblage point, at its habitual location, receives an inflow of energy fields from the universe at large in the form of luminous filaments, numbering in the trillions. Since its position is consistently the same, it stood to sorcerers' reasoning that the same energy fields, in the form of luminous filaments, converge on the assemblage point and go through it, giving as a consistent result the perception of the world that we know. Those sorcerers arrived at the unavoidable conclusion that if the assemblage point were displaced to another position, another set of energy filaments would go through it, resulting in the perception of a world that, by definition, was not the same as the world of everyday life.

In don Juan's opinion, what human beings ordinarily regard as perceiving is rather the act of interpreting sensory data. He maintained that from the moment of birth, everything around us supplies us with a possibility of interpretation, and that with time, this possibility turns into a full system by means of which we conduct all of our perceptual transactions in the world.

He pointed out that the assemblage point is not only the center where perception is assembled, but also the center where the interpretation of sensory data is accomplished, so that if it were to change locations, it would interpret the new influx of energy fields in very much the same terms in which it interprets the world of everyday life. The result of this new interpretation is the perception of a world which is strangely similar to ours, and yet intrinsically different. Don Juan said that energetically, those other worlds are as different from ours as they could possibly be. It is only the interpretation of the assemblage point which accounts for the seeming similarities.

Don Juan called for a new syntax that could be used in order to express this wondrous quality of the assemblage point and the possibilities of perception brought about by dreaming. He conceded, however, that perhaps the present syntax of our language could be forced to cover it if this experience became available to any one of us, and not merely to shaman initiates.

Something related to dreaming that was of tremendous interest to me, hut which bewildered me to no end, was don Juan's statement that there was really no procedure to speak of that would teach anyone how to dream. He said that more than anything else, dreaming was an arduous effort on the part of the practitioners to put themselves in contact with the indescribable all-pervading force that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called intent. Once this link was established, dreaming also mysteriously became established. Don Juan asserted that this linkage could be accomplished following any pattern that implied discipline.

When I asked him to give me a succinct explanation of the procedures involved, he laughed at me.

"To venture into the world of sorcerers," he said, "is not like learning to drive a car. To drive a car, you need manuals and instructions. To dream, you need to intend it."

"But how can I intend it?" I insisted.

"The only way you could intend it is by intending it," he declared. "One of the most difficult things for a man of our day to accept is a lack of procedure. Modern man is in the throes of manuals, praxes, methods, steps loading to. He is ceaselessly taking notes, making diagrams, deeply involved in the 'know-how.' But in the world of sorcerers, procedures and rituals are mere designs to attract and focus attention. They are devices used to force a focusing of interest and determination. They have no other value."

What don Juan considered to be of supreme importance in order to dream is the rigorous execution of the magical passes: the only device that the sorcerers of his lineage used to aid the displacement of the assemblage point. The execution of the magical passes gave those sorcerers the stability and the energy necessary to call forth their dreaming attention, without which there was no possibility of dreaming for them. Without the emergence of dreaming attention, practitioners could aspire, at best, to have lucid dreams about phantasmagorical worlds. They could perhaps have views of worlds that generate energy, but these would make no sense to them whatsoever in the absence of an all-inclusive rationale that would properly categorize them.

Once the shamans of don Juan's lineage had developed their dreaming attention, they realized that they had tapped on the doors of infinity. They had succeeded in enlarging the parameters of their normal perception. They discovered that their normal state of awareness was infinitely more varied than it had been before the advent of their dreaming attention. From that point on, those sorcerers could truthfully venture into the unknown.

"The aphorism," don Juan said to me once, "that 'the sky is the limit' was most applicable to the sorcerers of ancient times. They certainly outdid themselves."

"Was it really true for them that the sky was the limit, don Juan?" I asked.

"This question could be answered only by each of us individually," he said, smiling expansively. "They gave us the tools. It is up to us individually to use them or refuse them. In essence, we are alone in front of infinity, and the issue of whether or not we are capable of reaching our limits has to be answered personally."






Magical Passes: The Third Series: Third Group - The Magical Passes for Dreaming.

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The Third Series: Third Group - The Magical Passes for Dreaming.

27. Getting the Assemblage Point Loose

The left arm, with the palm of the hand turned upward, reaches over the area behind the shoulder blades, as the trunk leans a bit forward. Then the arm is brought in an underhanded motion from the left side of the body to the front, moving in an upward thrust in front of the face, with the palm of the left hand turned to face the left. The fingers are held together (figs. 172, 173). This magical pass is executed by each arm in succession. The knees are kept bent for greater stability and thrusting force.


28. Forcing the Assemblage Point to Drop Down

The back is kept as straight as possible. The knees are locked. The left arm, fully stretched, is placed at the hack, a few inches away from the body. The hand is bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearm; the palm faces downward and the fully stretched fingers point backward. The fully stretched right arm is placed in front in the same position: with the wrist bent at a ninety-degree angle, the palm facing downward, the fingers pointing forward.

The head turns in the direction of the arm that is kept at the back, and a total stretch of the tendons ()l the legs and arms takes place at that instant. This tension of the tendons is held for a moment (fig. 174). The same movement is repeated with the right arm in hack and the left in front.


29. Enticing the Assemblage Point to Drop by Drawing Energy from the Adrenals and Transferring It to the Front

The left arm is placed behind the body at the level of the kidneys, as far to the right as it can reach; the hand is held like a claw. The clawed hand moves across the kidney area from right to left as if dragging a solid substance. The right arm is held in its normal position by the side of the thigh.

Next, the left hand moves to the front; the palm is held flat, on the right side, against the liver and gallbladder. The left hand moves across the front of the body to the left, the area of the pancreas and spleen, as if smoothing the surface of a solid substance; at the same time the right hand, held like a claw behind the body, moves from left to right over the kidneys as if dragging a solid substance.

Then the right hand is placed on the front of the body; the palm is held flat against the area of the pancreas and spleen. The hand moves across the front of the body to the area of the liver and gallbladder, as if smoothing a rough surface, while the clawed left hand moves again across the area of the kidneys from right to left as if dragging a solid substance (figs. 175, 176). The knees are kept bent for greater stability and force.


30. Playing Out the A and B Types of Energy

The right forearm, bent in a vertical position, at a ninety-degree angle, is centered in front of the body, with the elbow almost at the level of the shoulders, and the palm of the hand facing left. The left forearm, bent at the elbow and held in a horizontal position, is placed with the back of the hand underneath the right elbow. The eyes, without focusing on either forearm, keep a peripheral view of both of them. The pressure of the right arm is downward, while the pressure of the left arm is upward. The two forces act simultaneously on both arms; they are kept under this tension for a moment (fig. 177).

Then the same movement is executed by reversing the order and position of the arms.

The shamans of ancient Mexico believed that everything in the universe is composed of dual forces, and that human beings are subjected to that duality in every aspect of their lives. At the level of energy, they considered that two forces are at play. Don Juan called them the A and B forces. The A force is employed ordinarily in our daily affairs, and is represented by a straight vertical line. The B force is ordinarily an obscure one which rarely enters into action, and it is kept lying down. It is represented by a horizontal line drawn to the left of the vertical one, at its base, making in this fashion a reversed capital letter L.

Shamans, men and women, were the only ones who, in don Juan's view, had been capable of turning the force B, which is ordinarily lying down horizontally, out of use, into an active vertical line. And consequently, they had succeeded in putting force A to rest. This process was represented by drawing a horizontal line at the base of the vertical one, in its right, and making, as a result, a capital letter L. Don Juan portrayed this magical pass as the one which best exemplified this duality and the effort of the sorcerers to reverse its effects.


31. Pulling the Energy Body to the Front

The arms are kept at shoulder level with the elbows bent. The hands overlap each other, and they are turned with the palms down. A circle is made with the hands rotating around each other; the movement is inward, toward the face (fig. 178). They rotate three times around each other; then the left arm is thrust forward with the hand in a fist, as if to strike an invisible target in front of the body, an arm's length away from it (fig. 179). Three more circles are drawn with both hands, and then the right arm strikes in the same fashion as the left one.


32. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Knife over the Shoulder

The left hand reaches over the head to the area behind the shoulder blades and grabs, as if holding a solid object. Then it moves over the head to the front of the body, with the motion of hurling something forward. The knees are kept bent for hurling stability. The same movement is repeated with the right arm (figs. 180, 181).

This magical pass is an actual attempt to hurl the assemblage point, in order to displace it from its habitual position. The practitioner holds the assemblage point as if it were a knife. Something in the intent of hurling the assemblage point causes a profound effect toward the actual displacement of it.


33. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Knife from the Back by the Waist

The knees are kept bent as the body leans forward. Then the left arm reaches to the back, from the side, to the area behind the shoulder blades, grabs onto something as if it were solid, and hurls it forward from the waist, with a flick of the wrist, as if hurling a flat disk, or a knife (figs. 182, 183). The same movements are repeated with the right hand.


34. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Disk from the Shoulder

A deep rotation of the waist is made to the left, which propels the right arm to swing to the left side of the left leg. Then the motion of the waist, moving in the opposite direction, propels the left arm to swing to the right side of the right leg. Another motion of the waist propels the right arm to swing again to the left side of the left leg. At this point the left hand reaches back instantly with a circular motion to grab onto something as if it were solid, from the area behind the shoulder blades (fig. 184).

The left hand takes it in a swinging circular motion to the front of the body and up to the level of the right shoulder. The palm of the clenched hand faces upward. From this position, the left hand, with a flick of the wrist, makes a hurling motion, as if to hurl forward something solid, like a disk (fig. 185).

The legs are kept bent slightly at the knees and a great pressure is exerted at the back of the thighs. The right arm, with the elbow slightly bent, is extended behind the body to give stability to the act of hurling a disk. This position is held for a moment, while the left arm maintains the position of having just hurled an object. The same movements are repeated with the other arm.


35. Hurling the Assemblage Point Like a Ball Above the Head

The left hand moves back quickly to the area behind the shoulder blades and grabs something, as if it were solid (fig. 186). The arm rotates twice in a big circle above the head as if to gain impulse (fig. 187) and makes the motion of hurling a ball forward (fig. 188). The knees are kept bent. These movements are repeated with the right hand.






Magical Passes: The Third Series: Fourth Group - Inner Silence.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Fourth Group - Inner Silence.

Don Juan said that inner silence was the state most avidly sought by the shamans of ancient Mexico. He defined it as a natural state of human perception in which thoughts are blocked off and all of man's faculties operate from a level of awareness which doesn't require the utilization of our daily cognitive system.

Inner silence has always been associated with darkness, for the shamans of don Juan's lineage, perhaps because human perception, deprived of its habitual companion, the internal dialogue, falls into something that resembles a dark pit. He said that the body functions as usual, hut awareness becomes sharper. Decisions are instantaneous, and seem to stem from a special sort of knowledge which is deprived of thought verbalizations.

Human perception functioning in a condition of inner silence, according to don Juan, is capable of reaching indescribable levels. Some of those levels of perception are worlds in themselves, and not at all like the worlds reached through dreaming. They are indescribable states, inexplicable in terms of the linear paradigms that the habitual state of human perception employs for explaining the universe.

Inner silence, in don Juan's understanding, is the matrix for a gigantic step of evolution: silent knowledge, or the level of human awareness where knowing is automatic and instantaneous. Knowledge at this level is not the product of cerebral cogitation or logical induction and deduction, or of generalizations based on similarities and dissimilarities. There is nothing a priori at the level of silent knowledge, nothing that could constitute a body of knowledge, for everything is imminently now. Complex pieces of information could be grasped without any cognitive preliminaries.

Don Juan believed that silent knowledge was insinuated to early man, but that early man was not really the possessor of silent knowledge. Such an insinuation was infinitely stronger than what modern man experiences, where the bulk of knowledge is the product of rote learning. It is a sorcerers' axiom that although we have lost that insinuation, the avenue that leads to silent knowledge will always be open to man by means of inner silence.

Don Juan Matus taught the hard line of his lineage: that inner silence must be gained by a consistent pressure of discipline. It has to be accrued or stored, bit by bit, second by second. In other words, one has to force oneself to be silent, even if it is only for a few seconds. According to don Juan, it was common knowledge among sorcerers that if one persists in this, persistence overcomes habit, and thus, it is possible to arrive at a threshold of accrued seconds or minutes, which differs from person to person. If the threshold of inner silence is ten minutes for a given individual, for instance, then once this threshold is reached, inner silence happens by itself, of its own accord, so to speak.

I was warned beforehand that there was no possible way of knowing what my individual threshold might be, and that the only way of finding this out was through direct experience. This is exactly what happened to me. Following don Juan's suggestion, I had persisted in forcing myself to remain silent, and one day, while walking at .UCLA, I reached my mysterious threshold. I knew I had reached it because in one instant, I experienced something don Juan had described at length to me. He had called it stopping the world. In the blink of an eye, the world ceased to be what it was, and for the first time in my life, I became conscious that I was seeing energy as it flowed in the universe. I had to sit down on some brick steps. I knew that I was sitting on some brick steps, but 1 knew it only intellectually, through memory. Exponentially, 1 was resting on energy. I myself was energy, and so was everything around me. I had canceled out my interpretation system.

After seeing energy directly, I realized something which became the horror of my day, something that no one could explain to me satisfactorily except don Juan. I became conscious that although I was seeing for the first time in my life, I had been seeing energy as it flows in the universe all my life, but I had not been conscious of it. To see energy as it flows in the universe was not the novelty. The novelty was the query that arose with such fury that it made me surface back into the world of everyday life. I asked myself what had been keeping me from realizing that I had been seeing energy as it flows in the universe all my life.

"There are two issues at stake here," don Juan explained to me, when I asked him about this maddening contradiction. "One is general awareness. The other is particular, deliberate consciousness. Every human being in the world is aware, in general terms, of seeing energy as it flows in the universe. However, only sorcerers are particularly and deliberately conscious of it. To become conscious of something that you are generally aware of requires energy, and the iron-hand discipline needed to get it. Your inner silence, the product of discipline and energy, bridged the gap between general awareness and particular consciousness."

Don Juan stressed, in every way he was able, the value of a pragmatic attitude in order to buttress the advent of inner silence. He defined a pragmatic attitude as the capacity to absorb any contingency that might appear along The way. He himself was, to me, the living example of such an attitude. There w; isn't any uncertainty or liability that his mere presence would not dispel.

He reiterated every time he could that the effects of inner silence were very unsettling, and that the only deterrent to this condition was the pragmatic attitude which was the product of a superbly pliable, agile, strong body. He said that for sorcerers, the physical body was the only entity that made any sense to them, and that there was no such thing as a dualism between body and mind. He further stated that the physical body involved both the body and the mind as we knew them, and that in order to counterbalance the physical body as a holistic unit, sorcerers considered another configuration of energy which was reached through inner silence: the energy body. He explained that what I had experienced .it the moment in which I had stopped the world was the resurgence of my energy body, and that this configuration of energy was the one which had always been able to see energy as it flowed in the universe.






Magical Passes: The Third Series: Fourth Group - The Magical Passes That Aid The Attainment Of Inner Silence.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Third Series: Fourth Group - The Magical Passes That Aid The Attainment Of Inner Silence.

36. Drawing Two Half-Circles with Each Foot

The total weight of the body is on the right leg. The left foot is placed half a step in front of it, and it slides on the floor, drawing a half-circle to the left; the ball of the foot comes to rest almost touching the right heel. From there, it draws another half-circle to the back (fig. 189). These circles are drawn with the ball of the left foot. The heel is kept off the ground, in order to make the movement smooth and uniform.

The movement is reversed and two more half-circles are drawn in this fashion, starting from the back and going to the front. The same movements are executed with the right foot after the whole weight of the body is transferred to the left leg. The knee of the leg that supports the weight is bent for strength and stability.


37. Drawing a Half-Moon with Each Foot

The weight of the body is placed on the right leg. The left foot goes half a step in front of the right one, drawing a wide semicircle on the ground around the body from the front, to the left, to the back of the body. This semicircle is drawn with the ball of the foot (fig. 190). Another semicircle is drawn from the back to the front, in the same fashion. The same movements are executed with the right leg, after transferring the weight to the left leg.


38. The Scarecrow in the Wind with the Arms Down

The arms are kept extended laterally at the level of the shoulders with the elbows bent and the forearms dangling downward at a strict ninety-degree angle. The forearms swing freely from side to side, as if moved by the wind alone. The forearms and the wrists are kept straight and vertical. The knees are locked (fig. 191).


39. The Scarecrow in the Wind with the Arms Up

Just as in the preceding magical pass, the arms are extended laterally at the level of the shoulders, except the forearms are turned upward, bent at a ninety-degree angle. The forearms and wrists are kept straight and vertical (fig. 192). Then they swing freely downward to the front (fig. 193) and upward again. The knees are locked.


40. Pushing Energy Backward with the Full Arm

The elbows are acutely bent and the forearms held fight against the sides of the body, as high as possible, with the hands held in fists (fig.194). As an exhalation is made, the forearms are fully extended downward and backward as high as possible. The knees are locked, and the trunk bends slightly forward (fig. 195). As an inhalation is made, the arms are then brought forward to the original position by bending the elbows. Then the breathing is reversed as this movement is repeated; instead of exhaling as the arms are pulled backwards, an inhalation is taken. An exhalation follows as the elbows are bent and the forearms are brought upward against the axilla.


41. Pivoting the Forearm

The arms are held in front of the body with the elbows bent and the forearms vertical. Each hand is bent at the wrist, resembling the head of a bird, which is at eye level, with the fingers pointing toward the face (fig. 196). Keeping the elbows vertical and straight, the wrists are flipped back and forth, pivoting on the forearms, making the fingers of the hands move from pointing at the face to pointing forward (fig. 197). The knees are kept bent for stability and strength.


42. Moving Energy in a Ripple

The knees are kept straight, and the trunk stoops over. Both arms are kept dangling at the sides. The left arm moves forward with three ripples of the hand, as if the hand were following the contour of a surface with three half-circles on it (fig. 198). Next, the hand cuts across the front of the body in a straight line from left to right, then from right to left (fig. 199), and moves backward at the side of the body with three more ripples, drawing in this fashion the thick shape of an inverted capital letter L - at least six inches thick. The same movements are repeated with the right arm.


43. The T Energy of the Hands

The two forearms are held at right angles right in front of the solar plexus, making the shape of a letter T. The left hand is the horizontal bar of the letter T with the palm turned upward. The right hand is the vertical bar of the letter T with the palm turned downward (fig. 200).

Next, the hands turn back and forth at the same time with considerable force. The palm of the left hand is turned to face downward, and the palm of the right hand is turned to face upward, both hands maintaining the same letter T shape (fig. 201).

These same movements are executed again, placing the right hand as the horizontal bar of the letter T and the left hand as the vertical one.


44. Pressing Energy with the Thumbs

The forearms, bent at the elbows, are held right in front of the body in a perfectly horizontal position, maintaining the width of the body. The fingers are curled in a loose fist, and the thumbs are held straight, cradled on the curled index fingers (figs. 202, 203). An intermittent pressure is exerted between the thumb and the index finger and the curled fingers against the palm of the hand. They contract and relax, spreading the impulse to the arms. The knees are kept bent for stability.


45. Drawing an Acute Angle with the Arms Between the Legs

The knees are locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front and, moving repeatedly forward and backward, they draw an acute angle with its vertex between the legs (figs. 204, 205).


46. Drawing an Acute Angle with the Arms in Front of the Face

The knees are locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front of the body and, moving repeatedly from the Kick to the front, they draw an acute angle, with its vertex in front of the face (figs. 206, 207).


47. Drawing a Circle of Energy Between the Legs and in Front of the Body

The knees are kept locked, with the hamstrings as fight as possible. The trunk is bent forward, with the head almost at the level of the knees. The arms dangle in front of the body. The two arms cross at the wrists, the left forearm on top of the right one. The crossed arms swing back between the legs (fig. 208). From there, each one makes an outward circle in front of the face. At the end of the circle, the arms point forward, the left wrist on top of the right one (fig. 209). From there, they draw two inward circles that end between the legs, with the wrists crossed once more in the initial position.

Then the right wrist is made to rest on top of the left one, and the same movements are repeated.


48. Three Fingers on the Floor

The arms are brought slowly over the head as a deep inhalation is taken. A slow exhalation begins while the arms are brought all the way down to the floor, keeping the knees locked and the hamstrings as fight as possible. The index and middle fingers of each hand touch the floor a foot in front of the body, and then the thumb is also brought to rest on , the floor (fig. 210). A deep inhalation is taken while that position is held. The body straightens, and the arms are raised above the head. The air is exhaled as the arms come down to the level of the waist.


49. The Knuckles on the Toes

The arms are raised above the head as a deep inhalation is taken. As the air is exhaled, the arms are brought all the way down to the floor, keeping the knees locked and the hamstrings as fight as possible. The knuckles are brought to rest on top of the toes as the exhalation ends (fig. 211). A deep inhalation is taken while that position is held. The body straightens, and the arms are raised above the head. The exhalation begins when the arms are brought down to the level of the waist.


50. Drawing Energy from the Floor with the Breath

A deep inhalation is taken as the arms are raised above the head; the knees are kept bent. The exhalation begins as the trunk turns to the left and bends down as far as possible. The hands, with the palms down, come to rest around the left foot, with the right hand in front of the foot and the left hand behind it; they move back and forth five rimes as the exhalation ends (fig. 212). A deep inhalation is taken then, and the body straightens as the arms move over the head. The trunk turns to the right, and the exhalation begins as the trunk bends down as far as possible. The exhalation ends after the hands move back and forth five times by the right foot. Another deep breath is taken, and the body straightens up as the arms move above the head and the trunk pivots to face the front; then the arms come down as the air is exhaled.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series - The Separation Of The Left Body And The Right Body Via The Heat Series.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series - The Separation Of The Left Body And The Right Body Via The Heat Series.

  • The First Group: Stirring Energy on the Left Body and the Right Body.
  • The Second Group: Mixing Energy from the Left Body and the Right Body.
  • The Third Group: Moving the Energy of the Left Body and the Right Body with the Breath.
  • The Fourth Group: The Predilection of the Left Body and the Right Body.
    • The Five Magical Passes for the Left Body.
    • The Three Magical Passes for the Right Body.


Don Juan taught his disciples that for the shamans who lived in Mexico in ancient times, the concept that a human being is composed of two complete functioning bodies, one on the left and one on the right, was fundamental to their endeavors as sorcerers. Such a classificatory scheme had nothing to do with intellectual speculations on the part of those sorcerers, or with logical conclusions about possibilities of distribution of mass in the body.

When don Juan explained this to me, I countered that modern biologists had the concept of bilateral symmetry, which means "a basic body plan in which the left and right sides of the organism can be divided into approximate mirror images of each other along the midline."

"The classifications of the shamans of ancient Mexico," don Juan replied, "were more profound than the conclusions of modern scientists, because they stemmed from perceiving energy directly as it flows in the universe. When the human body is perceived as energy, it is utterly patent that it is composed not of two parts, but of two different types of energy: two different currents of energy, two opposing and at the same nine complementary forces that coexist side by side, mirroring, in this fashion, the dual structure of everything in the universe at large."

The shamans of ancient Mexico accorded each-one of these two different kinds of energy the stature of a total body, and spoke exclusively in terms of the left body and the right body. Their emphasis was on the left body, because they considered it to be the most effective, in terms of the nature of its energy configuration, for the ultimate goals of shamanism. The shamans of ancient Mexico, who depicted the two bodies as streams of energy, depicted the left stream as being more turbulent and aggressive, moving in undulating ripples and projecting out waves of energy. When illustrating what he was talking about, don Juan asked me to visualize a scene in which the left body was like half of the sun, and that all the solar flares happened on that half. The waves of energy projected out of the left body were like those solar flares - always perpendicular to the round surface from which they originated.

He depicted the stream of energy of the right body as not being turbulent at all on the surface. It moved like water inside a tank which was being slightly tilted back and forth. There were no ripples in it, but a continuous rocking motion. At a deeper level, however, it swirled in rotational circles in the form of spirals. Don Juan asked me to envision a very wide, peaceful-looking tropical river, where the water on the surface seemed barely to move, but which had shattering riptides below the surface. In the world of everyday life, these two currents are amalgamated into a single unit: the human body as we know it.

To the eye of the seer, however, the energy of the total body is circular. This meant to the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage that the right body was the predominant force.

"What happens in the case of left-handed people?" I asked him once. "Are they more suitable for the endeavors of sorcerers?"

"Why do you think they should be?" he replied, seemingly surprised by my question.

"Because obviously, the left side is predominant," I said.

"This predominance is of no importance whatsoever for sorcerers," he said. "Yes, the left side predominates in the sense that they can hold a hammer with their left hand very effectively. They write with their left hand. They can hold a knife with their left hand, and do it very well. If they are leg shakers, they can certainly shake the left knee with great rhythm. In other words, they have rhythm in their left body, but sorcery is not a matter of that kind of predominance. The right body still rules them with a circular motion."

"But does left-handedness have any advantages or disadvantages for sorcerers?" I asked. I was driven by the implication built into many of the Indo-European languages of the sinister quality of left-handedness.

"There are no advantages or disadvantages to my knowledge," he said. "The division of energy between the two bodies is not measured by dexterity, or the lack of it. The predominance of the right body is an energetic predominance, which was encountered by the shamans of those ancient times. They never tried to explain why this predominance happened in the first place, nor did they try to further investigate the philosophical implications of it. For them, it was a fact, but a very special fact. It was a fact that could be changed."

"Why did they want to change it, don Juan?" I asked.

"Because the predominant circular motion of the right body's energy , is too friggin' boring!" he exclaimed. "That circular motion certainly takes care of any event of the daily world, but it does it circularly, if you know what I mean."

"I don't know what you mean, don Juan," I said.

"Every situation in life is met in this circular fashion," he replied, making a small circle with his hand. "On and on and on and on and on. It's a circular movement that seems to draw the energy inward always, and turns it around and around in a centripetal motion. Under these conditions, there's no expansion. Nothing can be new. There is nothing that cannot be inwardly accounted for. What a drag!"

"In what way can this situation be changed, don Juan?" I asked.

"It's too late to be really changed," he replied. "The damage is already done. The spiral quality is here to remain. But it doesn't have to be ceaseless. Yes, we walk the way we do, we can't change that, but we would also like to run, or to walk backward, or to climb a ladder; just to walk and walk and walk and walk is very effective, but meaningless. The contribution of the left body would make those centers of vitality more pliable. If they could undulate instead of moving in spirals, if only for an instant, different energy would get into them, with staggering results."

I understood what he was talking about, at a level beyond thought, because there was really no way that I could have understood it linearly.

"The sensation that human beings have of being utterly bored with themselves," he continued, "is due to this predominance of the right body. The only thing left for human beings to do, in a universal sense, is 10 find ways of ridding themselves of boredom. What they end up doing is finding ways of killing time: the only commodity no one has enough of. But what's worse is the reaction to this unbalanced distribution of energy. The violent reactions of people are due to this unbalanced distribution. It seems that from time to rime, helplessness builds furious currents of energy within the human body, which explode in violent behavior. Violence seems to be, for human beings, another way of killing time."

"But why is it, don Juan, that the sorcerers of ancient Mexico never wanted to know why this situation happened?" I asked, bewildered. I found what I was feeling about this inward motion to be fascinating.

"They never tried to find out," he said, "because the instant they formulated the question, they knew the answer."

"So they knew why?" I asked.

"No, they didn't know why, but they knew how it happened. But that's another story."

He left me hanging there, but throughout the course of my association with him, he explained this seeming contradiction.

"Awareness is the only avenue that human beings have for evolution," he said to me once, "and something extraneous to us, something that has to do with the predatorial condition of the universe, has interrupted our possibility of evolving by taking possession of our awareness. Human beings have fallen prey to a predatorial force, which has imposed on them, for its own convenience, the passivity which is characteristic of the energy of the right body."

Don Juan described our evolutionary possibility as a journey that our awareness takes across something the shamans of ancient Mexico called the dark sea of awareness: something which they considered to be an actual feature of the universe, an incommensurable element that permeates the universe, like clouds of matter, or light.

Don Juan was convinced that the predominance of the right body in this unbalanced merging of the right and left bodies marks the interruption of our journey of awareness. What seems for us to be the natural dominance of one side over the other was, for the sorcerers of his lineage, an aberration, which they strove to correct.

Those shamans believed that in order to establish a harmonious division between the left and the right bodies, practitioners needed to enhance their awareness. Any enhancement of human awareness, however, had to be buttressed by the most exigent discipline. Otherwise, this enhancement, painfully accomplished, would turn into an obsession, resulting in anything from psychological aberration to energetic injury.

Don Juan Matus called the collection of magical passes which deal exclusively with the separation between the left body and the right body The Heat Group: the most crucial element in the training of the shamans of ancient Mexico. This was a nickname given to this collection of magical passes because it makes the energy of the right body a little more turbulent. Don Juan Matus used to joke about this phenomenon, saying that the movements for the left body put an enormous pressure on the right body, which has been accustomed from birth to ruling without opposition. The moment it is faced with opposition, it gets hot with anger. Don Juan urged all his disciples to practice the Heat Group assiduously, in order to use its aggressiveness to reinforce the weak left body.

In Tensegrity, this group is called The Heat Series, in order to make it more congruous with the aims of Tensegrity, which are extremely pragmatic on the one hand and extremely abstract on the other, such as the practical utilization of energy for well-being coupled with the abstract idea of how that energy is obtained. In all the magical passes of this series, it is recommended to adopt the division of left and right bodies, rather than left and right sides of the body. The end result of this observance would be to say that during the execution of these magical passes, the body that doesn't perform the movements is kept immobile. However, all its muscles should be engaged, not in activity, but in awareness. This immobility of the body that is not performing the movements should be extended to include its head; that is to say, to the opposite side of the head. Such immobility of half of the face and head is more difficult to attain, but it can be accomplished with practice.

The series is divided into four groups.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: First Group - Stirring Energy on the Left Body and the Right Body.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: First Group - Stirring Energy on the Left Body and the Right Body.

The first group comprises sixteen magical passes that stir the energy of the left body and the right body, each independently from the other. Each magical pass is performed with either the left arm or the right arm, and in some cases with both at the same time. The arms never go, however, beyond the vertical line that separates the two bodies.


1. Gathering Energy in a Ball from the Front of the Left and the Right Bodies and Breaking It with the Back of the Hand

With the palm of the hand slightly curved and facing the right, the left arm circles inward twice in front of the body (fig. 213). All the muscles of the arm are held tense as this circular motion is executed. Then the back of the hand strikes forcefully to the left as if breaking the top of a ball gathered with the movement of the arm (fig. 214).

The hand strikes a point an arm's length away from the body above the shoulders, at a forty-five-degree angle. While this strike is being executed, all the muscles are kept tense, including the muscles of the arms, a tension that permits controlling the strike. The impact is felt on the areas of the pancreas and spleen and the left kidney and adrenals.

The same movements are repeated on the right side, and the impact is felt on the areas of the liver and the right kidney and adrenals.


2. Gathering Energy of the Left and Right Bodies in a Circle Which Is Perforated with the Tips of the Fingers

The left forearm is held in front of the body, at a ninety-degree angle in relation to it. The wrist is kept straight. The palm of the hand faces to the right as the fingers point to the front. The thumb is kept locked. As in the previous magical pass, the forearm circles twice, going from the left up to the level of the shoulder and turning toward tin- center of the body (fig.215). The elbow is then quickly pulled all the way back, and the circle drawn by the forearm is perforated by the tips of the fingers in a forward thrust (fig. 216). The elbow is moved all the way back once more in order to gain striking power, and then the hand shoots forward again. The same sequence of movements is performed with the right arm.


3. Hoisting Left and Right Energy Upward

Both knees are slightly bent. The left knee is then raised to the level of the pancreas, fully bent, while the foot is held with the toes pointing to the ground. At the same time that this movement is performed, the left forearm shoots upward until it reaches a point at a forty-five-degree angle with the body; the elbow is kept tight against the body. Both the leg and the arm move in total synchronicity, jolting the midsection (fig. 217). The same movements are repeated with The right leg and the right arm. The tendency of energy is to sink, and it is of great importance to spread it upward to The midsection of the body. It is the belief of shamans that the left body is ruled by the area of the pancreas and spleen, and the right body by the area of the liver and gallbladder. Shamans understand this process of hoisting energy as a maneuver to energize those two centers separately.


4. The Up-and-Down Pressure

The left elbow is raised in front of the body to the level of the shoulder, bent at a ninety-degree angle with the forearm. The hand is clenched in a fist, and the wrist is bent toward the right as acutely as possible (fig. 218). Using the elbow as a pivot by keeping it at the same position, the forearm is bent downward until it reaches the area right in front of the solar plexus (fig. 219). The forearm then returns to the upright position. The same movement is performed with the right arm.

This magical pass is used to stir up the energy that exists in an arc between a point just above the head and in line with the left shoulder and a point right above the solar plexus.


5. The Inward Turn

The first part of this magical pass is exactly like the first part of the preceding one, but instead of bending the forearm downward, it is made to rotate inwardly, making a complete circle, pivoting on the elbow at a forty-five-degree angle with the body. The top of the circle is at a point just above the ear and in line with the left shoulder. The wrist is also made to rotate as the circle is drawn (fig. 220).

The same movement is performed with the right hand.


6. The Outward Turn

This magical pass is almost identical to the preceding one, except that instead of turning the left forearm to the right to make a circle, it turns to the left (fig. 221). It makes what don Juan called an outward circle, as opposed to the circle made in the previous magical pass, which he called an inward circle.

The same movement is performed with the right hand.

In this magical pass, the energy stirred is part of the arc of energy dealt with in the two preceding magical passes. The fourth, fifth, and sixth magical passes of this group are performed together. Shamans have found out, by means of their seeing, that human beings have enormous caches of unused energy lying around inside their luminous spheres. They have also found out, in this manner, that these magical passes stir the energy dispersed from the respective centers of vitality - the one around the liver and the one around the pancreas - which stays suspended for quite a while before it begins to sink down to the bottom of the luminous sphere.


7. A High Push with the Fists

The arms are held in front of the body at the level of the shoulders. The hands are fisted with the palms turned inward the ground. The elbows are bent. The left hand strikes forward with a short punch, without first retrieving the elbow to gain strength. The left hand is retrieved to its initial position; the right hand follows with another similar punch and is then retrieved to its original position (fig. 222). The strike of the fists comes from the contraction of the muscles of the arms, shoulder blades, and abdomen.


8. A Low Push with the Fists

The elbows are bent at a ninety-degree angle and kept at the level of the waist. They don't touch the body, but are kept an inch or two away from it. The hands are clenched in fists with the palms facing each other. The left forearm moves to strike in a short punch, driven by the muscles of the stomach, which contract in unison with the muscles of the arm and the shoulder blade (fig. 223). After striking, the forearm is retrieved instantly, as if the punch has generated the force to push the arm back. The right arm moves immediately afterward in the same fashion. Just as in the preceding pass, the elbows don't move back to gain striking strength; the strength is derived solely from the muscular tension of the abdomen, arms, and shoulder blades.


9. A Wheel with the Fingers Contracted at the Middle Joints

The elbows are kept at the level of the waist over the areas of the pancreas and spleen, and the liver and gallbladder. The wrists are kept straight; the palms of the hands face each other while the fingers are tightly clenched at the second knuckle. The thumbs are locked (fig. 224). The elbows move forward and away from the body. The left hand circles in a vertical rasping motion, as if the bent knuckles were rasping a surface in front of the body. Then the right hand does the same. The two hands move in an alternate fashion in such a manner (fig. 225). The muscles of the abdomen are kept as fight as possible in order to give impetus to this movement.


10. Smoothing Energy Out in Front of the Body

The flat palm of the left hand, which faces forward, is raised to a level just above the head, in front of the body. The palm slides downward in a slanted line and comes to the level of the pancreas and spleen, as if it were smoothing out a vertical surface. Without stopping there, it continues moving to the back; the body rotates to the left to allow the arm to come fully over the head. The hand, with the palm facing downward, then comes down with great force, as if to slap a rubbery substance in front of the area of the pancreas and spleen (fig. 226).

Exactly the same movements are performed with The right arm, but using the area of the liver and gallbladder as the striking point.


11. Hitting Energy in Front of the Face with an Upward Thrust of the Fist

The trunk turns slightly to the left in order to allow the left arm two full backward rotations going first to the front, above the head, then to the kick, where the palm turns slightly inward as if to scoop something from the back (fig. 227). The movement ends at the second turn with an upward thrust of the fisted hand in front of the face (fig. 228).

This magical pass is repeated with the right arm in exactly the same sequence.


12. Hammering Energy in Front of the Left and Right Bodies

One and a half forward circles are made with the arm, followed by a downward strike; the body rotates slightly in order to allow the left arm a full rotation starting from its initial position by the side of the thigh to the back, above the head, to the front, and again to the side of the thigh. As this circle is made, the palm is made to rotate at the wrist as if the hand were scooping up some viscous matter (fig. 229). From its initial position, the arm moves again to the back and above the head, where the hand turns into a fist that strikes down, with great force, at a point in front of and above the pancreas and spleen, using the soft edge of the hand like a hammer as the striking surface (fig. 230). The same movements are repeated with the right arm.


13. Drawing Two Outward Circles of Energy and Smashing Them by the Navel

Both arms move in unison up the front of the body, out to the sides, and around, like a swimming stroke, to draw two winglike circles at forty-five-degree angles to the front of the body (fig. 231). Then the circles are broken at the bottom, at the level of the navel, with a forceful strike of both hands. The hands are bent at a ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearms, with the fingers pointing forward. The force of the strike makes the palms of the hands come within a few inches of each other (fig. 232).


14. Drawing Two Circles of Energy Laterally with the Index and Middle Fingers Extended

The index and middle fingers of both hands are fully extended, while I ho third and fourth fingers are held by the thumbs against the palms.

The arms circle in unison from their normal position at the sides to above the head and then laterally to the sides of the body at forty-five degree angles toward the back (fig. 233). When the full circle is nearly completed, the fingers contract into fists, leaving the second knuckles of the middle fingers protruding. The movement ends as the fists, with the palms facing the body, strike forward and upward, to the level of the chin (fig. 234).


15. Stirring the Energy Around the Temples

A long inhalation is taken. An exhalation begins as the arms are brought to a point above the head, where they clasp into fists; the palms of the fisted hands face the front of the body. From there they strike downward with a back-fist blow to a point right above the hips (fig. 235). The fisted hands move to the sides of the body, drawing lateral half-circles that bring the fists to an area a few inches in front of the forehead and five or six inches away from each other. The fisted palms face outward (fig. 236). While the exhalation still lasts, the fists are brought to rest on the temples for an instant. The body leans backward a bit by bending slightly at the knees to gain spring and momentum, and then the arms are brought forcefully down, without straightening the elbows, to strike behind the body on either side with the backs of the fisted hands (fig. 237). The exhalation ends there.


16. Projecting a Small Circle of Energy Out in Front of the Body

From its natural position by the side of the thigh, the left arm moves outward laterally; the palm of the hand faces the right. It draws a small circle as the palm turns downward, comes to the area of the pancreas and spleen, and continues moving left to the level of the waist. The elbow protrudes acutely (fig. 238a); the hand turns into a fist. The palm of the fisted hand faces the ground. The fist strikes with a short blow to the front, as if to pierce the circle it has drawn (fig. 238b). The movement is continuous; it is not interrupted when the hand turns into a fist, but stops only when the punch has been delivered. The blow gives an intense jolt to the center of vitality located around the pancreas and spleen. The same movement is executed with the right hand, the strike of which jolts the liver and gallbladder.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: Second Group - Mixing Energy from the Left Body and the Right Body.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: Second Group - Mixing Energy from the Left Body and the Right Body.

The second group consists of fourteen magical passes that mix the energy of both bodies at their respective centers of vitality. The shamans of ancient Mexico believed that mixing energy in this fashion makes it possible to separate the energy of both bodies more readily by dropping unfamiliar energy into them, a process which they described as exacerbating the centers of vitality.


17. Bunching Necessary Energy and Dispersing Unnecessary Energy

This magical pass entails movements that could best be described as pushing something solid across the front of the body with the palm of the hand, and dragging it back across the front of the body with the back of the hand.

It starts with the left arm kept close to the body, by the waist, with the forearm bent at a ninety-degree angle. The forearm is brought closer to the body as the movement begins, and the hand is bent back at the wrist. The palm of the left hand faces right; the thumb is locked. Then, as if a great force were opposing it, it moves across the body to the extreme right, without the elbow losing its ninety-degree angle (fig. 239). From there, again as if a great force were opposing it, the hand is dragged as far left as it can reach without losing the ninety-degree angle of the elbow, with the palm still facing the right (fig. 240).

During this entire sequence of movements, the muscles of the left body are contracted to the maximum, and the right arm is held immobile against the right leg.

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm and hand.


18. Piling Energy onto the Left and Right Bodies

The weight is placed on the right leg. The knee is slightly bent for support and balance. The left leg and arm, which are kept semitense, sweep in front of the body in an arc from left to right, in unison. The left foot and the left hand end at a position just to the right of the body. The outer edge of the left foot touches the ground. The fingertips of the left hand point down as the sweep is made (fig. 241). Then both the left leg and the left arm return to their original positions.

The exact sequence is repeated by sweeping the right leg and arm to the left.


19. Gathering Energy with One Arm and Striking It with the Other

Don Juan said that with this magical pass, energy was stirred and collected with the movement of one arm and was struck with the movement of the opposite arm. He believed that striking, with one hand, energy which had been gathered by the other, allowed the entrance of energy into one body from sources belonging to the other body, something which was never done under normal conditions.

The left arm moves up to the level of the eyes. The wrist is slightly bent backwards; in this position, going from left to right and back again, the hand draws the figure of an oval, about a foot and a half wide and as long as the width of the body (fig. 242). Then the hand, with the palm facing down, moves across at eye level from left to right as if cutting through, with the tips of the fingers, the figure which it has drawn (fig. 243).

At the moment that the left hand reaches the level of the right shoulder, the right hand, which is held at waist level with the cupped palm turned upward, shoots forward, striking with the heel of the hand, to hit the spot in the middle of the oval drawn by the left hand, as the left hand is slowly brought down (fig. 244). As it strikes, the palm of the right hand is facing forward, and the fingers are slightly curved, permitting in this fashion the necessary contour of the palm to strike a round surface. The strike ends with the elbow slightly bent, to avoid over stretching the tendons.

The same movements are performed beginning with the right arm.


20. Gathering Energy with the Arms and Legs

The body pivots slightly to the right on the ball of the right foot; the left leg juts out at a forty-five-degree angle, with the knee bent to give a forward slant to the trunk. The body is made to rock three times, as if to gain momentum. Then the left arm scoops downward as if to grab something at the level of the left knee (fig. 245). The body leans back, and with that impulse, the lower part of the left leg, from the knee down, is brought close to the groin, almost touching it with the heel; the left hand swiftly brushes the vital area of the liver and gallbladder, on the right (fig. 246).

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right leg and arm, which bring the gathered energy to the center of vitality located around the pancreas and spleen, on the left.


21. Moving Energy from the Left and the Right Shoulders

The left arm moves from its natural position hanging by the left thigh to the right shoulder, where it grabs something, and the hand turns into a fist. This movement is propelled by a sharp twist of the waist to the right. The knees are slightly bent to allow this turning movement. The acutely bent elbow is not allowed to sag, but is kept at the level of the shoulders (fig. 247). Propelled by a straightening of the waist, the fist is then moved away from the right shoulder in an upward arc, striking, with the back of the hand, a point slightly above the head and in line with the left shoulder (fig. 248). The hand opens there as if to drop something that is held in the fist. The same- sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.


22. Gathering Energy from One Body and Dispersing It on the Other

Beginning from its natural position by the left thigh, the left arm draws an arc from left to right, crossing in front of the pubis until it reaches the extreme right. This movement is aided by a slight turn of the waist. From there, the arm continues moving in a circle above the head, to the height and level of the left shoulder. It cuts across then to the level of the right shoulder. There, the hand turns into a fist, as if grabbing something, with the palm down (Fig. 249). Next, the fist hits a point at the height of the head, an arm's length away from it. The blow is delivered with the soft edge of the hand, using the hand as if it were a hammer.

The arm is fully extended, but slightly curved at the elbow (fig. 250). The same movements are repeated with the right arm.


23. Hammering Energy from the Left Shoulder and the Right Shoulder on the Midpoint in Front of the Face

The left arm is moved above the head. The elbow is bent at a ninety-degree angle. The hand turns there into a fist, with the palm facing upward. Then it strikes from the left, with the soft edge of the hand, the division line of the left and right body, in front of the face. The body leans slightly to the left as this strike is made (fig. 251). The fisted hand keeps on moving until it almost touches the right shoulder; the palm turns there so that it faces downward. Then it makes a similar strike, this time from the right; the body leans to the right (fig. 252).

This same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.

A reservoir of neutral energy can be built by this magical pass, meaning energy which can easily be used by either the left body or the right body.


24. A Strike with the Hand Fisted at the Second Knuckle

Both arms are lifted to the level of the neck, the elbows held at ninety-degree angles. The hands are held with the fingers bent at the second knuckle and held tightly over the palm (figs. 253, 254). From this position, tin- left hand strikes. The strike is a powerful swing made to the right, .11 toss the line of the right shoulder, but without greatly moving the arm. 1 In- arm is driven by a powerful rightward twist of the waist (fig. 255).

The right arm moves in the same fashion beyond the line of the left shoulder, driven by an instantaneous leftward twist of the waist.


25. Grabbing Energy from the Shoulders and Smashing It on the Centers of Vitality

The left arm moves to the right shoulder, and the hand turns into a fist, as if grabbing something (fig. 256). The elbow is kept bent at a ninety degree angle. Then the fist is forcefully brought back to the left side by the waist (fig. 257). It stays there for an instant to gain impulse, and then the fist shoots across the body to the right, the fisted palm facing the body, to strike through a point by the area of the liver and gallbladder (fig. 258).

The same movement is repeated with the right arm, which strikes across the area of the pancreas and spleen.


26. Pushing Energy to the Sides with the Elbows

Both arms are brought to the level of the shoulders, the elbows bent sharply and protruding straight out. The wrists are crossed making a letter X, the left forearm on top of the right one. The hands, clenched into fists, touch the pectoral muscles at the edges of the axilla; the left fist touches the edges of the right axilla and the right fist the edges of the left axilla (fig. 259). The elbows are then forcefully brought out to the sides in line with the shoulders, as if to give an elbow blow to the sides (fig. 260). This movement is repeated with the right arm on top of the left.


27. Drawing Two Inward Circles of Energy in Front of the Body and Crushing Them Out to the Sides

As a deep breath is taken, the arms circle in unison from their natural position at the sides of the thighs, to the line that separates the left and the right bodies. This movement ends with the forearms crossed over the chest. The fingers are kept tightly together, pointing upward, the thumbs locked; the wrists are bent at ninety-degree angles. The left arm is on top of the right one. The locked thumb of the left hand touches the pectoral muscle of the right body, and the locked thumb of the right hand touches the pectoral muscle of the left body (fig. 261). The inhalation ends there. A quick exhalation is made as the arms are spread apart forcefully with the hands clenched into fists, each striking, with the back of the hand, a point on the respective sides above the head (fig. 262).

The same movements are repeated with the right arm on top of the left.


28. Striking Energy in Front of the Body and on the Left and Right with Both Fists

The hands are clenched into fists at the level of the waist. The palms of the fists face each other. Both hands are lifted to the level of the eyes and strike forcefully downward in unison at two points in front of the groin; they hit the target with the soft part of the fists (fig. 263). From there, the arms swing in unison, making an upward arc to the left as the whole trunk leans toward the left, following the impulse of the arms. The fists strike with the knuckles (fig. 264). The fists return to deliver another blow to the same points in front of the groin. From there, the arms swing in unison, making an upward arc to the right as the whole trunk leans toward the right, following the impulse of the arms. The fists strike with the knuckles. The fists move one more time to deliver a blow with the soft edge of the hands to the same two points in front of the groin.


29. Striking Energy in Front of the Body with Both Fists and on the Left and the Right

The beginning of this magical pass is exactly like the preceding one (fig. 265). Once the strike is completed, both arms are lifted like hammers to the level of the head, and the trunk is made to turn sharply to the left. The two fists strike two points in front of the left hip (fig. 266). The arms lift again to the height of the head, the palms of the hands are opened, and they descend to strike the same two points (fig. 267). The arms are raised again to the level of the head. The hands turn into fists to strike the same points once again. The forearms are raised to the level of the head, the body turns to face the front, and the fists are slammed down on the same points in front of the groin.

The same sequence of movements is repeated with the trunk turned sharply to the right.


30. Smashing Energy with the Wrists Above the Head and on the Left and the Right

Both hands are raised above the head, with the wrists touching and the palms curved as if holding a ball (fig. 268). Then the trunk turns to the left, as both arms move sharply to the left of the waist without disengaging the wrists, which rotate on each other to accommodate the new position of the hands. The palm of the left hand faces upward, and the palm of the right hand faces downward (fig. 269). Both arms are moved to the point above the head again, still without disengaging the wrists, which rotate to adopt their initial position.

The same sequence of movements is performed by bringing the hands sharply to a point to the right of the waist. The movement ends by bringing the hands back to their starting position above the head.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: Third Group - Moving the Energy of the Left Body and the Right Body with the Breath.

Version 2006.xx.xx


Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: Third Group - Moving the Energy of the Left Body and the Right Body with the Breath.

The third group consists of nine magical passes that employ inhalations and exhalations as their driving force to either further separate or join the two bodies. As already stated, in the view of the sorcerers of don Juan's lineage, putting a dab of energy from one body into any vital center of the other creates a much sought-for momentary agitation in that center. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico, according to what don Juan taught, considered this mixing to be extremely beneficial because it breaks the fixed, routine input of those centers. Those sorcerers felt that breathing is a key issue in the separation of the left body and the right body.


31. The Breath for the Upper Fringe of the Lungs

The arms, with the hands clenched into fists, are raised to the forehead with a deep inhalation; the palms of the fisted hands face down. The fists are three or four inches from each other, right in front of the forehead, as the inhalation ends (fig. 270). An exhalation is made as the arms spread forcefully to two lateral points to the sides and even with the shoulders (fig. 271). The hands relax and open. The wrists cross in front of the head and a deep inhalation is taken as the arms make two big circles the length of the arms, going from the front, up over the head, and to the sides. The inhalation ends as the hands come to rest by the waist, with the palms up (fig. 272). A slow exhalation is made then, while the hands are raised along the edges of the rib cage, to the level of the axillae. The exhalation ends as the shoulders are pushed up, as if the force of the hands were making them rise (fig. 273).

This breath is a true bonus because it allows the mobilization of the upper part of the lungs, a thing which hardly ever happens under normal conditions.


32. Offering the Breath

The left arm draws a circle as a deep inhalation is taken. It moves from the front to above the head, to the back, to the front again; as the arm rotates, the trunk turns to the left, to allow the arm to move in a full circle. The inhalation ends when the circle is completed. The palm of the hand is held at the level of the chin; it faces up, and the wrist is bent at a ninety-degree angle. The posture of the practitioner is that of one who is offering something which is placed on the palm. The trunk is bent forward (fig. 274). The palm of the hand is then turned to face down, and an exhalation begins while the arm moves slowly and powerfully downward (fig. 275) to rest on the left side by the thigh; the palm is still facing down, and the back of the hand maintains the ninety-degree angle in relation to the forearm.

The same sequence of movements is executed with the right arm.


33. Moving Energy with the Breath from the Top of the Head to the Vital Centers

The wrists of both arms are slightly bent; the palms of the hands are semicurled. With the hands in this position, the tips of the fingers brush upward along the front of the body and over the head as a deep inhalation is made (fig. 276). When the arms reach their full extension above the head, the hands are straightened and the wrists are turned back at a ninety-degree angle. The inhalation ends there. While the hands are brought down, the air is held, and the index finger of each hand is raised; the other fingers are held against the palm, bent at the second knuckle, and the thumbs are locked. Both arms are retrieved to the level of the chest, with the back of the hands against the axillae.

A deep exhalation begins then as the arms are slowly extended straight forward until the elbows are gently locked. A deep inhalation then is taken as the hands are retrieved back to the position against the axillae, still with the index fingers raised, the wrists bent backwards, the palms facing forward. A slow exhalation begins while the hands move upward in a circle that first reaches above the head and then continues downward, making a complete forward circle without changing the position of the index fingers. The hands come to rest by the sides of the rib cage (fig. 277). The exhalation ends as the hands are pushed downward to the sides of the hips.


34. Shattering Energy with the Breath

As a deep inhalation is taken, the left hand moves in a wide side circle from the front, to above the head, to the back. The trunk turns to the left to facilitate the full rotation of the arm. The inhalation ends when the arm has made a full turn and stops at a place to the side of the head and above it. The palm of the hand faces forward; the wrist is slightly turned back (fig. 278). A slow exhalation begins then as the arm makes another wide side circle in the opposite direction, going from the front down to the back, then above the head, and to the front again. When the circle is completed, the arm is brought to a point just in front of the right shoulder as the exhalation continues. The palm is facing the body and lightly touches the right shoulder (fig. 279). Then the arm shoots out laterally with the hand clenched in a fist and strikes, with the back of the hand, a point an arm's length away from the left shoulder at the height of the head (fig. 280). The exhalation ends there. The same sequence of movements is repeated with the right arm.


35. The Monkey Breath

The knees are slightly bent. The arms are lifted slowly over the head as the upper part of the lungs is filled with air. Then the knees become locked and the body is fully extended upward. This breath can be taken either with the heels on the ground, or on the tips of the toes. The breath is held as the arms move downward and the body stoops slightly forward, contracting the diaphragm; the knees are bent again. The exhalation begins when the hands reach the level of the waist. At the same time, the index fingers are extended and point to the ground; the other fingers are contracted over the palms of the hands. The hands continue moving downward as all the air is exhaled (fig. 281). While exhaling, the diaphragm is held fight in order to avoid pushing it downward with the exhaling air.


36. The Altitude Breath

The legs are held as straight as possible. An inhalation begins while the shoulders slowly rotate from Figure 281 the front to the back with the arms bent at the elbows. When the rotation and the inhalation end, the arms are kept in the initial position (fig. 282). The exhalation begins by raising the hands to the level of the shoulders and extending the arms as far forward as possible with the palms facing the ground.

Next, an inhalation is taken as the palms of the hands are turned upward. The elbows are bent and pulled all the way back, and the shoulders are raised. The inhalation ends with the maximum upward stretch of the shoulders (fig. 283). An exhalation is made as the palms are turned to face the ground and the hands and shoulders push downward; the hands are bent backward at the wrists as far as possible, and the arms are held straight at the sides of the body.


37. The Lateral Breath

As an inhalation begins, the arms move from their natural position by the sides of the thighs in a circle toward the center of the body, ending with the arms crossed; the palms face outward, and the wrists are fully bent so that the fingertips point upward (fig. 284). The inhalation continues while the two arms are pushed out laterally. As the arms move, the palms of the hands first face forward; when the movement ends, they face away from each other. The inhalation ends at the maximum extension of the arms. The body is kept as erect as possible (fig. 285).

An exhalation is made by bending the arms at the elbows as the palms of the hands, with the fingertips raised upward, come toward the center of the body, pass it, and cross to end at the opposite edges of the body. The left forearm is on top of the right. The body is contracted at the mid-section, and the knees are bent (fig. 286).


38. The Butterfly Breath

The arms are bent at the elbows and held in front of the chest. The left forearm is held above the right one without touching it; the wrists are straight and the hands are clenched into fists. The knees are bent, and the body stoops forward markedly (fig. 287). As an inhalation begins, the arms separate and move up over the head and out to the left and right. As the inhalation continues, the arms straighten as they circle, going down, to the sides, and around the shoulders, and then fold back to their initial position over the chest. Maintaining their position, the arms are raised over the head, as the breath is held and the body straightens at the waist (fig. 288). Then the arms are brought down to the level of the umbilical region as the body goes back into the initial stooped-forward position, with bent knees.

The body holds that stooped-forward position steadily, and an exhalation is made by repeating the same movements of the arms done for the inhalation. As the air is expelled, the diaphragm is kept in a fight position.


39. Breathing Out Through the Elbows

At the beginning of this movement, the legs are kept straight. As a deep breath is taken, the arms make outward circles above the head and around the sides of the body. The inhalation ends with the arms pointing straight out to the front, elbows bent, at the level of the waist. The palms are held straight and facing each other; the fingers are together.

An exhalation begins as the hands point to the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. The knees are bent and the body leans forward (fig. 289). I lie exhalation continues while the arms, bent at the elbows in a ninety-degree angle, are raised over the head. The body straightens and leans backward slightly. This is achieved by bending the knees, rather than the back. The exhalation ends with the abdominal muscles tensed to the maximum; the head is tilted slightly backward (fig. 290). Practicing this breath creates the sensation that air is being expelled through the elbows.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Predilection of the Left Body and the Right Body.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Predilection of the Left Body and the Right Body.

This group is composed of five magical passes for the left body executed in a sequence, and three magical passes for the right body. According to don Juan Matus, the predilection of the left body is silence, while the predilection of the right body is chatter, noise, sequential order. He said that it is the right body which forces us to march, because it likes parades, and it's most delighted with choreography, sequences, and arrangements that entail classification by size.

Don Juan recommended that the performance of each movement of the magical passes for the right be repeated many times, as the practitioners count, and that it is very important to set up beforehand the number of times in which any given movement is going to be repeated, because prediction is the forte of the right body. If the practitioners set up any number beforehand and fulfill it, the pleasure of the right body is indescribable.

In the practice of Tensegrity, however, both the magical passes for the left body and the magical passes for the right body are performed in complete silence. If the silence of the left body can be made to overlap onto the right body, the act of saturation can become a direct way to enter what don Juan called the most coveted state that the shamans of every generation sought: inner silence.






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Five Magical Passes for the Left Body.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Five Magical Passes for the Left Body.

The magical passes for the left body have no individual names. Don Juan said that the shamans of ancient Mexico called them just magical passes for the left body.


The first magical pass consists of fifteen carefully executed brief movements. Since the magical passes for the left body are done in a sequence, they are going to be numbered sequentially.

1. The left arm moves laterally about a foot away from its natural position by the thigh (fig. 291).

2. The palm is turned sharply to face the front as the elbow is slightly bent (fig. 292).

3. The hand is raised to the level of the navel and cuts across to the right (fig. 293).

4. The hand is turned sharply until the palm faces down (fig. 294).

5. The hand cuts across from right to left with the palm of the hand facing down (fig. 295).

6. The wrist turns sharply to the right; the hand is cupped, as if to scoop something, and the movement of the wrist makes it move upward with a jolt (fig. 296).

7. The arm is raised in an arc in front of the line dividing the two bodies to the level of the eyes, a foot away from it, with the palm of the hand facing left (fig. 297).

8. The wrist turns, making the hand face forward (fig. 298).

9. The arm goes out over the head, draws a lateral circle, and returns to the same position in front of the eyes with the palm of the hand facing left (fig. 299).

10. The wrist moves again to make the palm of the hand face forward (fig. 300).

11. The hand moves down toward the left, in a slight curve to the level of the shoulders, with the palm facing the ground (fig. 301).

12. The wrist is turned so the palm faces up (fig. 302).

13. The hand cuts to the right, to a point in front of the right shoulder (fig. 303).

14. The wrist moves again, turning the palm down (fig. 304).

15. The hand sweeps down to a position about a foot in front of the left hip (fig. 305).


The second magical pass is composed of nine movements.

16. The hand is retrieved and touches the crest of the hip (fig. 306).

17. The elbow moves out laterally, and the wrist, by a sharp downward movement, turns the palm to face the left. The palm of the hand is cupped, the fingers slightly spread (fig. 307).

18. The arm makes a full circle, going over the head from front to back. The hand returns to the crest of the hip with the palm facing up (fig. 308).

19. The elbow moves out laterally again, and another quick movement of the wrist turns the palm to face the left again (fig. 309).

20. The hand moves to the side to make a circle as if scooping something. At the end of the movement, the hand returns to a position at the crest of the hip with the palm facing up (fig. 310).

21. The bent elbow moves sharply to the left at the same time that a quick turn of the wrist turns the hand back; the fingers, slightly curved, point to the back; the palm is hollowed and faces up (fig. 311).

22. Then the elbow is fully extended to the back while the palm of the cupped hand still faces up (fig. 312).

23. While the arm is still fully extended, the wrist turns over slowly, making a full rotation, until the palm faces up again (fig. 313).

24. This movement resembles pulling the arm out of a sleeve. Leading with the elbow, the arm draws a circle from back to front, and the movement ends with the palm of the hand up, at the level of the edge of the rib cage, and the bent elbow touching the edge of the ribs (fig. 314).


The third magical pass is made up of twelve movements.

25. The hand moves in an arc to the right with the palm facing up, as if cutting something with the tips of the fingers, stopping a foot past the right edge of the rib cage (fig. 315).

26. The palm of the hand is turned to face the ground (fig. 316).

27. The arm moves in an arc to the left and then all the way to the back (fig. 317).

28. The palm of the hand is hollow, the arm is fully extended, and the turn of the wrist makes the hand into a scoop (fig. 318).

29. The hand moves above the head, following a diagonal course from the back to the front that ends above the right shoulder at the level of the head (fig. 319).

30. The hand is straightened out and the wrist is contracted to place it in a ninety-degree angle with the forearm. The hand descends this way from above the head to the right of the waist (fig. 320).

31. The palm is turned briskly downward (fig. 321).

32. The arm swings in a half-circle all the way to the left and to the back (fig. 322).

33. The palm turns up (fig. 323).

34. The arm swings to the front, to the same position on the right, a foot away from the rib cage (fig. 324).

35. The hand is turned so the palm faces the ground again (fig. 325).

36. The arm swings to the left and returns to the same point behind the back on the left side (fig. 326).


The fourth magical pass consists of fifteen movements.

37. The arm swings in a big circle to the front, above the head, and to the back, and ends at a point about a foot away from the left thigh (fig. 327).

38. The head is turned to the left. The elbow is bent sharply and the forearm is raised to the level of the eyes, with the palm of the hand facing outward, as if shielding the eyes from light glare. The body stoops forward (fig. 328).

39. The head and trunk rotate slowly all the way to the right, as if to look in the distance with a shield over the eyes (fig. 329).

40. The head and trunk rotate again to the left (fig. 330).

41. The palm of the hand is quickly turned to face up as the head and trunk move to look straight forward (fig. 331).

42. Then the hand cuts a line in front of the body from left to right (fig. 332).

43. The palm is turned to face down (fig. 333).

44. The arm sweeps to the left (fig. 334).

45. The wrist is turned again in order to have the palm facing up (fig. 335).

46. The arm cuts another arc in front of the body to the right (fig. 336).

47. The position of the hand is changed again; the palm faces down (fig. 337).

48. The arm sweeps again to the left (fig. 338).

49. The palm is turned to face upward (fig. 339).

50. The arm makes a line across the front of the body to the right (fig. 340).

51. The palm is turned to face down (fig. 341).


The fifth magical pass is made up of twenty-five movements.

52. The hand draws a large circle in front of the body, with the palm of the hand facing forward as the circle is drawn. The movement ends at a point in front of the right shoulder; the palm is facing up (fig. 342).

53. The elbow turns up as the wrist and hand turn to face down. The palm of the hand is slightly hollowed (fig. 343).

54. The hand draws an oval-shaped line from right to left as if scooping a chunk of matter. When it comes to the position where it started, the palm is facing up (fig. 344).

55. The hand drops to the level of the groin, fingers pointing to the ground (fig. 345).

56. The palm of the hand is turned to face the body (fig. 346).

57. Then it moves, following the contour of the body, fingers pointing toward the ground, to a place four or five inches away from the left thigh (fig. 347).

58. A quick turn of the wrist makes the palm face the thigh (fig. 348).

59. The head turns to the left as the hand is raised, as if rubbing the fingers along a straight surface, to the level of the eyes (fig. 349).

60. From there, it descends at an angle to a point slightly to the left side of the groin. The head follows the movement of the hand (fig. 350).

61. The hand is raised again to tin- level of the eyes at an angle. It reaches a point exactly on the division line of the left and right bodies, right in front of the eyes, a foot and a half away from them (fig. 351).

62. The hand descends again at an angle, to a point in front and slightly to the right of the groin (fig. 352).

63. The hand is raised again, drawing another slanted line, to a point in front of the eyes in line with the shoulders; the head follows the movement to the right (fig. 353),

64. The hand descends in a straight line to a point a foot away from the right thigh (fig. 354).


In the seven preceding movements, three peaks have been drawn: the first one on the left, the second one on the very center dividing line, and the third to the right.

65. The hand changes position so the palm faces left (fig. 355).

66. The hand is raised to draw a curved line that fits exactly in between the right and center peaks drawn before (fig. 356).

67. There the palm of the hand is made to face the right (fig. 357).

68. The hand descends to the level of the groin and stops at the dividing line between the left and the right bodies (fig. 358).

69. The palm changes directions there again and faces left (fig. 359).

70. The hand is raised to a point between the middle peak and the left peak at the level of the eyes (fig. 360).

71. The palm is turned to face right (fig. 361).

72. The hand descends all the way down to the point in front of the thigh where it began (fig. 362).


The peaks drawn in the eight movements of this second phase are slightly round, as opposed to the very angular peaks drawn before.

73. The hand is turned once more to have the palm face forward (fig. 363).

74. The arm moves over the head as if to pour on the right face and body an invisible substance (fig. 364).

75. The hand is dropped down (fig. 365). Making a half-circle, the elbow rotates to the back (fig. 366).

76. As if it were a knife going into its sheath, the hand slides over the center of vitality around the pancreas and the spleen (fig. 367).






Magical Passes: The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Three Magical Passes for the Right Body.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fourth Series: Fourth Group - The Three Magical Passes for the Right Body.

The first magical pass for the right body consists of five movements.

1. The right hand, at a ninety-degree angle to the forearm and with the palm facing front, makes a complete circle from left to right, to the level of the right ear, and comes to rest at the same position that it started, about a foot in front of the waist (fig. 368).

2. From there, the arm moves in a sharp arc at the level of the chest by acutely bending the elbow. The palm faces the ground; the fingers are held together and straight with the thumb locked. The index finger and thumb nearly touch the chest (fig. 369).

3. The forearm moves briskly away from the chest so that the elbow is bent at a forty-five-degree angle (fig. 370).

4. The hand rotates on the wrist; the fingers point to the ground for an instant and then flip up above the head, as if the hand were a knife (fig. 371).

5. The hand descends. Using its outer edge as if it were a cutting tool, it cuts to the level of the navel (fig. 372).


The second magical pass for the right body consists of the following twelve movements.

6. From the side of the waist, the hand shoots out to a point in front of the body. At the arm's maximum extension, the fingers separate (figs. 373,374).

7. The arm is retrieved to the level of the waist. The elbow protrudes back, sharply bent (fig. 375).

8. The hand is turned so that the palm faces up (fig. 376).

9. The arm is extended forward with the palm open and facing up (fig. 377).

10. With the palm still facing up, the arm returns again to the level of the waist (fig. 378).

11. The palm is turned to face downward (fig. 379).

12. The arm makes a full side circle, going to the back, above the head, and to the front, and ends in front of the navel by slamming the palm down as if it were hitting something solid (fig. 380).

13. The palm is turned toward the body, in a movement that resembles the action of gathering something on the right body (fig. 381).

14. The arm is raised above the head as if the hand were a knife that is being wielded (fig. 382).

15. It makes a diagonal cut to the midpoint in front of the body, a foot and a half away from it. The palm is facing left (fig. 383).

16. The hand, with the palm straight, is raised to the level of the face, in a straight line (fig. 384).

17. It makes a diagonal cut with the palm slightly slanted downward to a point in front of the edge of the right body, a foot and a half away from it (fig. 385).


The third magical pass for the right body is made up of twelve movements.

18. The right arm, with the elbow sharply bent toward the right and the hand held with the palm toward the body, moves in an arc from the right side to a point in front of the solar plexus (fig. 386).

19. Pivoting on the elbow, the forearm makes a quarter of a circle downward, turning the palm to face the right side (fig. 387).

20. The arm makes a small outward circle, from left to right, going up, then down again, and ending with the palm by the waist, facing up (figs. 388a, 388b).

21. Another circle from the front to the back is made. It ends up at the point where it started, with the palm of the hand facing up (fig. 389).

22. The palm is turned to face down (fig. 390).

23. The hand then moves slowly to the front (fig. 391).

24. The wrist is turned so the palm faces the left. With a straight palm, fingers held tightly together, and thumb locked, the hand is raised straight up as if it were a knife (fig. 392).

25. Then it draws a small convex arc to the left, so that the palm flips to face right, and cuts straight down just to the left of the line drawn previously, to the level of the navel (fig. 393).

26. With the hand still facing right, it moves upward and retraces the same line it drew before (fig. 394).


In the preceding three movements, a long oval figure has been drawn.

27. Then the hand cuts down, as if to cut off one-third of the long figure (fig. 395).

28. The palm turns to face right again (fig. 396).

29. It scoops whatever it has cut and has turned into a ball, and splashes it on the front of the right body (figs. 397, 398).

30. The hand is dropped down to the crest of the right hip (fig. 399).

31. The hand rotates as the arm makes a half-circle going from the front (fig. 400) to the back, stopping behind the right shoulder (fig. 401).

32. As if it were a knife going into its sheath, the hand slides over the energy center around the liver and gallbladder (figs. 402, 403).






Magical Passes: The Fifth Series - The Masculinity Series.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fifth Series - The Masculinity Series.

  • The First Group: Magical Passes in Which the Hands Are Moved in Unison but Held Separately.
  • The Second Group: The Magical Passes for Focusing Tendon Energy.
  • The Third Group: The Magical Passes for Building Endurance.


Masculinity was the name given to a specific group of magical passes by the shamans who first discovered and used them. Don Juan thought that perhaps it was the oldest name given to any such group of magical passes. This group was practiced originally for generations only by male shaman practitioners, and this discrimination in favor of male shamans was done not out of necessity, but rather for reasons of ritual and to satisfy an original drive for male supremacy. Nevertheless, this drive was soon terminated under the impact of enhanced perception.

The well-established tradition of this group of magical passes being practiced only by men persisted in a pseudo-official way for generations while it was being practiced on the sly by female practitioners as well. The old sorcerers' rationale for including females was that for reasons of strife and social disorder around them, the women needed extra strength and vitality, which they believed was found only in males who practiced this group of magical passes. Therefore, women were allowed to execute the movements as a token of solidarity. In don Juan's time, the division lines between males and females became even more diffused. The secrecy and exclusivity of the old sorcerers was completely shattered, and even the old rationale for allowing women to practice these specific magical passes could not be upheld. Female practitioners performed these magical passes openly.

The value of this group of magical passes - the oldest named group in existence - is its continuity. All of its magical passes were generic from the beginning, and this condition provided the only instance in don Juan's lineage of sorcerers in which a whole party of shaman practitioners, whatever their number may have been, were allowed to move in unison. The number of participants in any parry of sorcerers, throughout the ages, could never have been more than sixteen. Therefore, none of those sorcerers were ever in the position to witness the stupendous energetic contribution of human mass. For them, there existed only the specialized consensus of a few initiates, a consensus which brought in the possibility of idiosyncratic preferences and more isolationism.

The fact that the movements of Tensegrity are practiced in seminars and workshops by hundreds of participants at the same time has given rise, as stated before, to the possibility of experiencing the energetic effects of human mass. Such an energetic effect is twofold: not only are the participants of Tensegrity performing an activity that unites them energetically, but they are also involved in a quest delineated in states of enhanced awareness by the shamans of ancient Mexico: the redeployment of energy. Performing these magical passes in the setting of seminars on Tensegrity is a unique experience. It permits the participants to arrive, pushed or pulled by the magical passes themselves and by the human mass, at energetic conclusions never even alluded to in don Juan's teachings.

The reason for calling this set of movements Masculinity is its aggressive quality, and because its magical passes are very brisk and forcefully executed, characteristics easily identified with maleness. Don Juan stated that their practice fostered not only a sensation of well-being, but a special sensorial quality, which, if not examined, could easily be confused with strife and aggressiveness. However, if it is carefully scrutinized, it is immediately apparent that it is, rather, an unmistakable sensation of readiness that places the practitioners at a level from which they could strike toward the unknown.

Another reason that the shamans of ancient Mexico called this group of magical passes Masculinity was because the males who practiced it became a special type of practitioner who didn't need to be taken by the hand. They became men who benefited indirectly from everything they did. Ideally, the energy generated by this group of magical passes goes to the centers of vitality themselves, as if every center made an automatic bidding for energy, which goes first to the center that needs it the most.

For don Juan Matus's disciples, this set of magical passes became the most crucial element in their training. Don Juan himself introduced it to them as a common denominator, meaning that he urged them to practice the set unaltered. What lie wanted was to prepare his disciples to withstand the rigors of journeying in the unknown.

In Tensegrity, the word Series has been added to the name Masculinity to put it on a par with the other series of Tensegrity. The Masculinity Series is divided into three groups, each consisting of ten magical passes. The goal of the first and second groups of the Masculinity Series is the tuning of tendon energy. Each of these twenty magical passes is short, but extremely focused. Tensegrity practitioners are seriously encouraged, as the shamanistic practitioners of ancient times were, to get the maximum effect from the short movements by aiming to release a jolt of tendon energy every time they execute them.

"But don't you think, don Juan, that every time I release this jolt of energy, I'm actually wasting my tendon energy, and draining it out of me?" I asked him on one occasion.

"You can't drain any energy out of yourself," he said. "The energy that you are seemingly wasting by delivering a jolt to the air is not really being wasted, because it never leaves your boundaries, wherever those boundaries may be. So what you're really doing is delivering a jolt of energy to what the sorcerers of ancient Mexico called our 'crust,' our 'bark.' Those sorcerers stated that energetically, human beings are like luminous balls that have a thick peel around them, like an orange; some of them have something even harder and thicker, like the bark of an old tree."

Don Juan explained carefully that this simile of human beings being like an orange was somehow misleading because the peel or the bark that we have is located inside our boundaries, just as if an orange had its peel inside the orange itself. He said that this bark or peel was the crusted-down energy that had been discarded throughout our lifetime from our vital centers of energy, because of the wear and tear of daily life.

"Is it beneficial to hit this bark, don Juan?" I asked.

"Most beneficial," he said. "Especially if the practitioners aim all their intent at reaching that bark with their blows. If they intend to shatter portions of this crusted-down energy by means of the magical passes, that shattered energy could be absorbed by the vital centers of energy."

The magical passes of the third group of the Masculinity Series are broader, more extensive. What practitioners need in order to execute the ten magical passes of the third group is steadiness of the hands, the legs, and the rest of the body. The aim of this third series, for the shamans of ancient Mexico, was the building of endurance, of stability.

Those shamans believed that holding the body steadily in position while executing those long movements gives the practitioners a foothold from which they can stand on their own.

What modem practitioners of Tensegrity have found out through their practice is that the Masculinity Series can be executed only in moderation, in order to avoid overtiring the tendons of the arms and the muscles of the back.






Magical Passes: The Fifth Series: First Group - Magical Passes In Which The Hands Are Moved In Unison But Held Separately.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fifth Series: First Group - Magical Passes In Which The Hands Are Moved In Unison But Held Separately.

1. Fists Above the Shoulders

The hands are held by the sides, clasped into fists, the palms facing up. They are raised then to a point above the head by bending the elbows so the forearms are at a ninety-degree angle with the upper arms. The driving force of this movement is equally divided between the muscles of the arms and the contraction of the muscles of the abdomen. As the fists are raised and the muscles of the front of the body are tensed, the body leans slightly backward by bending the knees (fig. 404). The arms, with hands fisted, are brought down to the sides of the thighs by straightening the elbows a bit; as the arms move down, the body leans forward, contracting the muscles of the back and the diaphragm (fig. 405).


2. Using a Cutting Tool in Each Hand

The hands are made into fists, with the palms facing each other at the level of the waist (fig. 406). From there, they move in a downward strike to the level of the groin, a foot and a half away from it, always keeping the width of the body as the distance between the fists (fig. 407). Once the fists strike, they are retrieved to the position where they started, by the edge of the rib cage.


3. Polishing a High Table with the Palms of the Hands

The arms are raised to the level of the axillae. The palms of the hands face down. The elbows, acutely bent, protrude sharply behind the back (fig. 408). Both arms are brought briskly forward to the maximum extension, as if the palms were actually polishing a hard surface. The hands are kept at a distance which equals the width of the body (fig. 409). From there, they are retrieved with equal force to the position where the movement began (fig. 408).


4. Tapping Energy with Both Hands

Both arms are raised to the front, at the level of the shoulders. The hands are held in angular fists, meaning that the position of the fingers slants down heavily as they are held against the palm of the hands. The thumbs are held on top of the outer edge of the index fingers (fig. 410). The palms of the hands face each other. A sharp jolt of the wrists makes the fists go down slightly, but with great force. The level of the wrists never changes; in other words, only the hand pivots down on the wrists.

The counter movement is to raise the fists with a jolt without changing the position of the wrists (fig. 411).

This magical pass is, for shamans, one of the best sources for exercising the tendon energy of the arms, because of the number of energy points that exist around the wrists, the backs of the hands, the palms, and the fingers.


5. Jolting Energy

This magical pass is the companion to the preceding one. It begins by raising both arms to the front at the level of the shoulders. The hands are held in angular fists, just as in the preceding magical pass, except that in this one, the palms of the hands are turned to face downward. The fists are moved in toward the body by a jolt of the wrists. Its counterbalancing movement is another jolt of the wrists that sends the fists outward so that the thumbs make a straight line with the rest of the forearm (fig. 412). In order to execute this magical pass, it is required that the muscles of the abdomen are intensely used. It is the action of those muscles which actually directs the jolting of the wrists.


6. Pulling a Rope of Energy

The hands are held in front of the body, at the line that separates the left and the right bodies, as if they were holding a thick rope that hangs from above; the left hand is on top of the right (fig. 413). The magical pass consists in jolting both wrists and making the hands jerk down in a short, powerful movement. As this movement is executed, the muscles of the abdomen contract, and the arms drop down slightly by bending the knees (fig. 414).

Its counterbalancing movement is a jerk of the wrists that jolts the hands upward as the knees and the trunk straighten up a bit (fig. 413).


7. Pushing Down a Pole of Energy

The hands are held to the left of the body, the left hand at the level of the ear, eight or nine inches above the right hand, which is held at the shoulder. They are held as if they were grabbing a thick pole. The palm of the left hand faces the right; and the palm of the right hand faces left. The left hand is the leading hand, by virtue of being on top, and guides the movement (fig. 415). The muscles of the back by the area of the adrenals and the muscles of the abdomen contract, and a powerful push sends both arms downward to the side of the right thigh and the waist, as if they were indeed holding on to a pole (fig. 416). The hands change position there; the right hand moves to a place by the right ear and becomes the leading hand, and the left moves below, by the shoulder, as if the hands were changing poles. The same movements are repeated.


8. Cut ting Energy with One Hand at a Time

The fists arc raised on the sides until they touch the edge of the rib cage; the palms of the fists face each other (fig. 417). The left arm moves down in a diagonal line to a point two feet away from the thigh (fig. 418); then it is retrieved (fig. 417). The right arm immediately performs the same movements.


9. Using a Plane of Energy

The left hand is raised to the level of the navel and made into a fist; the elbow is bent at a ninety-degree angle and is held close to the rib cage (fig. 419). The right palm moves as if to slam on top of the left fist. The right hand stops an inch away from the left (fig. 420). Then it moves four or five inches in front of the fist, in a sharp, cutting movement, as if cutting with the edge of the hand (fig. 421). The left arm is retrieved all the way back by making the elbow protrude backward as far as it can, while the right hand is also retrieved, following the left hand and keeping the same distance (fig. 422). Then, maintaining the same distance between the hands, both the left and the right arm shoot forward to a point a foot and a half or two feet away from the waist.

The same movements are repeated with the fist of the right arm.


10. Striking Energy with a Spike of Energy

The left arm is raised to the level of the shoulders with the elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle. The hand is held as if it had the hilt of a dagger in its grip; the palm faces down. The elbow strikes backward in an arc to a point at the height of the left shoulder, at a forty-five-degree angle behind it (fig. 423). Then the arm returns with a strike along the same arc to its initial position.

The same movement is repeated with the other arm.






Magical Passes: The Fifth Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes For Focusing Tendon Energy.

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Magical Passes ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

The Fifth Series: Second Group - The Magical Passes For Focusing Tendon Energy.

11. Clasping Hands

Both forearms are brought forward in front of the navel. The bent elbows almost touch the rib cage. The hands are made to clasp, the left hand on top. The fingers of each hand grab the other hand forcefully (fig. 424). All the muscles of the arms and the back are contracted. Then the tense muscles are relaxed and the hands change positions so that the right hand is on top of the left, without letting go of each other, using the hard part of the palm at the base of the fingers as a pivoting surface; the muscles of the arms and back are contracted again.

The same movements are repeated, beginning with the right hand on top


12. Left and Right Body Clasp

The forearms are brought in front of the body, again at the level of the navel. This time, however, the right forearm is held extended out in a straight line with the hip. It is held close to the rib cage while the left forearm, with the elbow away from the body, puts the left hand over the right one in a clasping position. Great pressure is applied to the palms and the fingers of each hand by the tension of the muscles of the arms, the back, and the abdomen. The tension is relaxed, and the hands are made to pivot on each other's palms, as they move across the body from right to left. There, they are forcefully clasped again, using the same muscles, this time with the right hand on top (fig. 425).

The same movements are repeated from this position.


13. The Sharp Turn of the Two Bodies

The hands are clasped at the level of the waist, to the right. The left hand is on top of the right. In this magical pass, (In- squeeze- of the hands is not as pronounced as the one in the two preceding ones, because what is sought is a sharp turn of the two bodies, rather than the sharp strikes of the two preceding passes.

The clasped hands are made to draw a small circle to the right that goes from the front to the back, and ends in the same position where it started. Since the leading hand is the left hand, by the fact that it is on top, the circle is drawn following the impulse of the left arm, which pushes the hands out first to the right, and around in a circle to the right of the body (fig. 426).

Then the clasped hands move across the front of the body to the left side. Another circle is drawn there, again following the impulse of the left hand. Being on top, it pulls the other hand to make a circle that goes to the back first, out to the left, and back to the place where it started (fig. 427).

The same sequence of movements is performed with the right hand in the lead, starting at the left by the waist. This time, the impulse of the right arm is followed in order to draw the circle, which goes to the left first, and then back to the same place where it started (fig. 428). The clasped hands move across the front of the body to the right side by the waist. There, following the impulse of the leading hand, they are pulled back, then to the right, and back where they started, making a circle (fig. 429). It is important that as the circles are drawn, the trunk of the body is turned sharply to the side. The legs remain in the same position, without compensating for the turn by letting the knees sag.


14. Pushing Clasped Energy with the Elbow and Forearm

The hands are clasped by the right side at the level of the shoulder. The upper part of the right arm is held fight against the chest, and the elbow is sharply bent with the forearm held in a vertical position. With the palm of the right hand facing up, the back of the hand is held in a ninety-degree angle with the forearm (fig. 430).

The elbow of the left arm is extended in front of the left shoulder, held at a ninety-degree position. The two hands clasp forcefully (fig. 431). The right arm slowly pushes the left one forward by straightening the elbow quite a bit. At the same time that the clasped hands are pushed forward, the left shoulder and shoulder blade are also pushed forward to maintain the ninety-degree angle of the left elbow (fig. 432). The right arm retrieves the left hand to the initial position.

The clasped hands are shifted to the left side by pivoting on the palms, and the same movements are repeated there.


15. The Short Stab with the Hands Clasped

The hands are clasped at the right side, just as in the preceding magical pass. This lime, however, the hands are at the level of the waist, and the right arm, instead of slowly pushing the left one forward, stabs fast (fig. 433). It is a powerful movement that requires the contraction of the muscles of the arms and the back. The clasped hands are brought forcefully to the left, as if to augment the driving force of the left elbow, which is pushed all the way to the back (fig. 434). The clasped hands move around the front of the body to the right, as if to aid again a powerful movement of the right elbow which is thrown all the way to the back.

The same sequence of movements is performed by starting it on the left side with the right hand in the lead.

It is important to note that when the clasped hands are stabbed to the front, the hand at the bottom gives the direction, but the force is supplied by the leading hand, which is on top.


16. Jolting Energy with Clasped Hands

The hands are clasped to the right; the right elbow and upper arm are held against the side of the rib cage. The elbow of the right arm is at a ninety-degree angle with the extended right forearm. The left elbow is also held at a ninety-degree angle, at a straight line away from the left pectoral muscle (fig. 435). The right arm lifts the left one, changing the position of the elbows from a ninety-degree angle to a forty-five. The clasped hands reach the level of the right shoulder (fig. 436). Then they are made to jolt with a very short movement in which only the wrist is involved. The clasped hands hit down, but without changing the level at which they are held (fig. 437). From there, the clasped hands are retrieved to the left near the waist, in a forceful movement that makes the left elbow protrude at the back (fig. 438). The wrists are rotated and the hands made to pivot on each other, reversing their position. The same movements are repeated on the left.


17. Jolting Energy by the Knees

The hands are clasped to the right by the thigh. They change positions slightly by the supporting right hand, which is on the bottom, becoming slightly more vertical with a twist of the wrist, held in check by the pressure of the left hand (fig. 439). Both hands swing to the left, following the contour of the knees, and deliver a strike, the potency of which is enhanced by a downward pull of the wrists (fig. 440).

The hands change position by rotating on each other's palms, and the same movements are repeated from left to right.


18. Driving Down a Spike of Energy

The hands are clasped vertically with the left hand in the lead, at a point about a foot from the navel, right on the division line between the left and right bodies. Both hands are lifted a few inches with a slight jolt made by bending the wrists without moving the forearms. Then they are brought down with the same jolt of the wrists (fig. 441).

This magical pass engages the deep muscles of the abdomen. The same movements are performed with the right hand in the lead.


19. Using the Hands Like a Hatchet

The hands are clasped at the right. Both are lifted to the level of the shoulder (fig. 442). Then they deliver a diagonal strike that takes them to the level of the left hip (fig. 443).

The same movements are done on the left.


20. Hammering a Spike of Energy

The hands are clasped at the right. They swing to the level of the shoulders, aided by a rotation of the trunk to the right. Making a small vertical circle in front of the right shoulder, the hands are brought to the division line between the two bodies and down to the level of the waist as if to hammer a spike of energy there (fig. 444).

The same movements are done on the left side.






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The Fifth Series: Third Group - The Magical Passes for Building Endurance.

21. Cutting Energy in an Arc

The hands are clasped on the right, fight against the crest of the hipbone. The left hand is on top of the right. The right elbow protrudes to the back, and the left forearm is held against the stomach. In a powerful extended strike, the clasped hands slice in a horizontal arc across the area in front of the body as if going through a heavy substance. It's as if the hands were holding a knife, or a sword, or a cutting instrument that rips something solid in front of the body (fig. 445). All the muscles of the arm, the abdomen, the chest, and the back are used. The muscles of the legs are tensed to lend stability to the movement. On the left side, the hands are pivoted. The right hand is on top, in the lead, and another powerful cut takes place.


22. Slashing Energy with a Swordlike Cut

The hands are clasped with the left hand on top of the right in front of the right shoulder (fig. 446). A powerful jolt of the wrists and the arms makes the hands move forward about a foot, delivering a powerful blow. From there, they cut across to a point on the left, at the level of the shoulder. The end result is a movement that resembles cutting something heavy with a sword. From that point on the left, the arms change position by rotating, without losing their clasping position. The right hand takes the lead and gets on top, and again slashes across to a point about two feet away from the right shoulder (fig. 447).

The initial position of the hands are changed, and the movements begin on the left.


23. Slashing Energy with a Diagonal Cut

The clasped hands are raised to the level of the right ear and pushed forward, as if to stab something solid located in front of the body (fig. 448). From there, they slash down to a place about a foot away from the side of the left kneecap (fig. 449). On that point, the hands rotate at the wrists to change positions so that the right hand takes the lead on top. It is as if the cutting instrument that the hands seem to be holding is made to change directions before it slashes from left to right, following the contour of the knees (fig. 450). The hands change place, and the whole sequence is done again, starting from the left.


24. Carrying Energy from the Right Shoulder to the Left Knee

The clasped hands are held at waist level on the right. They change positions slightly by the supporting right hand, which is on the bottom, becoming slightly more vertical with a twist of the wrist, which is held by the pressure of the left hand. The hands are quickly raised to a point by the top of the head, on the right side (fig. 451). Leading with the elbow, they are brought down to shoulder level with great force. From there, they slash down in a diagonal cut to a place about a foot away from the left side of the kneecap. The strike is aided by a quick downward turn of the wrists (fig. 452).

The hands pivot to change places, and the whole sequence is done again, starting from the left.


25. Slashing Energy by the Knees

The hands are clasped on the right side by the waist (fig. 453). They are brought in a powerful downward strike to the level of the knees, as the trunk stoops forward slightly. Then they cut an arc in front of the knees from right to left, to a point four or five inches away from the left side of the kneecap (fig. 454). Then the clasped hands are brought back forcefully to a point a few inches to the right of the right knee. The performance of both cutting strikes is aided by a very powerful jolt of the wrists.

The same movement is performed starting by the waist on the left. In order to perform this magical pass correctly, practitioners need to engage, rather than the muscles of the arms and the legs, the deep muscles of the abdomen.


26. The Digging Bar of Energy

The clasped hands are held in front of the stomach, with the left hand on top as the leading hand. They are shifted then to a vertical position in front of the stomach on the line that separates the two bodies. In a quick movement, they are brought to a point above the head, as if still following the same line. From there, they are made to strike down in a straight line to the place where the magical pass began (fig. 455). The hands change positions, to have the right hand in the lead, and the movement is repeated. Don Juan called this movement stirring energy with a digging bar.


27. The Big Slash

The clasped hands start on the right, by the waist. They are quickly raised above the head, over the right shoulder (fig. 456). The wrists jolt back to gain strength, and a powerful diagonal strike is delivered that slashes Figure 455 energy in front of the body, as if cutting through a sheet. The strike ends at a point four or five inches to the left of the left knee (fig. 457).

The same movement is repeated starting from the left.


28. The Sledgehammer

With the left hand in the lead, the hands are clasped together in front of the stomach on the vertical line that divides the left and the right bodies. The palms are held vertical for an instant before the hands are brought to the right of the body and above the head to hang for another instant by the neck, as if holding a heavy sledgehammer. They move over the head in a deliberate and powerful swing (fig. 458) and are brought to bear on the spot from which they began to move, exactly as if the hands themselves were a heavy sledgehammer (fig. 459). The hands change positions, and the same movements are started on the left.


29. Cutting a Circle of Energy

The hands are clasped by the right shoulder to begin this magical pass (fig. 460). Then they are pushed forward as far as the right arm can go without fully extending the elbow. From there, the clasped hands cut a circle the width of the body from right to left, as if they were indeed holding a cutting instrument. In order to perform this movement, the left, leading hand, which is on top, must reverse positions when it reaches the turn of the circle on the left; with the hands still clasped, they flip at the turn of the circle so that the right hand takes the lead by being on top (fig. 461) and finishes drawing the circle.

The same sequence of movements is performed, starting on the left, with the right hand in the lead.


30. The Back-and-Forth Slash

The hands are clasped on the right, with the left hand in the lead. A powerful blow pushes the hands forward, about two feet away from the chest. Then, they slash, as if they were holding a sword, as far to the left as the arms allow them without completely extending the elbows (fig. 462). There, the hands change positions. The right hand becomes the leading hand on top and a counterslash is performed, which takes the clasped hands all the way to a point on the right side, a few inches to the right of where this magical pass started (fig. 463).

The same sequence of movements is repeated, starting on the left, with the right hand in the lead.






Magical Passes: The Sixth Series - Devices Used In Conjunction With Specific Magical Passes.

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The Sixth Series - Devices Used In Conjunction With Specific Magical Passes.

As previously stated, the shamans of ancient Mexico put a special emphasis on a force they called tendon energy. Don Juan said that they asserted that vital energy moves along the body via an exclusive track formed by tendons.

I asked don Juan if by tendon he meant the tissue that attaches the muscles to the bones.

"I am at a loss to explain tendon energy," he said. "I'm following the easy path of usage. I was taught that it's called tendon energy. If I don't have to be specific about it, you understand what tendon energy is, don't you?"

"In a vague sense, I think I do, don Juan," I said. "What confuses me is that you use the word tendon where there are no bones, such as the abdomen."

"The old sorcerers," he said, "gave the name of tendon energy to a current of energy that moves along the deep muscles from the neck down to the chest and arms, and the spine. It cuts across the upper and lower abdomen from the edge of the rib cage to the groin, and from there it goes to the toes."

"Doesn't this current include the head, don Juan?" I asked, bewildered. As a Western man, I expected that anything of this sort would have originated in the brain.

"No," he said emphatically, "it doesn't include the head. What comes from the head is a different kind of energetic current; not what I am talking about. One of the formidable attainments of sorcerers is that in the end, they push out whatever exists in the center of energy located at the top of the head, and then they anchor the tendon energy of the rest of their bodies there. But that is a paragon of success. At the moment, what we have at hand, as in your case, is the average situation of tendon energy beginning at the neck at the place where it joins the head. In some cases tendon energy goes up to a point below the cheekbones, but never higher than that point.

"This energy," he went on, "which I call tendon energy for lack of a better name, is a dire necessity in the lives of those who travel in infinity, or want to travel in it."

Don Juan said that the traditional beginning in the utilization of tendon energy was the use of some simple devices which were employed by the shamans of ancient Mexico in two ways. One was to create a vibratory effect on specific centers of tendon energy, and the other was to create a pressure effect on the same centers. He explained that those shamans considered the vibratory effect to be the agent for loosening the energy which has become stagnant. The second effect, the pressure effect, was thought to be the agent that disperses the energy.

What seems to be a cognitive contradiction for modern man - that vibration would loosen anything that was stuck, and that pressure would disperse it - was deeply emphasized by don Juan Matus, who taught his disciples that what appears to be natural to us in terms of our cognition in the world is not at all natural in terms of the flow of energy. He said that in the world of everyday life, human beings would crack something with a blow, or by applying pressure, and disperse it by making it vibrate. However, energy which had become lodged in a tendon center had to be rendered fluid through vibration, and then it had to be pressed, so that it would continue flowing. Don Juan Matus was horrified at the idea of directly pressing points of energy in the body without the preliminary vibration. His contention was that energy that was stuck would get even more inert if pressure were applied to it.

Don Juan started off his disciples with two basic devices. He explained that the shamans of ancient times used to search for a pair of round pebbles or dry round seed pods, and use them as vibratory and pressure devices to aid in manipulating the flow of energy in the body, which they believed becomes periodically stuck along the tendon track.

However, the round pebbles that shaman practitioners normally used were definitely too hard, and the seed pods too fragile. Other objects that those shamans searched for avidly were flat rocks the size of the hand or pieces of heavy wood, in order to place them on specific areas of tendon energy on their abdomens while they were lying flat on their backs. The first area is just below the navel; another is right on top of the navel, and another yet, on the area of the solar plexus. The problem with using rocks or other objects is that they have to be heated or cooled to approximate the temperature of the body, and besides, these objects are usually too stiff, and they slide and move around.

Tensegrity practitioners have found a much better equivalent to the devices of the shamans of ancient Mexico: a pair of round balls and a small, flat, circular leather weight. The balls are the same size as the ones used by those shamans, but they are not fragile at all; they are made of a mixture of Teflon reinforced by a ceramic compound. This mixture gives the balls a weight, a hardness, and a smoothness which are thoroughly congruous with the purpose of the magical passes.

The other device, the leather weight, has been found to be an ideal device for creating a steady pressure on centers of tendon energy. Unlike rocks, it is pliable enough to adapt itself to the contours of the body. Its leather cover makes it possible to be applied directly to the body without needing to be warmed or cooled. However, its most remarkable feature is its weight. It is light enough not to cause any discomfort, and yet heavy enough to aid some specific magical passes that foster inner silence by pressing centers on the abdomen. Don Juan Matus said that a weight placed on any of the three areas mentioned above engages the totality of one's energy fields, which means a momentary shutting off of the internal dialogue: the first step toward inner silence.

The modern devices used in conjunction with specific magical passes are divided by their very nature into two categories.






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The Sixth Series: Devices - First Category.

This first category of magical passes that use the help of a device consists of sixteen magical passes aided by the Teflon balls. Eight of these magical passes are performed on the left arm and wrist, and eight on the points of the liver and gallbladder, the pancreas and spleen, the bridge of the nose, the temples, and the crown of the head. The sorcerers of ancient Mexico considered the first eight magical passes to be the first step toward the liberation of the left body from the unwarranted dominion of the right body.

1. The first movement pertains to the outer side of the main tendon of the biceps of the left arm. A ball is applied to that hollow spot and made to vibrate by moving it back and forth with a slight pressure (figs. 464, 465).

2. In the second movement, a ball is held in the hollow palm of the right hand, with the thumb holding it securely (fig. 466). A firm but light pressure is applied to the ball, which is made to rub from the left wrist to a point one hand's width away from the wrist (fig. 467). The ball is rubbed back and forth in the canal created by the tendons of the wrist (fig. 468).

3. The ball is lightly pressed at a point on the left forearm a hand's width away from the wrist (figs. 469, 470).

4. A moderate pressure is applied at the wrist of the left arm with the index finger of the right hand on a spot next to the head of the forearm bone (fig. 471). The right thumb anchors the hand on the inside of the wrist (fig. 472) and moves the hand back and forth (figs. 473, 474).

5. The ball is applied to the inner side of the tendon of the left biceps, and it is made to vibrate with a slight pressure (figs. 475, 476).

6. A vibration is applied to the hollow spot at the back of the elbow to the left of the elbow proper. The palm of the left hand is twisted and turned outward to allow maximum opening of that area (fig. 477). The ball is rubbed there.

7. Moderate pressure is applied to a spot in the middle of the upper left arm, on the hollow spot where the triceps joins the bone (figs. 478, 479).

8. The left elbow is bent sharply and is rolled forward, engaging the left shoulder blade, to disperse tendon energy to the whole left body (fig. 480).


The remaining eight magical passes of this first category pertain to the upper body and three centers of energy: the gallbladder and liver, the pancreas and spleen, and the head.

9. The balls are held with both hands, pressed and pushed deeply upward, but with only slight pressure, just under, the sides of the rib cage by the liver and the pancreas (fig. 481). Then they are made to vibrate firmly but lightly on those areas.

10. The ball held with the right hand is applied then with a slight pressure to the area just above the sinus, between the eyebrows, and is made to vibrate there (fig. 482).

11. Both balls are applied to the temples and made to vibrate lightly (fig. 483).

12. The ball held with the right hand is applied to the very top of the head and is made to vibrate there (fig. 484).

13-16. The same sequence is repeated, but instead of being made to vibrate, the balls are pressed against those centers of energy. During this second set of movements, both balls are pressed on the sides of the rib cage, by the liver and the pancreas. Then the ball held with the left hand is pressed on the area above the sinus. Both balls are pressed on the temples, and then the ball held with the left hand is pressed on the top of the head.






Magical Passes: The Sixth Series: Devices - Second Category.

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The Sixth Series: Devices - Second Category.

The second category comprises the uses of the leather weight for the purpose of creating a steady pressure on a larger area of tendon energy. There are two magical passes used in conjunction with the leather weight.

The hand positions for both of these magical passes are shown here with the practitioner standing. The actual practice of these magical passes is performed lying flat on the back with the leather weight pressing right above the navel or on either of the other two choice spots on the abdomen: below the navel, or above it by the solar plexus, if placing the weight on them is more comfortable.


17. The Five Points of Silence Around the Chest

The little fingers of both hands are placed on the edges of the rib cage about two inches from the tip of the sternum, and the thumbs are extended as far up on the chest as possible. The remaining three fingers fall evenly spread in the space between the thumb and the little finger. A vibratory pressure is exerted with all five fingers of each hand (fig. 485).


18. Pressing the Midpoint Between the Rib Cage and the Crest of the Hipbone

The little finger and the fourth finger of each hand rest on the crests of the hips while the thumbs rest on the lower edge of the rib cage on each side. Slight pressure is applied on those two points. The index and middle fingers automatically press points midway between the crests of the hips and the edge of the rib cage (fig. 486).





### Magical Passes - Copyright 1998 by CARLOS CASTANEDA - The End ###




The Art of Dreaming. ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda.

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The Art of Dreaming

The Art of Dreaming. ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda.



Contents

  • Author's Note

  • Chapter 1. Sorcerers of Antiquity: An Introduction
  • Chapter 2. The First Gate of Dreaming
  • Chapter 3. The Second Gate of Dreaming
  • Chapter 4. The Fixation of the Assemblage Point
  • Chapter 5. The World of Inorganic Beings
  • Chapter 6. The Shadows' World
  • Chapter 7. The Blue Scout
  • Chapter 8. The Third Gate of Dreaming
  • Chapter 9. The New Area of Exploration
  • Chapter 10. Stalking the Stalkers
  • Chapter 11. The Tenant
  • Chapter 12. The Woman in the Church
  • Chapter 13. Flying on the Wings of Intent




The Art of Dreaming: Author's Note.

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The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Author's Note.

Over the past twenty years, I have written a series of books about my apprenticeship with a Mexican Yaqui Indian sorcerer, don Juan Matus. I have explained in those books that he taught me sorcery, but not as we understand sorcery in the context of our daily world: not the use of supernatural powers over others; nor the calling of spirits through charms, spells, or rituals to produce supernatural effects. For don Juan, sorcery was the act of embodying some specialized theoretical and practical premises about the nature and role of perception in molding the universe around us.

Following don Juan's suggestion, I have refrained from using the term shamanism, a category proper to anthropology, to classify his knowledge. I have called it all along what he himself called it: sorcery. On examination, however, I realized that calling it sorcery obscures even more the already obscure phenomena he presented to me in his teachings.

In anthropological works, shamanism is described as a belief system of some native people of northern Asia, prevailing also among certain native North American Indian tribes, which maintains that an unseen world of ancestral spiritual forces, good and evil, is pervasive around us; and that these spiritual forces can be summoned or controlled through the acts of practitioners who are the intermediaries between the natural and supernatural realms.

Don Juan was indeed an intermediary between the natural world of everyday life and an unseen world, which he called not the supernatural but the second attention. His role as a teacher was to make this configuration accessible to me. I have described in my previous work his teaching methods to this effect as well as the sorcery arts he made me practice. The most important of which is called the art of dreaming.

Don Juan contended that our world, which we believe to be unique and absolute, is only one in a cluster of consecutive worlds arranged like the layers of an onion. He asserted that even though we have been energetically conditioned to perceive solely our world, we still have the capability of entering into those other realms; which are as real, unique, absolute, and engulfing as our own world is.

Don Juan explained to me that, for us to perceive those other realms, not only do we have to covet them, but we need to have sufficient energy to seize them. Their existence is constant and independent of our awareness, he said, but their inaccessibility is entirely a consequence of our energetic conditioning. In other words, simply and solely because of our conditioning, we are compelled to assume that the world of daily life is the one and only possible world.

Believing that our energetic conditioning is correctable, don Juan stated that sorcerers of ancient times developed a set of practices designed to recondition our energetic capabilities to perceive. They called this set of practices the art of dreaming.

With the perspective time gives, I now realize that the most fitting statement don Juan made about dreaming was to call it the 'gateway to infinity'. I remarked at the time he said it that the metaphor had no meaning to me.

"Let's then do away with metaphors," he conceded. "Let's say that dreaming is the sorcerers' practical way of putting ordinary dreams to use."

"But how can ordinary dreams be put to use?" I asked.

"We always get tricked by words," he said. "In my own case, my teacher attempted to describe dreaming to me by saying that it is the way sorcerers say good night to the world. He was, of course, tailoring his description to fit my mentality. I'm doing the same with you."

On another occasion don Juan said to me, "Dreaming can only be experienced. Dreaming is not just having dreams; neither is it daydreaming or wishing or imagining. Through dreaming we can perceive other worlds which we can certainly describe, but we can't describe what makes us perceive them. Yet we can feel how dreaming opens up those other realms. Dreaming seems to be a sensation; a process in our bodies; an awareness in our minds."

In the course of his general teachings, don Juan thoroughly explained to me the principles, rationales, and practices of the art of dreaming. His instruction was divided into two parts. One part was about dreaming procedures, and the other part was about the purely abstract explanations of these procedures. His teaching method was an interplay between enticing my intellectual curiosity with the abstract principles of dreaming, and guiding me to seek an outlet in its practices.

I have already described all this in as much detail as I had been able to. And I have also described the sorcerers' milieu in which don Juan placed me in order to teach me his arts. My interaction in this milieu was of special interest to me because it took place exclusively in the 'second attention'. I interacted there with the ten women and five men who were don Juan's sorcerer companions and with the four young men and the four young women who were his apprentices.

Don Juan gathered them immediately after I came into his world. He made it clear to me that they formed a traditional sorcerers' group- a replica of his own party- and that I was supposed to lead them.

However, working with me he realized that I was different than he expected. He explained that difference in terms of an energy configuration seen only by sorcerer seers. Instead of having four compartments of energy as he himself had, I had only three.

Such a configuration, which he had mistakenly hoped was a correctable flaw, made me completely inadequate for interacting with or leading those eight apprentices. I have written extensively about those events.

Because of my configuration, it became imperative for don Juan to gather another group of people more akin to my energetic structure. I have never mentioned the second group of apprentices: Don Juan did not permit me to do so. He argued that they were exclusively in my field, and that the agreement I had had with him was to write about his field; not mine.

The second group of apprentices was extremely compact. It had only three members: a dreamer, Florinda Grau; a stalker, Taisha Abelar; and a nagual woman, Carol Tiggs.

We interacted with one another solely in the second attention. In the world of everyday life, we did not have even a vague notion of one another. In terms of our relationship with don Juan, however, there was no vagueness. He put enormous effort into training all of us equally.

Nevertheless, toward the end when don Juan's time was about to finish, the psychological pressure of his departure started to collapse the rigid boundaries of the second attention. The result was that our interaction began to lapse into the world of everyday affairs; and we met, seemingly, for the first time.

None of us, consciously, knew about our deep and arduous interaction in the second attention. Since all of us were involved in academic studies, we ended up more than shocked when we found out we had met before. This was and still is, of course, intellectually inadmissible to us, yet we know that it was thoroughly within our experience. We have been left, therefore, with the disquieting knowledge that the human psyche is infinitely more complex than our mundane or academic reasoning had led us to believe.

Once we asked don Juan, in unison, to shed light on our predicament. He said that he had two explanatory options.

One option was to cater to our hurt rationality and patch it up by saying that the second attention is a state of awareness as illusory as elephants flying in the sky; and that everything we thought we had experienced in that state was simply a product of hypnotic suggestions.

The other option was to explain it the way sorcerer dreamers understand it; as an energetic configuration of awareness.

During the fulfillment of my dreaming tasks, however, the barrier of the second attention remained unchanged. Every time I entered into dreaming, I also entered into the second attention, and waking up from dreaming did not necessarily mean I had left the second attention.

For years I could remember only bits of my dreaming experiences. The bulk of what I did was energetically unavailable to me.

It took me fifteen years of uninterrupted work, from 1973 to 1988, to store enough energy to rearrange everything linearly in my mind. I remembered then sequences upon sequences of dreaming events, and I was able to fill in, at last, some seeming lapses of memory. In this manner I captured the inherent continuity of don Juan's lessons in the art of dreaming; a continuity that had been lost to me because of his making me weave between the awareness of our everyday life and the awareness of the second attention. This work is a result of that rearrangement.

All this brings me to the final part of my statement: the reason for writing this book.

Being in possession of most of the pieces of don Juan's lessons in the art of dreaming, I would like to explain in a future work the current position and interest of his last four students: Florinda Grau, Taisha Abelar, Carol Tiggs, and myself.

But before I describe and explain the results of don Juan's guidance and influence on us four, I must review, in light of what I know now, the parts of don Juan's lessons in dreaming to which I did not have access before.

The definitive reason for this work, however, was given by Carol Tiggs. Her belief is that explaining the world that don Juan made us inherit is the ultimate expression of our gratitude to him and our commitment to his quest.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 01 - Sorcerers of Antiquity; An Introduction.

Version 2006.05.17


The Wheel of Time ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 01. Sorcerers of Antiquity; An Introduction.

Very early in our relationship, Don Juan stressed, time and time again, that everything he was teaching me had been envisioned and worked out by men he referred to as sorcerers of antiquity. He made it very clear that there was a profound distinction between those sorcerers and the sorcerers of modern times.

He categorized sorcerers of antiquity as men who existed in Mexico perhaps thousands of years before the Spanish Conquest; men whose greatest accomplishment had been to build the structures of sorcery, emphasizing practicality and concreteness. He rendered them as men who were brilliant but lacking in wisdom.

Modern sorcerers, by contrast, don Juan portrayed as men renowned for their sound minds and their capacity to rectify the course of sorcery if they deemed it necessary.

Don Juan explained to me that the sorcery premises pertinent to dreaming were naturally envisioned and developed by sorcerers of antiquity. Out of necessity, for those premises are key in explaining and understanding dreaming, I again have to write about and discuss them. The major part of this book is, therefore, a reintroduction and amplification of what I have presented in my previous works.


During one of our conversations, don Juan stated that in order to appreciate the position of dreamers and dreaming, one has to understand the struggle of modern-day sorcerers to steer sorcery away from concreteness toward the abstract.

"What do you call concreteness, don Juan?" I asked.

"The practical part of sorcery," he said. "The obsessive fixation of the mind on practices and techniques, and the unwarranted influence over people. All of these were in the realm of the sorcerers of the past."

"And what do you call the abstract?"

"The search for freedom; freedom to perceive, without obsessions, all that's humanly possible. I say that present-day sorcerers seek the abstract because they seek freedom. They have no interest in concrete gains. There are no social functions for them as there were for the sorcerers of the past. So you'll never catch them being the official seers, or the sorcerers in residence."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the past has no value to modern-day sorcerers?"

"It certainly has value. It's the taste of that past which we don't like. I personally detest the darkness and morbidity of the mind. I like the immensity of thought. However, regardless of my likes and dislikes, I have to give due credit to the sorcerers of antiquity, for they were the first to find out and do everything we know and do today.

Don Juan explained that sorcerers of antiquity's most important attainment was to perceive the energetic essence of things. This insight was of such importance that it was turned into the basic premise of sorcery. Nowadays, after lifelong discipline and training, sorcerers do acquire the capacity to perceive the essence of things; a capacity they call seeing.

"What would it mean to me to perceive the energetic essence of things?" I once asked don Juan.

"It would mean that you perceive energy directly," he replied. "By separating the social part of perception, you'll perceive the essence of everything. Whatever we are perceiving is energy, but since we can't directly perceive energy, we process our perception to fit a mold. This mold is the social part of perception, which you have to separate."

"Why do I have to separate it?"

"Because it deliberately reduces the scope of what can be perceived and makes us believe that the mold into which we fit our perception is all that exists. I am convinced that for man to survive now, his perception must change at its social base."

"What is this social base of perception, don Juan?"

"The physical certainty that the world is made of concrete objects. I call this a social base because a serious and fierce effort is put out by everybody to guide us to perceive the world the way we do."

"How then should we perceive the world?"

"Everything is energy. The whole universe is energy. The social base of our perception should be the physical certainty that energy is all there is. A mighty effort should be made to guide us to perceive energy as energy. Then we would have both alternatives at our fingertips."

"Is it possible to train people in such a fashion?" I asked.

Don Juan replied that it was possible and that this was precisely what he was doing with me and his other apprentices. He was teaching us a new way of perceiving; first, by making us realize we process our perception to fit a mold; and second, by fiercely guiding us to perceive energy directly. He assured me that this method was very much like the one used to teach us to perceive the world of daily affairs.

Don Juan's conception was that our entrapment in processing our perception to fit a social mold loses its power when we realize we have accepted this mold as an inheritance from our ancestors without bothering to examine it.

"To perceive a world of hard objects that had either a positive or a negative value must have been utterly necessary for our ancestors' survival," don Juan said. "After ages of perceiving in such a manner, we are now forced to believe that the world is made up of objects."

"I can't conceive the world in any other way, don Juan," I complained. "It is unquestionably a world of objects. To prove it, all we have to do is bump into them."

"Of course it's a world of objects. We are not arguing that."

"What are you saying then?"

"I am saying that this is first a world of energy; then it's a world of objects. If we don't start with the premise that it is a world of energy, we'll never be able to perceive energy directly. We'll always be stopped by the physical certainty of what you've just pointed out: the hardness of objects."

His argument was extremely mystifying to me. In those days, my mind would simply refuse to consider any way to understand the world except the one with which I was familiar. Don Juan's claims and the points he struggled to raise were outlandish propositions that I could not accept, but that I could not refuse either.

"Our way of perceiving is a predator's way," he said to me on one occasion. "A very efficient manner of appraising and classifying food and danger. But this is not the only way we are able to perceive. There is another mode; the one I am familiarizing you with; the act of perceiving the essence of everything- energy itself- directly.

"To perceive the essence of everything will make us understand, classify, and describe the world in entirely new, more exciting, and more sophisticated terms."

That was don Juan's claim.

The more sophisticated terms to which he was alluding were those he had been taught by his predecessors; terms that correspond to sorcery truths which have no rational foundation and no relation whatsoever to the facts of our daily world; but which are self-evident truths for the sorcerers who perceive energy directly and see the essence of everything.

For such sorcerers, the most significant act of sorcery is to see the essence of the universe. Don Juan's version was that the sorcerers of antiquity- the first ones to see the essence of the universe- described it in the best manner. They said that the essence of the universe resembles incandescent threads stretched into infinity in every conceivable direction; luminous filaments that are conscious of themselves in ways impossible for the human mind to comprehend.

From seeing the essence of the universe, the sorcerers of antiquity went on to see the energy essence of human beings. Don Juan stated that they depicted human beings as bright shapes that resembled giant eggs and called them luminous eggs.

"When sorcerers see a human being," don Juan said, "they see a giant, luminous shape that floats, making, as it moves, a deep furrow in the energy of the earth, just as if the luminous shape had a taproot that was dragging."

Don Juan had the impression that our energy shape keeps on changing through time. He said that every seer he knew, himself included, saw that human beings are shaped more like balls or even tombstones than eggs. But, once in a while, and for no reason known to them, sorcerers see a person whose energy is shaped like an egg. Don Juan suggested that people who are egglike in shape today are more akin to people of ancient times.

In the course of his teachings, don Juan repeatedly discussed and explained what he considered the decisive finding of the sorcerers of antiquity. He called it the crucial feature of human beings as luminous balls; a round spot of intense brilliance, the size of a tennis ball, permanently lodged inside the luminous ball, flush with its surface, about two feet back from the crest of a person's right shoulder blade.

Since I had trouble visualizing this the first time don Juan described it to me, he explained that the luminous ball is much larger than the human body, that the spot of intense brilliance is part of this ball of energy, and that it is located on a place at the height of the shoulder blades, an arm's length from a person's back. He said that the old sorcerers named it the assemblage point after seeing what it does.

"What does the assemblage point do?" I asked.

"It makes us perceive," he replied. "The old sorcerers saw that in human beings perception is assembled there, on that point. Seeing that all living beings also have a point of brilliance, the old sorcerers surmised that perception in general must take place on that spot, in whatever pertinent manner."

"What did the old sorcerers see that made them conclude that perception takes place on the assemblage point?" I asked.

He answered that, first, they saw that out of the millions of the universe's luminous energy filaments passing through the entire luminous ball, only a small number pass directly through the assemblage point, as should be expected since it is small in comparison with the whole.

Next, they saw that a spherical extra glow, slightly bigger than the assemblage point, always surrounds it, greatly intensifying the luminosity of the filaments passing directly through that glow.

Finally, they saw two things. One, that the assemblage points of human beings can dislodge themselves from the spot where they are usually located.

And, two, that when the assemblage point is on its habitual position, perception and awareness seem to be normal, judging by the normal behavior of the subjects being observed. But when their assemblage points and surrounding glowing spheres are on a different position than the habitual one, their unusual behavior seems to be the proof that their awareness is different; that they are perceiving in an unfamiliar manner.

The conclusion the old sorcerers drew from all this was that the greater the displacement of the assemblage point from its customary position, the more unusual the consequent behavior and, evidently, the consequent awareness and perception.

"Notice that when I talk about seeing, I always say "having the appearance of" or "seemed like," don Juan warned me. "Everything one sees is so unique that there is no way to talk about it except by comparing it to something known to us."

He said that the most adequate example of this difficulty was the way sorcerers talk about the assemblage point and the glow that surrounds it. They describe them as brightness, yet it cannot be brightness, because seers see them without their eyes. They have to fill out the difference, however, and say that the assemblage point is a spot of light and that around it there is a halo; a glow. Don Juan pointed out that we are so visual, so ruled by our predator's perception, that everything we see must be rendered in terms of what the predator's eye normally sees.

After seeing what the assemblage point and its surrounding glow seemed to be doing, don Juan said that the old sorcerers advanced an explanation. They proposed that in human beings the assemblage point, by focusing its glowing sphere on the universe's filaments of energy that pass directly through it, automatically and without premeditation assembles those filaments into a steady perception of the world.

"How are those filaments you talk about assembled into a steady perception of the world?" I asked.

"No one can possibly know that," he emphatically replied. "Sorcerers see the movement of energy, but just seeing the movement of energy cannot tell them how or why energy moves."

Don Juan stated that, seeing that millions of conscious energy filaments pass through the assemblage point, the old sorcerers postulated that in passing through it they come together, amassed by the glow that surrounds it. After seeing that the glow is extremely dim in people who have been rendered unconscious or are about to die, and that it is totally absent from corpses, they were convinced that this glow is awareness.

"How about the assemblage point? Is it absent from a corpse?" I asked.

He answered that there is no trace of an assemblage point on a dead being, because the assemblage point and its surrounding glow are the mark of life and consciousness. The inescapable conclusion of the sorcerers of antiquity was that awareness and perception go together and are tied to the assemblage point and the glow that surrounds it.

"Is there a chance that those sorcerers might have been mistaken about their seeing?" I asked.

"I can't explain to you why, but there is no way sorcerers can be mistaken about their seeing," don Juan said, in a tone that admitted no argument. "Now, the conclusions they arrive at from their seeing might be wrong, but that would be because they are naive; uncultivated. In order to avoid this disaster, sorcerers have to cultivate their minds, in whatever form they can."

He softened up then and remarked that it certainly would be infinitely safer for sorcerers to remain solely at the level of describing what they see, but that the temptation to conclude and explain, even if only to oneself, is far too great to resist.

The effect of the assemblage point's displacement was another energy configuration the sorcerers of antiquity were able to see and study. Don Juan said that when the assemblage point is displaced to another position, a new conglomerate of millions of luminous energy filaments come together on that point. The sorcerers of antiquity saw this and concluded that since the glow of awareness is always present wherever the assemblage point is, perception is automatically assembled there. Because of the different position of the assemblage point, the resulting world, however, cannot be our world of daily affairs.

Don Juan explained that the old sorcerers were capable of distinguishing two types of assemblage point displacement.

One was a displacement to any position on the surface or in the interior of the luminous ball; this displacement they called a shift of the assemblage point.

The other was a displacement to a position outside the luminous ball; they called this displacement a movement of the assemblage point. They found out that the difference between a shift and a movement was the nature of the perception each allows.

Since the shifts of the assemblage point are displacements within the luminous ball, the worlds engendered by them, no matter how bizarre or wondrous or unbelievable they might be, are still worlds within the human domain. The human domain is the energy filaments that pass through the entire luminous ball.

By contrast, movements of the assemblage point, since they are displacements to positions outside the luminous ball, engage filaments of energy that are beyond the human realm. Perceiving such filaments engenders worlds that are beyond comprehension, inconceivable worlds with no trace of human antecedents in them.

The problem of validation always played a key role in my mind in those days. "Forgive me, don Juan," I said to him on one occasion, "but this business of the assemblage point is an idea so farfetched, so inadmissible that I don't know how to deal with it or what to think of it."

"There is only one thing for you to do," he retorted. "See the assemblage point! It isn't that difficult to see. The difficulty is in breaking the retaining wall we all have in our minds that holds us in place. To break it, all we need is energy. Once we have energy, seeing happens to us by itself. The trick is in abandoning our fort of self-complacency and false security."

"It is obvious to me, don Juan, that it takes a lot of knowledge to see. It isn't just a matter of having energy."

"It is just a matter of having energy, believe me. The hard part is convincing yourself that it can be done. For this, you need to trust the nagual. The marvel of sorcery is that every sorcerer has to prove everything with his own experience. I am telling you about the principles of sorcery, not with the hope that you will memorize them, but with the hope that you will practice them."

Don Juan was certainly right about the need for trusting. In the beginning stages of my thirteen-year apprenticeship with him, the hardest thing for me was to affiliate myself with his world and his person. This affiliating meant that I had to learn to trust him implicitly and accept him without bias as the nagual.

Don Juan's total role in the sorcerers' world was synthesized in the title accorded to him by his peers. He was called the nagual. It was explained to me that this concept refers to any person, male or female, who possesses a specific kind of energy configuration which to a seer appears as a double luminous ball. Seers believe that when one of these people enters into the sorcerers' world, that extra load of energy is turned into a measure of strength and the capacity for leadership. Thus, the nagual is the natural guide; the leader of a party of sorcerers.

At first, to feel such a trust for don Juan was quite disturbing to me, if not altogether odious. When I discussed it with him, he assured me that to trust his teacher in such a manner had been just as difficult for him.

"I told my teacher the same thing you are saying to me now," don Juan said. "He replied that without trusting the nagual there is no possibility of relief, and thus no possibility of clearing the debris from our lives in order to be free."

Don Juan reiterated how right his teacher had been. And I reiterated my profound disagreement. I told him that my being reared in a stifling religious environment had had dreadful effects on me, and that his teacher's statements and his own acquiescence to his teacher reminded me of the obedience dogma that I had to learn as a child, and that I abhorred.

"It sounds like you're voicing a religious belief when you talk about the nagual," I said.

"You may believe whatever you want," don Juan replied undauntedly. "The fact remains, there is no game without the nagual. I know this and I say so. And so did all the naguals who preceded me. But they didn't say it from the standpoint of self-importance, and neither do I.

"To say there is no path without the nagual is to refer totally to the fact that the man, the nagual, is a nagual because he can reflect the abstract, the spirit, better than others. But that's all. Our link is with the spirit itself and only incidentally with the man who brings us its message."

I did learn to trust don Juan implicitly as the nagual, and this, as he had stated it, brought me an immense sense of relief and a greater capacity to accept what he was striving to teach me.

In his teachings, he put a great emphasis on explaining and discussing the assemblage point. I asked him once if the assemblage point had anything to do with the physical body.

"It has nothing to do with what we normally perceive as the body," he said. "It's part of the luminous egg, which is our energy self."

"How is it displaced?" I asked.

"Through energy currents. Jolts of energy, originating outside or inside our energy shape. These are usually unpredictable currents that happen randomly, but with sorcerers they are very predictable currents that obey the sorcerer's intent."

"Can you yourself feel these currents?"

"Every sorcerer feels them. Every human being does, for that matter, but average human beings are too busy with their own pursuits to pay any attention to feelings like that."

"What do those currents feel like?"

"Like a mild discomfort, a vague sensation of sadness followed immediately by euphoria. Since neither the sadness nor the euphoria has an explainable cause, we never regard them as veritable onslaughts of the unknown but as unexplainable, ill-founded moodiness."

"What happens when the assemblage point moves outside the energy shape? Does it hang outside? Or is it attached to the luminous ball?"

"It pushes the contours of the energy shape out, without breaking its energy boundaries."

Don Juan explained that the end result of a movement of the assemblage point is a total change in the energy shape of a human being. Instead of a ball or an egg, he becomes something resembling a smoking pipe. The tip of the stem is the assemblage point, and the bowl of the pipe is what remains of the luminous ball. If the assemblage point keeps on moving, a moment comes when the luminous ball becomes a thin line of energy.

Don Juan went on to explain that the old sorcerers were the only ones who accomplished this feat of energy shape transformation.

I asked him whether in their new energetic shape those sorcerers were still men.

"Of course they were still men," he said. "But I think what you want to know is if they were still men of reason, trustworthy persons. Well, not quite."

"In what way were they different?"

"In their concerns. Human endeavors and preoccupations had no meaning whatsoever to them. They also had a definite new appearance."

"Do you mean that they didn't look like men?"

"It's very hard to tell what was what about those sorcerers. They certainly looked like men. What else would they look like? But they were not quite like what you or I would expect. Yet if you pressed me to tell in what way they were different, I would go in circles, like a dog chasing its tail."

"Have you ever met one of those men, don Juan?"

"Yes, I have met one."

"What did he look like?"

"As far as looks, he looked like a regular person. Now, it was his behavior that was unusual."

"In what way was it unusual?"

"All I can tell you is that the behavior of the sorcerer I met is something that defies the imagination. But to make it a matter of merely behavior is misleading. It is really something you must see to appreciate."

"Were all those sorcerers like the one you met?"

"Certainly not. I don't know how the others were, except through sorcerers' stories handed down from generation to generation. And those stories portray them as being quite bizarre."

"Do you mean monstrous?"

"Not at all. They say that they were very likable but extremely scary. They were more like unknown creatures. What makes mankind homogeneous is the fact that we are all luminous balls. And those sorcerers were no longer balls of energy but lines of energy that were trying to bend themselves into circles, which they couldn't quite make."

"What finally happened to them, don Juan? Did they die?"

"Sorcerers' stories say that because they had succeeded in stretching their shapes, they had also succeeded in stretching the duration of their consciousness. So they are alive and conscious to this day. There are stories about their periodic appearances on the earth."

"What do you think of all this yourself, don Juan?"

"It is too bizarre for me. I want freedom. Freedom to retain my awareness and yet disappear into the vastness. In my personal opinion, those old sorcerers were extravagant, obsessive, capricious men who got pinned down by their own machinations.

"But don't let my personal feelings sway you. The old sorcerers' accomplishment is unparalleled. If nothing else, they proved to us that man's potentials are nothing to sneeze at."


Another topic of don Juan's explanations was the indispensability of energetic uniformity and cohesion for the purpose of perceiving. His contention was that mankind perceives the world we know, in the terms we do, only because we share energetic uniformity and cohesion.

He said that we automatically attain these two conditions of energy in the course of our rearing and that they are so taken for granted we do not realize their vital importance until we are faced with the possibility of perceiving worlds other than the world we know. At those moments, it becomes evident that we need a new appropriate energetic uniformity and cohesion to perceive coherently and totally.

I asked him what uniformity and cohesion were, and he explained that man's energetic shape has uniformity in the sense that every human being on earth has the form of a ball or an egg. And the fact that man's energy holds itself together as a ball or an egg proves it has cohesion.

He said that an example of a new uniformity and cohesion was the old sorcerers' energetic shape when it became a line: every one of them uniformly became a line and cohesively remained a line. Uniformity and cohesion at a line level permitted those old sorcerers to perceive a homogeneous new world.

"How are uniformity and cohesion acquired?" I asked.

"The key is the position of the assemblage point, or rather the fixation of the assemblage point," he said.

He did not want to elaborate any further at that time, so I asked him if those old sorcerers could have reverted to being egglike. He replied that at one point they could have, but that they did not. And then the line cohesion set in and made it impossible for them to go back.

He believed that what really crystallized that line cohesion and prevented them from making the journey back was a matter of choice and greed. The scope of what those sorcerers were able to perceive and do as lines of energy was astronomically greater than what an average man or any average sorcerer can do or perceive.

He explained that the human domain when one is an energy ball is whatever energy filaments pass through the space within the ball's boundaries. Normally, we perceive not all the human domain but perhaps only one thousandth of it.

He was of the opinion that, if we take this into consideration, the enormity of what the old sorcerers did becomes apparent. They extended themselves into a line a thousand times the size of a man as an energy ball and perceived all the energy filaments that passed through that line.

On his insistence, I made giant efforts to understand the new model of energy configuration he was outlining for me. Finally, after much pounding, I could follow the idea of energy filaments inside the luminous ball and outside it. But if I thought of a multitude of luminous balls, the model broke down in my mind. In a multitude of luminous balls, I reasoned, the energy filaments that are outside one of them will perforce be inside the adjacent one. So in a multitude there could not possibly be any energy filaments outside any luminous ball.

"To understand all this certainly isn't an exercise for your reason," he replied after carefully listening to my arguments. "I have no way of explaining what sorcerers mean by filaments inside and outside the human shape. When seers see the human energy shape, they see one single ball of energy. If there is another ball next to it, the other ball is seen again as a single ball of energy.

"The idea of a multitude of luminous balls comes from your knowledge of human crowds. In the universe of energy, there are only single individuals, alone, surrounded by the boundless.

"You must see that for yourself!"


I argued with don Juan then that it was pointless to tell me to see it for myself when he knew I could not. And he proposed that I borrow his energy and use it to see.

"How can I do that? Borrow your energy."

"Very simple. I can make your assemblage point shift to another position more suitable to perceiving energy directly."

This was the first time, in my memory, that he deliberately talked about something he had been doing all along: making me enter into some incomprehensible state of awareness that defied my idea of the world and of myself, a state he called the second attention.

So, to make my assemblage point shift to a position more suitable to perceiving energy directly, don Juan slapped my back, between my shoulder blades, with such a force that he made me lose my breath. I thought that I must have fainted or that the blow had made me fall asleep. Suddenly, I was looking or I was dreaming I was looking at something literally beyond words. Bright strings of light shot out from everywhere, going everywhere, strings of light which were like nothing that had ever entered my thoughts.

When I recovered my breath, or when I woke up, don Juan expectantly asked me, "What did you see?" And when I answered, truthfully, "Your blow made me see stars," he doubled up laughing.

He remarked that I was not ready yet to comprehend any unusual perception I might have had.

"I made your assemblage point shift," he went on, "and for an instant you were dreaming the filaments of the universe. But you don't yet have the discipline or the energy to rearrange your uniformity and cohesion. The old sorcerers were the consummate masters of that rearranging. That was how they saw everything that can be seen by man."

"What does it mean to rearrange uniformity and cohesion?"

"It means to enter into the second attention by retaining the assemblage point on its new position and keeping it from sliding back to its original spot."

Don Juan then gave me a traditional definition of the second attention. He said that the old sorcerers called the result of fixing the assemblage point on new positions the second attention and that they treated the second attention as an area of all-inclusive activity, just as the attention of the daily world is.

He pointed out that sorcerers really have two complete areas for their endeavors: a small one, called the first attention or the awareness of our daily world or the fixation of the assemblage point on its habitual position; and a much larger area, the second attention or the awareness of other worlds or the fixation of the assemblage point on each of an enormous number of new positions.

Don Juan helped me to experience inexplicable things in the second attention by means of what he called a sorcerer's maneuver: tapping my back gently or forcefully striking it at the height of my shoulder blades. He explained that with his blows he displaced my assemblage point.

From my experiential position, such displacements meant that my awareness used to enter into a most disturbing state of unequaled clarity, a state of super consciousness, which I enjoyed for short periods of time and in which I could understand anything with minimal preambles. It was not quite a pleasing state. Most of the time it was like a strange dream, so intense that normal awareness paled by comparison.

Don Juan justified the indispensability of such a maneuver, saying that in normal awareness a sorcerer teaches his apprentices basic concepts and procedures and in the second attention he gives them abstract and detailed explanations.

Ordinarily, apprentices do not remember these explanations at all, yet they somehow store them, faithfully intact, in their memories. Sorcerers have used this seeming peculiarity of memory and have turned remembering everything that happens to them in the second attention into one of the most difficult and complex traditional tasks of sorcery.

Sorcerers explain this seeming peculiarity of memory, and the task of remembering, saying that every time anyone enters into the second attention, the assemblage point is on a different position. To remember, then, means to relocate the assemblage point on the exact position it occupied at the time those entrances into the second attention occurred.

Don Juan assured me not only that sorcerers have total and absolute recall but that they relive every experience they had in the second attention by this act of returning their assemblage point to each of those specific positions. He also assured me that sorcerers dedicate a lifetime to fulfilling this task of remembering.

In the second attention, don Juan gave me very detailed explanations of sorcery knowing that the accuracy and fidelity of such instruction will remain with me, faithfully intact, for the duration of my life.

About this quality of faithfulness he said, "Learning something in the second attention is just like learning when we were children. What we learn remains with us for life. "It's second nature with me," we say when it comes to something we've learned very early in life."


Judging from where I stand today, I realize that don Juan made me enter, as many times as he could, into the second attention in order to force me to sustain, for long periods of time, new positions of my assemblage point and to perceive coherently in them. That is to say, he aimed at forcing me to rearrange my uniformity and cohesion.

I succeeded countless times in perceiving everything as precisely as I perceive in the daily world. My problem was my incapacity to make a bridge between my actions in the second attention and my awareness of the daily world. It took a great deal of effort and time for me to understand what the second attention is. Not so much because of its intricacy and complexity, which are indeed extreme, but because, once I was back in my normal awareness, I found it impossible to remember not only that I had entered into the second attention but that such a state existed at all.


Another monumental breakthrough that the old sorcerers claimed, and that don Juan carefully explained to me, was to find out that the assemblage point becomes very easily displaced during sleep.

This realization triggered another one: that dreams are totally associated with that displacement. The old sorcerers saw that the greater the displacement, the more unusual the dream. Or vice versa: the more unusual the dream, the greater the displacement.

Don Juan said that this observation led them to devise extravagant techniques to force the displacement of the assemblage point, such as ingesting plants that can produce altered states of consciousness; subjecting themselves to states of hunger, fatigue, and stress; and especially controlling dreams. In this fashion, and perhaps without even knowing it, they created dreaming.

One day, as we strolled around the plaza in the city of Oaxaca, don Juan gave me the most coherent definition of dreaming from a sorcerer's standpoint.

"Sorcerers view dreaming as an extremely sophisticated art," he said, "the art of displacing the assemblage point at will from its habitual position in order to enhance and enlarge the scope of what can be perceived."

He said that the old sorcerers anchored the art of dreaming on five conditions they saw in the energy flow of human beings.

One, they saw that only the energy filaments that pass directly through the assemblage point can be assembled into coherent perception.

Two, they saw that if the assemblage point is displaced to another position, no matter how minute the displacement, different and unaccustomed energy filaments begin to pass through it; engaging awareness and forcing the assembling of these unaccustomed energy fields into a steady, coherent perception.

Three, they saw that, in the course of ordinary dreams, the assemblage point becomes easily displaced by itself to another position on the surface or in the interior of the luminous egg.

Four, they saw that the assemblage point can be made to move to positions outside the luminous egg, into the energy filaments of the universe at large.

And, five, they saw that through discipline it is possible to cultivate and perform, in the course of sleep and ordinary dreams, a systematic displacement of the assemblage point.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 02. The First Gate of Dreaming.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 02. The First Gate of Dreaming.

As a preamble to his first lesson in dreaming, don Juan talked about the second attention as a progression: beginning as an idea that comes to us more like a curiosity than an actual possibility; turning into something that can only be felt, as a sensation is felt; and finally evolving into a state of being, or a realm of practicalities, or a preeminent force that opens for us worlds beyond our wildest fantasies.

When explaining sorcery, sorcerers have two options. One is to speak in metaphorical terms and talk about a world of magical dimensions. The other is to explain their business in abstract terms proper to sorcery. I have always preferred the latter, although neither option will ever satisfy the rational mind of a Western man.

Don Juan told me that what he meant by his 'metaphorical description of the second attention as a progression' was that, being a by-product of a displacement of the assemblage point, the second attention does not happen naturally but must be intended; beginning with intending it as an idea and ending up with intending it as a steady and controlled awareness of the assemblage point's displacement.

"I am going to teach you the first step to power," don Juan said, beginning his instruction in the art of dreaming. "I'm going to teach you how to set up dreaming."

"What does it mean to set up dreaming?"

"To set up dreaming means to have a precise and practical command over the general situation of a dream. For example, you may dream that you are in your classroom. To set up dreaming means that you don't let the dream slip into something else. You don't jump from the classroom to the mountains, for instance. In other words, you control the view of the classroom and don't let it go until you want to."

"But is it possible to do that?"

"Of course it's possible. This control is no different from the control we have over any situation in our daily lives. Sorcerers are used to it, and get it every time they want or need to. In order to get used to it yourself, you must start by doing something very simple. Tonight, in your dreams, you must look at your hands."

Not much more was said about this in the awareness of our daily world. In my recollection of my experiences in the second attention, however, I found out that we had a more extensive exchange. For instance, I expressed my feelings about the absurdity of the task, and don Juan suggested that I should face it in terms of a quest that was entertaining, instead of solemn and morbid.

"Get as heavy as you want when we talk about dreaming," he said. "Explanations always call for deep thought. But when you actually dream, be as light as a feather. Dreaming has to be performed with integrity and seriousness, but in the midst of laughter and with the confidence of someone who doesn't have a worry in the world. Only under these conditions can our dreams actually be turned into dreaming."

Don Juan assured me that he had selected my hands arbitrarily as something to look for in my dreams and that looking for anything else was just as valid. The goal of the exercise was not finding a specific thing but engaging my dreaming attention.

Don Juan described the dreaming attention as the control one acquires over one's dreams upon fixating the assemblage point on any new position to which it has been displaced during dreams. In more general terms, he called the dreaming attention an incomprehensible facet of awareness that exists by itself waiting for a moment when we would entice it; a moment when we would give it purpose. It is a veiled faculty that every one of us has in reserve but that we never have the opportunity to use in everyday life.

My first attempts at looking for my hands in my dreams were a fiasco. After months of unsuccessful efforts, I gave up and complained to don Juan again about the absurdity of such a task.

"There are seven gates," he said as a way of answering, "and dreamers have to open all seven of them; one at the time. You're up against the first gate that must be opened if you are to dream."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"It would've been useless to tell you about the gates of dreaming before you smacked your head against the first one. Now you know that it is an obstacle and that you have to overcome it."

Don Juan explained that there are entrances and exits in the energy flow of the universe and that, in the specific case of dreaming, there are seven entrances experienced as obstacles; which sorcerers call the seven gates of dreaming.

"The first gate is a threshold we must cross by becoming aware of a particular sensation before deep sleep," he said. "A sensation which is like a pleasant heaviness that doesn't let us open our eyes. We reach that gate the instant we become aware that we're falling asleep; suspended in darkness and heaviness."

"How do I become aware that I am falling asleep? Are there any steps to follow?"

"No. There are no steps to follow. One just intends to become aware of falling asleep."

"But how does one intend to become aware of it?"

"Intent or intending is something very difficult to talk about. I or anyone else would sound idiotic trying to explain it. Bear that in mind when you hear what I have to say next: Sorcerers intend anything they set themselves to intend, simply by intending it."

"That doesn't mean anything, don Juan."

"Pay close attention. Someday it'll be your turn to explain. The statement seems nonsensical because you are not putting it in the proper context. Like any rational man, you think that understanding is exclusively the realm of our reason; of our mind.

"For sorcerers, because the statement I made pertains to intent and intending, understanding it pertains to the realm of energy. Sorcerers believe that if one would intend that statement for the energy body, the energy body would understand it in terms entirely different from those of the mind. The trick is to reach the energy body. For that you need energy."

"In what terms would the energy body understand that statement, don Juan?"

"In terms of a bodily feeling which is hard to describe. You'll have to experience it to know what I mean."

I wanted a more precise explanation, but don Juan slapped my back and made me enter into the second attention. At that time, what he did was still utterly mysterious to me. I could have sworn that his touch hypnotized me.

I believed he had instantaneously put me to sleep, and I dreamt that I found myself walking with him on a wide avenue lined with trees in some unknown city. It was such a vivid dream, and I was so aware of everything that I immediately tried to orient myself by reading signs and looking at people. It definitely was not any English- or Spanish-speaking city, but it was a Western city. The people seemed to be northern Europeans, perhaps Lithuanians. I became absorbed in trying to read billboards and street signs.

Don Juan nudged me gently. "Don't bother with that," he said. "We are nowhere identifiable. I've just lent you my energy so you would reach your energy body, and with it you've just crossed into another world. This won't last long, so use your time wisely.

"Look at everything, but without being obvious. Don't let anyone notice you."

We walked in silence. It was a block-long walk which had a remarkable effect on me. The more we walked, the greater my sensation of visceral anxiety. My mind was curious, but my body was alarmed. I had the clearest understanding that I was not in this world.

When we got to an intersection and stopped walking, I saw that the trees on the street had been carefully trimmed. They were short trees with hard-looking, curled leaves. Each tree had a big square space for watering. There were no weeds or trash in those spaces, as one would find around trees in the city, only charcoal black, loose dirt.

The moment I focused my eyes on the curb, before I stepped off it to cross the street, I noticed that there were no cars. I tried desperately to watch the people who milled around us; to discover something about them that would explain my anxiety. As I stared at them, they stared back at me. In one instant a circle of hard blue and brown eyes had formed around us.

A certainty hit me like a blow: This was not a dream at all. We were in a reality beyond what I know to be real. I turned to face don Juan. I was about to realize what was different about those people, but a strange dry wind that went directly to my sinuses hit my face, blurred my view, and made me forget what I wanted to tell don Juan.

The next instant, I was back where I had started from: don Juan's house. I was lying on a straw mat, curled up on my side.

"I lent you my energy, and you reached your energy body," don Juan said matter-of-factly.

I heard him talk, but I was numb. An unusual itching on my solar plexus kept my breaths short and painful. I knew that I had been on the verge of finding something transcendental about dreaming and about the people I had seen, yet I could not bring whatever I knew into focus.

"Where were we, don Juan?" I asked. "Was it all a dream? A hypnotic state?"

"It wasn't a dream," he replied. "It was dreaming. I helped you reach the second attention so that you would understand intending as a subject not for your reason but for your energy body.

"At this point, you can't yet comprehend the importance of all this; not only because you don't have sufficient energy, but because you're not intending anything. If you were, your energy body would comprehend immediately that the only way to intend is by focusing your intent on whatever you want to intend. This time I focused it for you on reaching your energy body."

"Is the goal of dreaming to intend the energy body?" I asked, suddenly empowered by some strange reasoning.

"One can certainly put it that way," he said. "In this particular instance, since we're talking about the first gate of dreaming, the goal of dreaming is to intend that your energy body becomes aware that you are falling asleep. Don't try to force yourself to be aware of falling asleep. Let your energy body do it. To intend is to wish without wishing, to do without doing.

"Accept the challenge of intending," he went on. "Put your silent determination without a single thought into convincing yourself that you have reached your energy body, and that you are a dreamer. Doing this will automatically put you in the position to be aware that you are falling asleep."

"How can I convince myself that I am a dreamer when I am not?"

"When you hear that you have to convince yourself, you automatically become more rational. How can you convince yourself you are a dreamer when you know you are not? Intending is both: the act of convincing yourself you are indeed a dreamer, although you have never dreamt before; and the act of being convinced."

"Do you mean I have to tell myself I am a dreamer and try my best to believe it? Is that it?"

"No, it isn't. Intending is much simpler and, at the same time, infinitely more complex than that. It requires imagination, discipline, and purpose. In this case, to intend means that you get an unquestionable bodily knowledge that you are a dreamer. You feel you are a dreamer with all the cells of your body."

Don Juan added in a joking tone that he did not have sufficient energy to make me another loan for intending, and that the thing I should do was reach my energy body on my own. He assured me that intending the first gate of dreaming was one of the means discovered by the sorcerers of antiquity for reaching the second attention and the energy body.

After telling me this, he practically threw me out of his house; commanding me not to come back until I had intended the first gate of dreaming.

I returned home, and every night for months I went to sleep intending with all my might to become aware that I was falling asleep and to see my hands in my dreams. The other part of the task, to convince myself that I was a dreamer and that I had reached my energy body, was totally impossible for me.

Then, one afternoon while taking a nap, I dreamt I was looking at my hands. The shock was enough to wake me up. It proved to be a unique dream that could not be repeated. Weeks went by, and I was unable either to become aware that I was falling asleep or to find my hands. I began to notice, however, that I was having in my dreams a vague feeling that there was something I should have been doing but could not remember. This feeling became so strong that it kept on waking me up at all hours of the night.

When I told don Juan about my futile attempts to cross the first gate of dreaming, he gave me some guidelines.

"To ask a dreamer to find a determined item in his dreams is a subterfuge," he said. "The real issue is to become aware that one is falling asleep. And, strange as it may seem, that doesn't happen by commanding oneself to be aware that one is falling asleep, but by sustaining the sight of whatever one is looking at in a dream."

He told me that dreamers take quick, deliberate glances at everything present in a dream. If they focus their dreaming attention on something specific, it is only as a point of departure. From there, dreamers move on to look at other items in the dream's content; returning to the point of departure as many times as possible.

After a great effort, I indeed found hands in my dreams, but they never were mine. They were hands that only seemed to belong to me, hands that changed shape, becoming quite nightmarish at times. The rest of my dreams' content, nonetheless, was always pleasantly steady. I could almost sustain the view of anything I focused my attention on.

It went on like this for months until one day when my capacity to dream changed seemingly by itself. I had done nothing special besides my constant earnest determination to be aware that I was falling asleep and to find my hands.

I dreamt I was visiting my hometown. Not that the town I was dreaming about looked at all like my hometown, but somehow I had the conviction that it was the place where I was born. It all began as an ordinary, yet very vivid dream. Then the light in the dream changed. Images became sharper. The street where I was walking became noticeably more real than a moment before. My feet began to hurt. I could feel that things were absurdly hard. For instance, on bumping into a door, not only did I experience pain on the knee that hit the door, but I was also enraged by my clumsiness.

I realistically walked in that town until I was completely exhausted. I saw everything I could have seen had I been a tourist walking through the streets of a city. There was no difference whatsoever between that dream walk and any walk I had actually taken on the streets of a city I visited for the first time.

"I think you went a bit too far," don Juan said after listening to my account. "All that was required was your awareness of falling asleep. What you've done is equivalent to bringing a wall down just to squash a mosquito sitting on it."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that I flubbed it?"

"No. But apparently you're trying to repeat something you did before. When I made your assemblage point shift, and you and I ended up in that mysterious city, you were not asleep. You were dreaming, but not asleep; meaning that your assemblage point didn't reach that position through a normal dream. I forced it to shift.

"You certainly can reach the same position through dreaming, but I wouldn't advise you to do that at this time."

"Is it dangerous?"

"And how! Dreaming has to be a very sober affair. No false movement can be afforded. Dreaming is a process of awakening, of gaining control. Our dreaming attention must be systematically exercised because it is a door to the second attention."

"What's the difference between the dreaming attention and the second attention?"

"The second attention is like an ocean, and the dreaming attention is like a river feeding into it. The second attention is the condition of being aware of total worlds, total like our world is total, while the dreaming attention is the condition of being aware of the items of our dreams."

He heavily stressed that the dreaming attention is the key to every movement in the sorcerers' world. He said that among the multitude of items in our dreams, there exist real energetic interferencesl; things that have been put in our dreams extraneously by an alien force. To be able to find them and follow them is sorcery.

The emphasis he put on those statements was so pronounced that I had to ask him to explain them. He hesitated for a moment before answering.

"Dreams are, if not a door, a hatch into other worlds," he began. "As such, dreams are a two-way street. Our awareness goes through that hatch into other realms, and those other realms send scouts into our dreams."

"What are those scouts?"

"Energy charges that get mixed with the items of our normal dreams. They are bursts of foreign energy that come into our dreams, and we interpret them as items familiar or unfamiliar to us."

"I am sorry, don Juan, but I can't make heads or tails out of your explanation."

"You can't because you're insisting on thinking about dreams in terms known to you; as what occurs to us during normal sleep.

"And I am insisting on giving you another version: a hatch into other realms of perception. Through that hatch, currents of unfamiliar energy seep in. Then the mind or the brain or whatever takes those currents of energy and turns them into parts of our dreams."

He paused, obviously to give my mind time to take in what he was telling me.

"Sorcerers are aware of those currents of foreign energy," he continued. "They notice them and strive to isolate them from the normal items of their dreams."

"Why do they isolate them, don Juan?"

"Because they come from other realms. If we follow them to their source, they serve us as guides into areas of such mystery that sorcerers shiver at the mere mention of such a possibility."

"How do sorcerers isolate them from the normal items of their dreams?"

"By the exercise and control of their dreaming attention. At one moment, our dreaming attention discovers them among the items of a dream and focuses on them. Then the total dream collapses; leaving only the foreign energy."

Don Juan refused to explain the topic any further. He went back to discussing my dreaming experience and said that, all in all, he had to take my dream as being my first genuine attempt at dreaming; and that this meant I had succeeded in reaching the first gate of dreaming.


During another discussion at a different time, he abruptly brought up the subject again. He said, "I'm going to repeat what you must do in your dreams in order to pass the first gate of dreaming.

"First you must focus your gaze on anything of your choice as the starting point. Then shift your gaze to other items and look at them in brief glances. Focus your gaze on as many things as you can. Remember that if you glance only briefly, the images don't shift. Then go back to the item you first looked at."

"What does it mean to pass the first gate of dreaming?"

"We reach the first gate of dreaming by becoming aware that we are falling asleep, or by having, like you did, a gigantically real dream. Once we reach the gate, we must cross it by being able to sustain the sight of any item of our dreams."

"I can almost look steadily at the items of my dreams, but they dissipate too quickly."

"This is precisely what I am trying to tell you. In order to offset the evanescent quality of dreams, sorcerers have devised the use of the starting point item.

"Every time you isolate it and look at it, you get a surge of energy, so at the beginning don't look at too many things in your dreams. Four items will suffice. Later on, you may enlarge the scope until you can cover all you want; but as soon as the images begin to shift and you feel you are losing control, go back to your starting point item and start all over again."

"Do you believe that I really reached the first gate of dreaming, don Juan?"

"You did, and that's a lot. You'll find out, as you go along, how easy it'll be to do dreaming now."

I thought don Juan was either exaggerating or giving me incentive. But he assured me he was being on the level.

"The most astounding thing that happens to dreamers," he said, "is that on reaching the first gate, they also reach the energy body."

"What exactly is the energy body?"

"It's the counterpart of the physical body. A ghostlike configuration made of pure energy."

"But isn't the physical body also made out of energy?"

"Of course it is. The difference is that the energy body has only appearance but no mass. Since it's pure energy, it can perform acts that are beyond the possibilities of the physical body."

"Such as what for example, don Juan?"

"Such as transporting itself in one instant to the ends of the universe. And dreaming is the art of tempering the energy body; of making it supple and coherent by gradually exercising it.

"Through dreaming, we condense the energy body until it's a unit capable of perceiving. Its perception, although affected by our normal way of perceiving the daily world, is an independent perception. It has its own sphere."

"What is that sphere, don Juan?"

"Energy. The energy body deals with energy in terms of energy. There are three ways in which it deals with energy in dreaming: it can perceive energy as it flows; or it can use energy to boost itself like a rocket into unexpected areas; or it can perceive as we ordinarily perceive the world."

"What does it mean to perceive energy as it flows?"

"It means to 'see'. It means that the energy body sees energy directly as a light; or as a vibrating current of sorts; or as a disturbance. Or it feels it directly as a jolt, or as a sensation that can even be pain."

"What about the other way you talked about, don Juan? The energy body using energy as a boost."

"Since energy is its sphere, it is no problem for the energy body to use currents of energy that exist in the universe to propel itself. All it has to do is isolate them, and off it goes with them."

He stopped talking and seemed to be undecided as if he wanted to add something, but was not sure about it. He smiled at me, and just as I was beginning to ask him a question, he continued his explanation.

"I've mentioned to you before that sorcerers isolate in their dreams scouts from other realms," he said. "Their energy bodies do that. They recognize energy and go for it. But it isn't desirable for dreamers to indulge in searching for scouts. I was reluctant to tell you about it because of the facility with which one can get swayed by that search."

Don Juan then quickly went on to another subject. He carefully outlined for me an entire block of practices. At the time, I found that on one level it was all incomprehensible to me. Yet on another level it was perfectly logical and understandable.

He reiterated that reaching with deliberate control the first gate of dreaming is a way of arriving at the energy body. But to maintain that gain is predicated on energy alone. Sorcerers get that energy by redeploying, in a more intelligent manner, the energy they have and use for perceiving the daily world.

When I urged don Juan to explain it more clearly, he added that we all have a determined quantity of basic energy. That quantity is all the energy we have, and we normally use all of it for perceiving and dealing with our engulfing world.

He repeated various times, to emphasize it, that there is no more energy for us anywhere. And since our available energy is already engaged, there is not a single bit left in us for any extraordinary perception; such as dreaming.

"Where does that leave us?" I asked.

"It leaves us to scrounge energy for ourselves wherever we can find it," he replied.

Don Juan explained that sorcerers have a scrounging method. They intelligently redeploy their energy by cutting down anything they consider superfluous in their lives. They call this method the sorcerers' way. In essence, the sorcerers' way, as don Juan put it, is a chain of behavioral choices for dealing with the world; choices much more intelligent than those our progenitor taught us. These sorcerers' choices are designed to revamp our lives by altering our basic reactions about being alive.

"What are those basic reactions?" I asked.

"There are two ways of facing our being alive," he said. "One is to surrender to it, either by acquiescing to its demands or by fighting those demands. The other is by molding our particular life situation to fit our own configurations."

"Can we really mold our life situation, don Juan?"

"One's particular life situation can be molded to fit one's specifications," don Juan insisted. "Dreamers do that. A wild statement? Not really, if you consider how little we know about ourselves."

He said that his interest as a teacher was to get me thoroughly involved with the themes of life and being alive- that is to say, with the difference between life, as a consequence of biological forces; and the act of being alive, as a matter of cognition.

"When sorcerers talk about molding one's life situation," don Juan explained, "they mean molding the awareness of being alive. Through molding this awareness, we can get enough energy to reach and sustain the energy body, and with it we can certainly mold the total direction and consequences of our lives."

Don Juan ended our conversation about dreaming by admonishing me not merely to think about what he had told me, but to turn his concepts into a viable way of life by a process of repetition.

He claimed that everything new in our lives, such as the sorcerers' concepts he was teaching me, must be repeated to us to the point of exhaustion before we open ourselves to it. He pointed out that repetition is the way our progenitors socialized us to function in the daily world.


As I continued my dreaming practices, I gained the capability of being thoroughly aware that I was falling asleep, as well as the capability of stopping in a dream to examine at will anything that was part of that dream's content. To experience this was for me no less than miraculous.

Don Juan stated that as we tighten the control over our dreams, we tighten the mastery over our dreaming attention. He was right in saying that the dreaming attention comes into play when it is called; when it is given a purpose.

Its coming into play is not really a process as one would normally understand a process as an ongoing system of operations, or a series of actions or functions that bring about an end result.

The dreaming attention is rather an awakening. Something dormant becomes suddenly functional.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 03. The Second Gate of Dreaming.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 03. The Second Gate of Dreaming.

I found out by means of my dreaming practices that a dreaming teacher must create a didactic synthesis in order to emphasize a given point. In essence, what don Juan wanted with my first dreaming task was to exercise my dreaming attention by focusing it on the items of my dreams.

To this effect he used as a spearhead the idea of being aware of falling asleep. His subterfuge was to say that the only way to be aware of falling asleep is to examine the elements of one's dreams.

I realized, almost as soon as I had begun my dreaming practices, that exercising the dreaming attention is the essential point in dreaming. To the mind, however, it seems impossible that one can train oneself to be aware at the level of dreams.

Don Juan said that the active element of such training is persistence; and that the mind and all its rational defenses cannot cope with persistence. Sooner or later, he said, the mind's barriers fall under persistence's impact, and the dreaming attention blooms.

As I practiced focusing and holding my dreaming attention on the items of my dreams, I began to feel a peculiar self-confidence so remarkable that I sought a comment from don Juan.


"It is your entering into the second attention that gives you that sense of self-assurance," he said. "This calls for even more sobriety on your part. Go slowly, but don't stop; and above all, don't talk about it. Just do it!"

I told him that in practice I had corroborated what he had already told me; that if one takes short glances at everything in a dream, the images do not dissolve. I commented that the difficult part is to break the initial barrier that prevents us from bringing dreams to our conscious attention.

I asked don Juan to give me his opinion on this matter because I earnestly believed that this barrier is a psychological one created by our socialization; a barrier which puts a premium on disregarding dreams.

"The barrier is more than socialization," he replied. "It's the first gate of dreaming. Now that you've overcome it, it seems stupid to you that we can't stop at will and pay attention to the items of our dreams. That's a false certainty. The first gate of dreaming has to do with the flow of energy in the universe. It's a natural obstacle."

Don Juan made me agree then that we would talk about dreaming only in the second attention and as he saw fit. He encouraged me to practice in the meantime; and he promised me no interference on his part.


As I gained proficiency in setting up dreaming, I repeatedly experienced sensations that I deemed of great importance, such as the feeling that I was rolling into a ditch just as I was falling asleep. Don Juan never told me that they were nonsensical sensations but let me record them in my notes.

I realize now how absurd I must have appeared to him. Today, if I were teaching dreaming, I would definitely discourage such a behavior. Don Juan merely made fun of me, calling me a covert egomaniac who professed to be fighting self-importance yet kept a meticulous, superpersonal diary called 'My Dreams'.

Every time he had an opportunity, don Juan pointed out that the energy needed to release our dreaming attention from its socialization prison comes from redeploying our existing energy. Nothing could have been truer.

The emergence of our dreaming attention is a direct corollary of revamping our lives. Since we have, as don Juan said, no way to plug-into any external source for a boost of energy, we must redeploy our existing energy by any means available.

Don Juan insisted that the sorcerers' way is the best means to oil, so to speak, the wheels of energy redeployment; and that of all the items in the sorcerers' way, the most effective is 'losing self-importance'.

He was thoroughly convinced that losing self-importance is indispensable for everything sorcerers do. For this reason, he put an enormous emphasis on guiding all his students to fulfill this requirement. He was of the opinion that self-importance is not only the sorcerers' supreme enemy, but the nemesis of mankind.

Don Juan's argument was that most of our energy goes into upholding our importance. This is most obvious in our endless worry about the presentation of the self; about whether or not we are admired or liked or acknowledged.

He reasoned that if we were capable of losing some of that importance, two extraordinary things would happen to us. One, we would free our energy from trying to maintain the illusory idea of our grandeur; and, two, we would provide ourselves with enough energy to enter into the second attention to catch a glimpse of the actual grandeur of the universe.


It took me more than two years to be able to focus my unwavering dreaming attention on anything I wanted. I became so proficient that I felt as if I had been doing it all my life. The eeriest part was that I could not conceive of not having had that ability.

Yet I could remember how difficult it had been even to think of this as a possibility. It occurred to me that the capability of examining the contents of one's dreams must be the product of a natural configuration of our being; similar perhaps to our capability of walking. We are physically conditioned to walk only in one manner, bipedally, yet it takes a monumental effort for us to learn to walk.

This new capacity of looking in glances at the items of my dreams was coupled with a most insistent nagging to remind myself to look at the elements of my dreams. I knew about my compulsive bent of character, but in my dreams my compulsiveness was vastly augmented. It became so noticeable that not only did I resent hearing my nagging at myself, but I also began to question whether it was really my compulsiveness or something else. I even thought I was losing my mind.

"I talk to myself endlessly in my dreams; reminding myself to look at things," I said to don Juan.

I had all along respected our agreement that we would talk about dreaming only when he brought up the subject. However, I thought that this was an emergency.

"Does it sound to you like it's not you but someone else?" he asked.

"Come to think of it, yes. I don't sound like myself at those times."

"Then it's not you. It's not time yet to explain it. But let's say that we are not alone in this world. Let's say that there are other worlds available to dreamers; total worlds.

"From those other total worlds, energetic entities sometimes come to us. The next time you hear yourself nagging at yourself in your dreams, get really angry and yell a command. Say, Stop it!"

I entered into another challenging arena: to remember in my dreams to shout that command. I believe that, perhaps, out of being so tremendously annoyed at hearing myself nagging, I did remember to shout, "Stop it." The nagging ceased instantly, and never again was repeated.

"Does every dreamer experience this?" I asked don Juan when I saw him again.

"Some do," he answered, uninterestedly.

I began to rant about how strange it had all been. He cut me off, saying, "You are ready now to get to the second gate of dreaming."

I seized the opportunity to seek answers for questions I had not been able to ask him. What I had experienced the first time he made me dream had been foremost in my mind. I told don Juan that I had observed the elements of my own dreams to my heart's content, and never had I felt anything even vaguely similar in terms of clarity and detail.

"The more I think about it," I said, "the more intriguing it becomes. Watching those people in that dream, I experienced a fear and revulsion impossible to forget. What was that feeling, don Juan?"

"In my opinion, your energy body hooked onto the foreign energy of that place and had the time of its life. Naturally, you felt afraid and revolted. You were examining alien energy for the first time in your life.

"You have a proclivity for behaving like the sorcerers of antiquity. The moment you have the chance, you let your assemblage point go. That time your assemblage point shifted quite a distance. The result was that you, like the old sorcerers, journeyed beyond the world we know. A most real but dangerous journey."

I bypassed the meaning of his statements in favor of my own interest and asked him, "Was that city perhaps on another planet?"

"You can't explain dreaming by way of things you know or suspect you know," he said. "All I can tell you is that the city you visited was not in this world."

"Where was it, then?"

"Out of this world, of course. You're not that stupid. That was the first thing you noticed. What got you going in circles is that you can't imagine anything being out of this world."

"Where is out of this world, don Juan?"

"Believe me, the most extravagant feature of sorcery is that configuration called 'out of this world'. For instance, you assumed that I was seeing the same things you did. The proof is that you never asked me what I saw. You and only you saw a city and people in that city. I didn't see anything of the sort. I saw energy. So, out of this world was for you alone, on that occasion, a city."

"But then, don Juan, it wasn't a real city. It existed only for me in my mind."

"No. That is not the case. Now you want to reduce something transcendental to something mundane. You can not do that. That journey was real. You saw it as a city. I saw it as energy. Neither of us is right or wrong."

"My confusion comes when you talk about things being real. You said before that we reached a real place. But if it was real, how can we have two versions of it?"

"Very simple. We have two versions because we had, at that time, two different rates of uniformity and cohesion. I have explained to you that those two attributes are the key to perceiving."

"Do you think that I can go back to that particular city?"

"You got me there. I don't know. Or perhaps I do know but can't explain it. Or perhaps I can explain it but I don't want to. You'll have to wait and figure out for yourself which is the case."

He refused any further discussion.


"Let's get on with our business," he said. "You reach the second gate of dreaming when you wake up from a dream into another dream. You can have as many dreams as you want or as many as you are capable of, but you must exercise adequate control and not wake up in the world we know."

I had a jolt of panic. "Are you saying that I should never wake up in this world?" I asked.

"No, I didn't mean that. But now that you have pointed it out, I have to tell you that it is an alternative. The sorcerers of antiquity used to do that; never wake up in the world we know. Some of the sorcerers of my line have done it too. It certainly can be done, but I don't recommend it. What I want is for you to wake up naturally when you are through with dreaming. But while you are dreaming, I want you to dream that you wake up in another dream."

I heard myself asking the same question I had asked the first time he told me about setting up dreaming. "But is it possible to do that?"

Don Juan obviously caught on to my mindlessness and laughingly repeated the answer he had given me before. "Of course it's possible. This control is no different from the control we have over any situation in our daily lives."

I quickly got over my embarrassment and was ready to ask more questions. Don Juan anticipated me, and began to explain facets of the second gate of dreaming; an explanation that made me yet more uneasy.

"There's one problem with the second gate," he said. "It's a problem that can be serious- depending on one's bent of character. If our tendency is to indulge in clinging to things or situations, we are in for a sock in the jaw."

"In what way, don Juan?"

"Think for a moment. You've already experienced the outlandish joy of examining your dreams' contents. Imagine yourself going from dream to dream; watching everything; examining every detail. It's very easy to realize that one may sink to mortal depths. Especially if one is given to indulging."

"Wouldn't the body or the brain naturally put a stop to it?"

"If it's a natural sleeping situation, meaning normal, yes. But this is not a normal situation. This is dreaming. A dreamer on crossing the first gate has already reached the energy body. So what is really going through the second gate, hopping from dream to dream, is the energy body."

"What's the implication of all this, don Juan?"

"The implication is that on crossing the second gate you must intend a greater and more sober control over your dreaming attention; the only safety valve for dreamers."

"What is this safety valve?"

"You will find out for yourself that the true goal of dreaming is to perfect the energy body. A perfect energy body, among other things of course, has such a control over the dreaming attention that it makes it stop when needed. This is the safety valve dreamers have. No matter how indulging they might be, at a given time, their dreaming attention must make them surface."


I started all over again on another dreaming quest. This time the goal was more elusive; and the difficulty even greater. Exactly as with my first task, I could not begin to figure out what to do. I had the discouraging suspicion that all my practice was not going to be of much help this time. After countless failures, I gave up and settled down to simply continue my practice of fixing my dreaming attention on every item of my dreams. Accepting my shortcomings seemed to give me a boost, and I became even more adept at sustaining the view of any item in my dreams.

A year went by without any change. Then one day something changed. As I was watching a window in a dream- trying to find out if I could catch a glimpse of the scenery outside the room- some windlike force, which I felt as a buzzing in my ears, pulled me through the window to the outside.

Just before that pull, my dreaming attention had been caught by a strange structure some distance away. It looked like a tractor. The next thing I knew, I was standing by it; examining it.

I was perfectly aware that I was dreaming. I looked around to find out if I could tell from what window I had been looking. The scene was that of a farm in the countryside. No buildings were in sight. I wanted to ponder this. However, the quantity of farm machinery lying around, as if abandoned, took all my attention.

I examined mowing machines, tractors, grain harvesters, disk plows, thrashers. There were so many that I forgot my original dream. What I wanted then was to orient myself by watching the immediate scenery. There was something in the distance that looked like a billboard and some telephone poles around it.

The instant I focused my attention on that billboard, I was next to it. The steel structure of the billboard gave me a fright. It was menacing. On the billboard itself was a picture of a building. I read the text. It was an advertisement for a motel. I had a peculiar certainty that I was in Oregon or northern California.

I looked for other features in the environment of my dream. I saw mountains very far away and some green, round hills not too far. On those hills were clumps of what I thought were California oak trees. I wanted to be pulled by the green hills, but what pulled me were the distant mountains. I was convinced that they were the Sierras.

All my dreaming energy left me on those mountains. But before it did, I was pulled by every possible feature. My dream ceased to be a dream. As far as my capacity to perceive was concerned, I was veritably in the Sierras, zooming into ravines, boulders, trees, caves. I went from scarp faces to mountain peaks until I had no more drive and could not focus my dreaming attention on anything. I felt myself losing control. Finally, there was no more scenery, just darkness.


"You have reached the second gate of dreaming," don Juan said when I narrated my dream to him. "What you should do next is to cross it. Crossing the second gate is a very serious affair. It requires a most disciplined effort."

I was not sure I had fulfilled the task he outlined for me because I had not really woken up in another dream. I asked don Juan about this irregularity.

"The mistake was mine," he said. "I told you that one has to wake up in another dream, but what I meant is that one has to change dreams in an orderly and precise manner, the way you have done it.

"With the first gate, you wasted a lot of time looking exclusively for your hands. This time, you went directly to the solution without bothering to follow the given command of waking up in another dream."

Don Juan said that there are two ways of properly crossing the second gate of dreaming.

One is to wake up in another dream, that is to say, to dream that one is having a dream, and then dream that one wakes up from it.

The alternative is to use the items of a dream to trigger another dream; exactly as I had done.

Just as he had been doing all along, don Juan let me practice without any interference on his part; and I corroborated the two alternatives he described. Either I dreamt that I was having a dream from which I dreamt I woke up, or I zoomed from a definite item accessible to my immediate dreaming attention to another one not quite accessible.

Or I entered into a slight variation of the second: I gazed at any item of a dream, maintaining the gaze until the item changed shape, and by changing shape it pulled me into another dream through a buzzing vortex. Never was I capable, however, of deciding beforehand which of the three I would follow.

My dreaming practices always ended by my running out of dreaming attention, and by my finally waking up, or by my falling into dark, deep slumber.

Everything went smoothly in my practices. The only disturbance I had was a peculiar interference; a jolt of fear or discomfort I had begun to experience with increasing frequency.

My way of discarding it was to believe that it was related to my ghastly eating habits; or to the fact that, in those days, don Juan was giving me a profusion of hallucinogenic plants as part of my training. Those jolts became so prominent, however, that I had to ask don Juan's advice.

"You have entered now into the most dangerous facet of the sorcerers' knowledge," he began. "It is sheer dread; a veritable nightmare. I could joke with you and say that I didn't mention this possibility to you out of regard for your cherished rationality, but I can't. Every sorcerer has to face it. Here is where, I fear, you might very well think you're going off the deep end."

Don Juan very solemnly explained that life and consciousness, being exclusively a matter of energy, are not solely the property of organisms. He said that sorcerers have seen that there are two types of conscious beings roaming the earth: the organic and the inorganic.

In comparing one with the other, sorcerers have seen that both are luminous masses crossed from every imaginable angle by millions of the universe's energy filaments. They are different from each other in their shape and in their degree of brightness.

Inorganic beings are long and candlelike but opaque; whereas organic beings are round and by far the brighter. Another noteworthy difference, which don Juan said sorcerers have seen, is that the life and consciousness of organic beings is short-lived because they are made to hurry; whereas the life of inorganic beings is infinitely longer, and their consciousness infinitely more calm and deeper.

"Sorcerers find no problem interacting with them," don Juan went on. "Inorganic beings possess the crucial ingredient for interaction; consciousness."

"But do these inorganic beings really exist? Like you and I exist?" I asked.

"Of course they do," he replied. "Believe me, sorcerers are very intelligent creatures. Under no condition would they toy with aberrations of the mind, and then take them for real."

"Why do you say they are alive?"

"For sorcerers, having life means having consciousness. It means having an assemblage point and its surrounding glow of awareness; a condition that points out to sorcerers that the being in front of them, organic or inorganic, is thoroughly capable of perceiving. Perceiving is understood by sorcerers as the precondition of being alive."

"Then the inorganic beings must also die. Is that true, don Juan?"

"Naturally. They lose their awareness just like we do, except that the length of their consciousness is staggering to the mind."

"Do these inorganic beings appear to sorcerers?"

"It's very difficult to tell what is what with them. Let's say that those beings are enticed by us; or better yet, compelled to interact with us."

Don Juan peered at me most intently. "You're not taking in any of this at all," he said with the tone of someone who has reached a conclusion.

"It's nearly impossible for me to think about this rationally," I said.

"I warned you that the subject will tax your reason. The proper thing to do then is to suspend judgment and let things take their course; meaning that you let the inorganic beings come to you."

"Are you serious, don Juan?"

"Deadly serious. The difficulty with inorganic beings is that their awareness is very slow in comparison with ours. It will take years for a sorcerer to be acknowledged by inorganic beings. So, it is advisable to have patience and wait. Sooner or later they show up, but not like you or I would show up. Theirs is a most peculiar way to make themselves known."

"How do sorcerers entice them? Do they have a ritual?"

"Well, they certainly don't stand in the middle of the road and call out to them with trembling voices at the stroke of midnight, if that's what you mean."

"What do they do then?"

"They entice them in dreaming. I said that what's involved is more than enticing them. By the act of dreaming, sorcerers compel those beings to interact with them."

"How do sorcerers compel them by the act of dreaming?"

"Dreaming is sustaining the position where the assemblage point has shifted in dreams. This act creates a distinctive energy charge which attracts their attention. It's like bait to fish: They'll go for it. Sorcerers, by reaching and crossing the first two gates of dreaming, set bait for those beings and compel them to appear.

"By going through the two gates, you have made your bidding known to them. Now, you must wait for a sign from them."

"What would the sign be, don Juan?"

"Possibly the appearance of one of them, although that seems too soon. I am of the opinion that their sign will be simply some interference in your dreaming. I believe that the jolts of fear you are experiencing nowadays are not indigestion, but energy jolts sent to you by the inorganic beings."

"What should I do?"

"You must gauge your expectations."

I could not understand what he meant. He carefully explained that our normal expectation when engaging in interaction with our fellow men, or with other organic beings, is to get an immediate reply to our solicitation.

With inorganic beings, however, since they are separated from us by a most formidable barrier- energy that moves at a different speed- sorcerers must gauge their expectations and sustain the solicitation for as long as it takes to be acknowledged.

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the solicitation is the same as the dreaming practices?"

"Yes. But for a perfect result, you must add to your practices the intent of reaching those inorganic beings. Send a feeling of power and confidence to them; a feeling of strength; of detachment.

"Avoid, at any cost, sending a feeling of fear or morbidity. They are pretty morbid by themselves. To add your morbidity to them is unnecessary, to say the least."

"I'm not clear, don Juan, about the way they appear to sorcerers. What is the peculiar way they make themselves known?"

"They do, at times, materialize themselves in the daily world right in front of us. Most of the time, though, their invisible presence is marked by a bodily jolt; a shiver of sorts that comes from the marrow of the bones."

"What about in dreaming, don Juan?"

"In dreaming we have the total opposite. At times, we feel them the way you are feeling them; as a jolt of fear. Most of the time, they materialize themselves right in front of us. Since at the beginning of dreaming we have no experience whatsoever with them, they might imbue us with fear beyond measure. That is a real danger to us. Through the channel of fear, they can follow us to the daily world- with disastrous results for us."

"In what way, don Juan?"

"Fear can settle down in our lives, and we would have to be mavericks to deal with it. Inorganic beings can be worse than a pest. Through fear they can easily drive us raving mad."

"What do sorcerers do with inorganic beings?"

"They mingle with them. They turn them into allies. They form associations; create extraordinary friendships. I call them vast enterprises where perception plays the uppermost role. We are social beings. We unavoidably seek the company of consciousness.

"With inorganic beings, the secret is not to fear them. And this must be done from the beginning.

"The intent one has to send out to them has to be of power and abandon. In that intent one must encode the message "I don't fear you. Come to see me. If you do, I'll welcome you. If you don't want to come, I'll miss you." With a message like this, they'll get so curious that they'll come for sure."

"Why should they come to seek me, or why on earth should I seek them?"

"Dreamers, whether they like it or not, in their dreaming seek associations with other beings. This may come to you as a shock, but dreamers automatically seek groups of beings; nexuses of inorganic beings in this case. Dreamers seek them avidly."

"This is very strange to me, don Juan. Why would dreamers do that?"

"The novelty for us is the inorganic beings. And the novelty for them is one of our kind crossing the boundaries of their realm. The thing you must bear in mind from now on is that inorganic beings, with their superb consciousness, exert a tremendous pull over dreamers and can easily transport them into worlds beyond description.

"The sorcerers of antiquity used them, and they are the ones who coined the name 'allies'. Their allies taught them to move the assemblage point out of the egg's boundaries into the non-human universe. So when they transport a sorcerer, they transport him to worlds beyond the human domain."

As I heard him talk, I was plagued by strange fears and misgivings; which don Juan promptly realized.

"You are a religious man to the end." He laughed. "Now, you're feeling the devil breathing down your neck. Think about dreaming in these terms: Dreaming is perceiving more than what we believe it is possible to perceive."

In my waking hours, I worried about the possibility that inorganic conscious beings really existed. When I was dreaming, however, my conscious worries did not have much effect. The jolts of physical fear continued, but whenever they happened a strange calmness always trailed behind; a calmness that took control of me and let me proceed as if I had no fear at all.

It seemed at that time that every breakthrough in dreaming happened to me suddenly; without warning. The presence of inorganic beings in my dreams was no exception.

It happened while I was dreaming about a circus I knew in my childhood. The setting looked like a town in the mountains in Arizona. I began to watch people with the vague hope I always had that I would see again the people I had seen the first time don Juan made me enter into the second attention.

As I watched them, I felt a sizable jolt of nervousness in the pit of my stomach. It was like a punch. The jolt distracted me, and I lost sight of the people, the circus, and the mountain town in Arizona.

In their place stood two strange-looking figures. They were thin, less than a foot wide, but long, perhaps seven feet. They were looming over me like two gigantic earthworms.

I knew that it was a dream, but I also knew that I was seeing.

Don Juan had discussed seeing in my normal awareness and in the second attention as well. Although I had been incapable of experiencing it myself, I thought I had understood the idea of directly perceiving energy.

In that dream, looking at those two strange apparitions, I realized that I was seeing the energy essence of something unbelievable.

I remained very calm. I did not move. The most remarkable thing to me was that they didn't dissolve or change into something else. They were cohesive beings that retained their candlelike shape. Something in them was forcing something in me to hold the view of their shape. I knew it because something was telling me that if I did not move, they would not move either.

It all came to an end, at a given moment, when I woke up with a fright. I was immediately besieged by fears. A deep preoccupation took hold of me. It was not psychological worry, but rather a bodily sense of anguish and sadness with no apparent foundation.

The two strange shapes appeared to me from then on in every one of my dreaming sessions. Eventually, it was as if I dreamt only to encounter them. They never attempted to move toward me or to interfere with me in any way.

They just stood there immobile in front of me for as long as my dream lasted. Not only did I never make any effort to change my dreams, but I even forgot the original quest of my dreaming practices.

When I finally discussed with don Juan what was happening to me, I had spent months solely viewing the two shapes.


"You are stuck at a dangerous crossroad," don Juan said. "It isn't right to chase these beings away, but it isn't right either to let them stay. For the time being, their presence is a hindrance to your dreaming."

"What can I do, don Juan?"

"Face them, right now, in the world of daily life, and tell them to come back later when you have more dreaming power."

"How do I face them?"

"It's not simple, but it can be done. It requires only that you have enough guts, which of course you do."

Without waiting for me to tell him that I had no guts at all, he took me to the hills. He lived then in northern Mexico, and he had given me the total impression he was a solitary sorcerer; an old man forgotten by everybody and completely outside the main current of human affairs.

I had surmised, however, that he was intelligent beyond measure. And because of this I was willing to comply with what I half-believed were mere eccentricities.

The cunningness of sorcerers, cultivated through the ages, was don Juan's trademark. He made sure that I understood all I could in my normal awareness; and he also made sure that I entered into the second attention where I understood, or at least passionately listened to, everything he taught me.

In this fashion, he divided me in two. In my normal consciousness, I could not understand why or how I was more than willing to take his eccentricities seriously. In the second attention, it all made sense to me.

His contention was that the second attention is available to all of us. But by willfully holding on to our half-cocked rationality- some of us more fiercely than others- we keep the second attention at arm's length. His idea was that dreaming brings down the barriers that surround and insulate the second attention.

The day he took me to the hills of the Sonoran desert to meet the inorganic beings, I was in my normal state of awareness. Yet somehow I knew I had to do something that was certainly going to be unbelievable.

It had rained lightly in the desert. The red dirt was still wet, and as I walked it got clumped up in the rubber soles of my shoes. I had to step on rocks to remove the heavy chunks of dirt. We walked in an easterly direction climbing toward the hills. When we got to a narrow gully between two hills, don Juan stopped.

"This is for sure an ideal place to summon your friends," he said.

"Why do you call them my friends?"

"They have singled you out themselves. When they do that, it means that they seek an association. I've mentioned to you that sorcerers form bonds of friendship with them. Your case seems to be an example. And you don't even have to solicit them."

"What does such a friendship consist of, don Juan?"

"It consists of a mutual exchange of energy. The inorganic beings supply their high awareness, and sorcerers supply their heightened awareness and high energy. The positive result is an even exchange. The negative one is dependency on both parties.

"The old sorcerers used to love their allies. In fact, they loved their allies more than they loved their own kind. I can foresee terrible dangers in that."

"What do you recommend I do, don Juan?"

"Summon them. Size them up, and then decide yourself what to do."

"What should I do to summon them?"

"Hold your dream view of them in your mind. The reason they have saturated you with their presence in your dreams is that they want to create a memory of their shape in your mind. And this is the time to use that memory." Don Juan forcefully ordered me to close my eyes and keep them closed.

Then he guided me to sit down on some rocks. I felt the hardness and the coldness of the rocks. The rocks were slanted; it was difficult to keep my balance.

"Sit here and visualize their shape until they are just like they are in your dreams," don Juan said in my ear. "Let me know when you have them in focus."

It took me very little time and effort to have a complete mental picture of their shape just like in my dreams. It did not surprise me at all that I could do it.

What shocked me was that, although I tried desperately to let don Juan know I had pictured them in my mind, I could not voice my words or open my eyes. I was definitely awake. I could hear everything.

I heard don Juan say, "You can open your eyes now."

I opened them with no difficulty. I was sitting cross-legged on some rocks, which were not the same ones I had felt under me when I sat down. Don Juan was just behind me to my right. I tried to turn around to face him, but he forced my head to remain straight.

And then I saw two dark figures, like two thin tree trunks, right in front of me. I stared at them openmouthed.

They were not as tall as in my dreams. They had shrunk to half their size. Instead of being shapes of opaque luminosity, they were now two condensed, dark, almost black, menacing sticks.

"Get up and grab one of them," don Juan ordered me, "and don't let go, no matter how it shakes you."

I definitely did not want to do anything of the sort, but some unknown drive made me stand up against my will. I had at that moment the clear realization that I would end up doing what don Juan had ordered me to- although I had no conscious intention of doing so.

Mechanically, I advanced toward the two figures, my heart pounding nearly out of my chest. I grabbed the one to my right. What I felt was an electric discharge that almost made me drop the dark figure.

Don Juan's voice came to me as if he had been yelling from a distance away. "You drop it and you're done for," he said.

I held on to the figure, which twirled and shook; not like a massive animal would, but like something quite fluffy and light, although strongly electrical. We rolled and turned on the sand of the gully for quite some time. It gave me jolt after jolt of some sickening electric current.

I thought it was sickening because I fancied it to be different from the energy I had always encountered in our daily world. When it hit my body, it tickled me and made me yell and growl like an animal; not in anguish, but in a strange anger.

It finally became a still, almost solid form under me. It lay inert. I asked don Juan if it was dead, but I did not hear my voice.

"Not a chance," said someone laughing; someone who was not don Juan. "You've just depleted its energy charge. But don't get up yet. Lie there just a moment longer."

I looked at don Juan with a question in my eyes. He was examining me with great curiosity. Then he helped me up. The dark figure remained on the ground. I wanted to ask don Juan if the dark figure was all right. Again, I could not voice my question.

Then I did something extravagant. I took it all for real. Up to that moment something in my mind was preserving my rationality by taking what was happening as a dream; a dream induced by don Juan's machinations.

I went to the figure on the ground and tried to lift it up. I could not put my arms around it because it had no mass. I became disoriented. The same voice, which was not don Juan's, told me to lie down on top of the inorganic being. I did it, and both of us got up in one motion, the inorganic being like a dark shadow attached to me. It gently separated from me and disappeared, leaving me with an extremely pleasant feeling of completeness.

It took me more than twenty-four hours to regain total control of my faculties. I slept most of the time. Don Juan checked me from time to time by asking me the same question, "Was the inorganic being's energy like fire or like water?"

My throat seemed scorched. I could not tell him that the energy jolts I had felt were like jets of electrified water. I have never felt jets of electrified water in my life. I am not sure if it is possible to produce them or to feel them; but that was the image playing in my mind every time don Juan asked his key question.

Don Juan was asleep when I finally knew I was completely recovered. Knowing that his question was of great importance, I woke him up and told him what I had felt.

"You are not going to have helping friends among the inorganic beings, but raather relationships of annoying dependence," he stated. "Be extremely careful. Watery inorganic beings are more given to excesses.

"The old sorcerers believed that the watery inorganic beings were more loving, more capable of imitating, or perhaps were even capable of having feelings- as opposed to the fiery ones, who were thought to be more serious and more contained, but also more pompous."

"What's the meaning of all this for me, don Juan?"

"The meaning is too vast to discuss at this time. My recommendation is that you vanquish fear from your dreams and from your life in order to safeguard your unity. The inorganic being you depleted of energy and then recharged again was thrilled out of its candlelike shape with it. It'll come to you for more."

"Why didn't you stop me, don Juan?"

"You didn't give me time. Besides, you didn't even hear me shouting at you to leave the inorganic being on the ground."

"You should have lectured me beforehand the way you always do about all the possibilities."

"I did not know all the possibilities. In matters of the inorganic beings, I am nearly a novice. I refused that part of the sorcerers' knowledge on the ground that it is too cumbersome and capricious. I do not want to be at the mercy of any entity, organic or inorganic."

That was the end of our exchange. I should have been worried because of his definitely negative reaction, but I was not. I somehow was certain that whatever I had done was all right.

I continued my dreaming practices without any interference from the inorganic beings.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 04. The Fixation of the Assemblage Point.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 04. The Fixation of the Assemblage Point.

Since our agreement had been to discuss dreaming only when don Juan considered it necessary, I rarely asked him about it and never insisted on continuing my questions beyond a certain point. I was more than eager, therefore, to listen to him whenever he decided to take up the subject. His comments or discussions on dreaming were invariably cushioned in other topics of his teachings, and they were always suddenly and abruptly brought in.

We were engaged in some unrelated conversation once while I was visiting with him in his house, when without any preamble he said that, by means of their dreaming contacts with inorganic beings, the old sorcerers became immensely well-versed in the manipulation of the assemblage point; a vast and ominous subject.

I immediately grabbed the opportunity and asked don Juan for an estimate of the time when the old sorcerers might have lived. At various opportunities before, I had asked the same question, but he never gave me a satisfactory answer. I was confident, however, that at the moment, perhaps because he had brought up the subject himself, he might be willing to oblige me.

"A most trying subject," he said. The way he said it made me believe he was discarding my question. I was quite surprised when he continued talking. "It'll tax your rationality as much as the topic of inorganic beings. By the way, what do you think about them now?"

"I have let my opinions rest," I said. "I can't afford to think one way or another."

My answer delighted him. He laughed and commented on his own fears of and aversions to the inorganic beings.

"They have never been my cup of tea," he said. "Of course, the main reason was my fear of them. I was unable to get over it when I had to, and then it became fixed."

"Do you fear them now, don Juan?"

"It's not quite fear I feel but revulsion. I don't want any part of them."

"Is there any particular reason for this revulsion?"

"The best reason in the world: we are antithetical. They love slavery, and I love freedom. They love to buy, and I don't sell."

I became inexplicably agitated and brusquely told him that the subject was so farfetched for me that I could not take it seriously.

He stared at me, smiling, and said, "The best thing to do with inorganic beings is what you do: deny their existence, but visit with them regularly and maintain that you are dreaming; and that in dreaming anything is possible. This way you don't commit yourself."

I felt strangely guilty, although I could not figure out why. I felt compelled to ask, "What are you referring to, don Juan?"

"To your visits with the inorganic beings," he replied dryly.

"Are you kidding? What visits?"

"I didn't want to discuss this, but I think it's time I tell you that the nagging voice you heard, reminding you to fix your dreaming attention on the items of your dreams, was the voice of an inorganic being."

I thought don Juan was completely irrational. I became so irritated that I even yelled at him.

He laughed at me and asked me to tell him about my irregular dreaming sessions. That request surprised me. I had never mentioned to anyone that every so often I used to zoom out of a dream, pulled by a given item, but instead of my changing dreams, as I should have, the total mood of the dream changed and I would find myself in a dimension unknown to me.

I soared in it, directed by some invisible guide, which made me twirl around and around. I always awoke from one of these dreams still twirling, and I continued tossing and turning for a long time before I fully woke up.

"Those are bona fide meetings you are having with your inorganic being friends," don Juan said.

I did not want to argue with him, but neither did I want to agree. I remained silent. I had forgotten my question about the old sorcerers, but don Juan picked up the subject again.

"My understanding is that the old sorcerers existed perhaps as far back as ten thousand years ago," he said, smiling and watching my reaction.

Basing my response on current archaeological data on the migration of Asiatic nomadic tribes to the Americas, I said that I believed his date was incorrect. Ten thousand years was too far back.

"You have your knowledge and I have mine," he said. "My knowledge is that the old sorcerers ruled for four thousand years, from seven thousand to three thousand years ago. Three thousand years ago, they went to nothing. And from then on, sorcerers have been regrouping and restructuring what was left of the old ones."

"How can you be so sure about your dates?" I asked.

"How can you be so sure about yours?" he retorted.

I told him that archaeologists have foolproof methods to establish the date of past cultures. Again he retorted that sorcerers have foolproof methods of their own.

"I'm not trying to be contrary or argue you down," he continued, "but someday soon you may be able to ask someone who knows for sure."

"No one can know this for sure, don Juan."

"This is another of those impossible things to believe, but there is somebody who can verify all this. You'll meet that person someday."

"Come on, don Juan, you've got to be joking. Who can verify, what happened seven thousand years ago?"

"Very simple, one of the old sorcerers we've been talking about. The one I met. He's the one who told me all about the old sorcerers. I hope you remember what I am going to tell you about that particular man. He is the key to many of our endeavors, and he's also the one you have to meet."

I told don Juan that I was hanging on every word he said, even though I did not understand what he was saying. He accused me of humoring him, and of not believing a word about the old sorcerers. I admitted that in my state of daily consciousness, of course, I had not believed those farfetched stories. But neither had I in the second attention, although there I should have had a different reaction.

"Only when you ponder what I said does it become a farfetched story," he remarked. "If you don't involve your common sense, it remains purely a matter of energy."

"Why did you say, don Juan, that I am going to meet one of the old sorcerers?"

"Because you are. It is vital that the two of you meet someday. But, for the moment, just let me tell you another farfetched story about one of the naguals of my line, the nagual Sebastian."

Don Juan told me then that the nagual Sebastian had been a sexton in a church in southern Mexico around the beginning of the eighteenth century.

In his account, don Juan stressed how sorcerers, past or present, seek and find refuge in established institutions, such as the Church. It was his idea that because of their superior discipline, sorcerers are trustworthy employees, and that they are avidly sought by institutions that are always in dire need of such persons. Don Juan maintained that as long as no one is aware of the sorcerers' doings, their lack of ideological sympathies makes them appear as model workers.

Don Juan continued his story and said that one day while Sebastian was performing his duties as a sexton, a strange man came to the church; an old Indian who seemed to be ill. In a weak voice he told Sebastian that he needed help. The nagual thought that the Indian wanted the parish priest, but the man, making a great effort, addressed the nagual. In a harsh and direct tone, he told him that he knew that Sebastian was not only a sorcerer but a nagual.

Sebastian, quite alarmed by this sudden turn of events, pulled the Indian aside and demanded an apology. The man replied that he was not there to apologize, but to get specialized help. He needed, he said, to receive the nagual's energy in order to maintain his life, which, he assured Sebastian, had spanned thousands of years but at the moment was ebbing away.

Sebastian, who was a very intelligent man, unwilling to pay attention to such nonsense, urged the Indian to stop clowning around. The old man became angry and threatened Sebastian with exposing him and his group to the ecclesiastical authorities if he did not comply with his request.

Don Juan reminded me that those were the times when the ecclesiastical authorities were brutally and systematically eradicating heretical practices among the Indians of the New Worlds. The man's threat was not something to be taken lightly. The nagual and his group were indeed in mortal danger.

Sebastian asked the Indian how he could give him energy. The man explained that naguals, by means of their discipline, gain a peculiar energy that they store in their bodies and that he would get it painlessly from Sebastian's energy center on his navel. In return for it, Sebastian would get not only the opportunity to continue his activities unscathed, but also a gift of power.

The knowledge that he was being manipulated by the old Indian did not sit right with the nagual, but the man was inflexible and the old Indian left him no alternative but to comply with his request.

Don Juan assured me that the old Indian was not exaggerating about his claims at all. He turned out to be one of the sorcerers of ancient times; one of those known as the death defiers. He had apparently survived to the present by manipulating his assemblage point in ways that only he knew about.

Don Juan said that what transpired between Sebastian and that man later became the ground for an agreement that had bound all six naguals who followed Sebastian. The death defier kept his word; in exchange for energy from every one of those naguals, he made a donation to the giver; a gift of power. Sebastian had to accept such a gift, although reluctantly; he had been cornered and had no other choice. All the other naguals who followed him, however, gladly and proudly accepted their gifts.

Don Juan concluded his story, saying that over time the death defier came to be known as the tenant. And for over two hundred years, the naguals of don Juan's line honored that binding agreement; creating a symbiotic relationship that changed the course and final goal of their lineage.

Don Juan did not care to explain the story any further, and I was left with a strange sensation of truthfulness, which was more bothersome to me than I could have imagined.

"How did he get to live that long?" I asked.

"No one knows," don Juan replied. "All we've known about him, for generations, is what he tells us. The death defier is the one I asked about the old sorcerers, and he told me that they were at their peak three thousand years ago."

"How do you know he was telling you the truth?" I asked.

Don Juan shook his head in amazement, if not revulsion. "When you're facing that inconceivable unknown out there," he said, pointing all around him, "you don't fool around with petty lies. Petty lies are only for people who have never witnessed what's out there waiting for them."

"What's waiting for us out there, don Juan?"

His answer, a seemingly innocuous phrase, was more terrifying to me than if he had described the most horrendous thing.

"Something utterly impersonal," he said. He must have noticed that I was coming apart. He made me change levels of awareness to make my fright vanish.


A few months later, my dreaming practices took a strange turn. I began to get, in my dreams, replies to questions I was planning to ask don Juan. The most impressive part of this oddity was that it quickly lapsed into my waking hours.

One day, while I was sitting at my desk, I got a reply to an unvoiced question about the realness of inorganic beings. I had seen inorganic beings in dreams so many times I had begun to think of them as real. I reminded myself I had even touched one, in a state of seminormal consciousness in the Sonoran desert. And my dreams had been periodically deviated to views of worlds I seriously doubted could have been products of my mentality.

I wished to give don Juan my best shot, in terms of a concise query, so I molded a question in my mind: If one is to accept that inorganic beings are as real as people, where, in the physicality of the universe, is the realm in which they exist?

After formulating the question to myself, I heard a strange laughter, just as I had the day I wrestled with the inorganic being. Then a man's voice answered me. "That realm exists in a particular position of the assemblage point," it said. "Just like your world exists in the habitual position of the assemblage point."

The last thing I wanted was to enter into a dialogue with a disembodied voice, so I stood up and ran out of my house. The thought occurred to me that I was losing my mind. Another worry to add to my collection of worries.

The voice had been so clear and authoritative that it not only intrigued me but terrified me. I waited with great trepidation for oncoming barrages of that voice, but the event was never repeated. At the first opportunity I had, I consulted with don Juan.


He was not impressed in the least.

"You must understand, once and for all, that things like this are very normal in the life of a sorcerer," he said. "You are not going mad. You are simply hearing the voice of the dreaming emissary. Upon crossing the first or second gate of dreaming, dreamers reach a threshold of energy and begin to see things or to hear voices. Not really plural voices, but a singular voice. Sorcerers call it the voice of the dreaming emissary."

"What is the dreaming emissary?"

"Alien energy that has conciseness. Alien energy that purports to aid dreamers by telling them things. The problem with the dreaming emissary is that it can tell only what the sorcerers already know or should know, were they worth their salt."

"To say that it's alien energy that has conciseness doesn't help me at all, don Juan. What kind of energy- benign, malignant, right, wrong, what?"

"It's just what I said, alien energy. An impersonal force that we turn into a very personal one because it has voice. Some sorcerers swear by it. They even see it. Or, as you yourself have done, they simply hear it as a man's or a woman's voice. And the voice can tell them about the state of things, which most of the time they take as sacred advice."

"Why do some of us hear it as a voice?"

"We see it or hear it because we maintain our assemblage points fixed on a specific new position. The more intense this fixation, the more intense our experience of the emissary. Watch out! You may see it and feel it as a naked woman."

Don Juan laughed at his own remark, but I was too scared for levity.

"Is this force capable of materializing itself?" I asked.

"Certainly," he replied. "And it all depends on how fixed the assemblage point is. But, rest assured, if you are capable of maintaining a degree of detachment, nothing happens. The emissary remains what it is: an impersonal force that acts on us because of the fixation of our assemblage points."

"Is its advice safe and sound?"

"It cannot be advice. It only tells us what's what, and then we draw the inferences ourselves."

I told don Juan then about what the voice had said to me.

"It's just like I said," don Juan remarked. "The emissary didn't tell you anything new. Its statements were correct, but it only seemed to be revealing things to you. What the emissary did was merely repeat what you already knew."

"I'm afraid I can't claim that I knew all that, don Juan."

"Yes, you can. You know now infinitely more about the mystery of the universe than what you rationally suspect. But that's our human malady, to know more about the mystery of the universe than we suspect."

Having experienced this incredible phenomenon all by myself without don Juan's coaching made me feel elated. I wanted more information about the emissary. I began to ask don Juan whether he also heard the emissary's voice.

He interrupted me and with a broad smile said, "Yes, yes. The emissary also talks to me. In my youth I used to see it as a friar with a black cowl. A talking friar who used to scare the daylights out of me every time. Then, when my fear was more manageable, it became a disembodied voice which tells me things to this day."

"What kinds of things, don Juan?"

"Anything I focus my intent on; things I don't want to take the trouble of following up myself. Like, for example, details about the behavior of my apprentices. What they do when I am not around. It tells me things about you, in particular. The emissary tells me everything you do."

At that point, I really did not care for the direction our conversation had taken. I frantically searched my mind for questions about other topics while he roared with laughter.

"Is the dreaming emissary an inorganic being?" I asked.

"Let's say that the dreaming emissary is a force that comes from the realm of inorganic beings. This is the reason dreamers always encounter it."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that every dreamer hears or sees the emissary?"

"Everyone hears the emissary. Very few see it or feel it."

"Do you have any explanation for this?"

"No. Besides, I really don't care about the emissary. At one point in my life, I had to make a decision whether to concentrate on the inorganic beings and follow in the footsteps of the old sorcerers, or to refuse it all. My teacher the nagual Julian helped me make up my mind to refuse it. I've never regretted that decision."

"Do you think I should refuse the inorganic beings myself, don Juan?"

He did not answer me. Instead, he explained that the whole realm of inorganic beings is always poised to teach. Perhaps because inorganic beings have a deeper consciousness than ours, they feel compelled to take us under their wings.

"I didn't see any point in becoming their pupil," he added. "Their price is too high."

"What is their price?"

"Our lives, our energy, our devotion to them. In other words, our freedom."

"But what do they teach?"

"Things pertinent to their world. The same way we ourselves would teach them, if we were capable of teaching them, things pertinent to our world. Their method, however, is to take our basic self as a gauge of what we need and then teach us accordingly. A most dangerous affair!"

"I don't see why it would be dangerous."

"If someone was going to take your basic self as a gauge, with all your fears and greed and envy, et cetera, et cetera, and teach you what fulfills that horrible state of being, what do you think the result would be?"

I had no comeback. I thought I understood perfectly well the reasons for his rejection.

"The problem with the old sorcerers was that they learned wonderful things, but it was on the basis of their unadulterated lower selves," don Juan went on. "The inorganic beings became their allies, and by means of deliberate examples, their allies taught the old sorcerers marvels. Their allies performed the actions, and the old sorcerers were guided step by step to copy those actions; but the old sorcerers did so without changing anything about their basic nature."

"Do these relationships with inorganic beings exist today?"

"I can't answer that truthfully. All I can say is that I can't conceive of having a relationship like that myself. Involvements of this nature curtail our search for freedom by consuming all our available energy. In order to really follow their allies' example, the old sorcerers had to spend their lives in the realm of the inorganic beings. The amount of energy needed to accomplish such a sustained journey is staggering."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the old sorcerers were able to exist in those realms like we exist here?"

"Not quite like we exist here, but certainly they lived: They retained their awareness; their individuality. The dreaming emissary became the most vital entity for those sorcerers. If a sorcerer wants to live in the realm of the inorganic beings, the emissary is the perfect bridge. It speaks, and its bent is to teach; to guide."

"Have you ever been in that realm, don Juan?"

"Countless times. And so have you. But there is no point in talking about it now. You haven't cleared all the debris from your dreaming attention yet. We'll talk about that realm some day."

"Do I gather, don Juan, that you don't approve of or like the emissary?"

"I neither approve of it nor like it. It belongs to another mood; the old sorcerers' mood. Besides, its teachings and guidance in our world are nonsense. And for that nonsense the emissary charges us enormities in terms of energy. One day you will agree with me. You'll see."

In the tone of don Juan's words, I caught a veiled implication of his belief that I disagreed with him about the emissary. I was about to confront him with it when I heard the emissary's voice in my ears.

"He's right," the voice said. "You like me because you find nothing wrong with exploring all possibilities. You want knowledge: Knowledge is power. You don't want to remain safe in the routines and beliefs of your daily world."

The emissary said all that in English with a marked Pacific Coast intonation. Then it shifted into Spanish. I heard a slight Argentine accent. I had never heard the emissary speaking like this before. It fascinated me. The emissary told me about fulfillment; knowledge; about how far away I was from my birthplace; about my craving for adventure and my near obsession with new things; new horizons. The voice even talked to me in Portuguese with a definite inflection from the southern pampas.

To hear that voice pouring out all this flattery not only scared me, but nauseated me. I told don Juan, right on the spot, that I had to stop my dreaming training. He looked up at me, caught by surprise. But when I repeated what I had heard, he agreed I should stop, although I sensed he was doing it only to appease me.

A few weeks later, I found my reaction a bit hysterical, and my decision to withdraw unsound. I went back to my dreaming practices. I was sure don Juan was aware that I had canceled out my withdrawal.

On one of my visits to him, quite abruptly, he spoke about dreams.

"Just because we haven't been taught to emphasize dreams as a genuine field for exploration doesn't mean they are not one," he began. "Dreams are analyzed for their meaning or are taken as portents, but never are they taken as a realm of real events."

"To my knowledge, only the old sorcerers did that," don Juan went on, "but at the end they flubbed it. They got greedy, and when they came to a crucial crossroads, they took the wrong fork. They put all their eggs in one basket: the fixation of the assemblage point on the thousands of positions it can adopt."

Don Juan expressed his bewilderment at the fact that out of all the marvelous things the old sorcerers learned exploring those thousands of positions, only the art of dreaming and the art of stalking remain. He reiterated that the art of dreaming is concerned with the displacement of the assemblage point. Then he defined stalking as the art that deals with the fixation of the assemblage point on any location to which it is displaced.

"To fixate the assemblage point on any new spot means to acquire cohesion," he said. "You have been doing just that in your dreaming practices."

"I thought I was perfecting my energy body," I said, somehow surprised at his statement.

"You are doing that and much more, you are learning to have cohesion. Dreaming does it by forcing dreamers to fixate the assemblage point. The dreaming attention, the energy body, the second attention, the relationship with inorganic beings, and the dreaming emissary are but by-products of acquiring cohesion. In other words, they are all by-products of fixating the assemblage point on a number of dreaming positions."

"What is a dreaming position, don Juan?"

"Any new position to which the assemblage point has been displaced during sleep."

"How do we fixate the assemblage point on a dreaming position?"

"By sustaining the view of any item in your dreams, or by changing dreams at will. Through your dreaming practices, you are really exercising your capacity to be cohesive. That is to say, you are exercising your capacity to maintain a new energy shape by holding the assemblage point fixed on the position of any particular dream you are having."

"Do I really maintain a new energy shape?"

"Not exactly, and not because you can't but only because you are shifting the assemblage point instead of moving it. Shifts of the assemblage point give rise to minute changes which are practically unnoticeable. The challenge of shifts is that they are so small and so numerous that to maintain cohesiveness in all of them is a triumph."

"How do we know we are maintaining cohesion?"

"We know it by the clarity of our perception. The clearer the view of our dreams, the greater our cohesion."

He said then that it was time for me to have a practical application of what I had learned in dreaming. Without giving me a chance to ask anything, he urged me to focus my attention, as if I were in a dream, on the foliage of a desert tree growing nearby: a mesquite tree.

"Do you want me to just gaze at it?" I asked.

"I don't want you to just gaze at it. I want you to do something very special with that foliage," he said. "Remember that, in your dreams, once you are able to hold the view of any item, you are really holding the dreaming position of your assemblage point. Now, gaze at those leaves as if you were in a dream, but with a slight yet most meaningful variation. You are going to hold your dreaming attention on the leaves of the mesquite tree in the awareness of our daily world."

My nervousness made it impossible for me to follow his line of thought. He patiently explained that by staring at the foliage, I would accomplish a minute displacement of my assemblage point. Then, by summoning my dreaming attention through staring at individual leaves, I would actually fixate that minute displacement, and my cohesion would make me perceive in terms of the second attention. He added, with a chuckle, that the process was so simple it was ridiculous.

Don Juan was right. All I needed was to focus my sight on the leaves, maintain it, and in one instant I was drawn into a vortex-like sensation, extremely like the vortexes in my dreams. The foliage of the mesquite tree became a universe of sensory data. It was as if the foliage had swallowed me, but it was not only my sight that was engaged. If I touched the leaves, I actually felt them. I could also smell them. My dreaming attention was multisensorial instead of solely visual, as in my regular dreaming.

What had begun as gazing at the foliage of the mesquite tree had turned into a dream. I believed I was in a dreamt tree, as I had been in trees of countless dreams. And, naturally, I behaved in this dreamt tree as I had learned to behave in my dreams: I moved from item to item, pulled by the force of a vortex that took shape on whatever part of the tree I focused my multisensorial dreaming attention. Vortexes were formed not only on gazing, but also on touching anything with any part of my body.

In the midst of this vision or dream, I had an attack of rational doubts. I began to wonder if I had really climbed the tree in a daze and was actually hugging the leaves, lost in the foliage, without knowing what I was doing. Or perhaps I had fallen asleep, possibly mesmerized by the fluttering of leaves in the wind, and was having a dream.

But just like in dreaming, I didn't have enough energy to ponder for too long. My thoughts were fleeting. They lasted an instant, and then the force of direct experience blanketed them out completely.

A sudden motion around me shook everything and virtually made me emerge from a clump of leaves as if I had broken away from the tree's magnetic pull.

I was facing then, from an elevation, an immense horizon. Dark mountains and green vegetation surrounded me. Another jolt of energy made me shake from my bones out.

Then I was somewhere else. Enormous trees loomed everywhere. They were bigger than the Douglas firs of Oregon and Washington State. Never had I seen a forest like that. The scenery was such a contrast to the aridness of the Sonoran desert that it left me with no doubt that I was having a dream.

I held on to that extraordinary view, afraid to let go, knowing that it was indeed a dream and would disappear once I had run out of dreaming attention. But the images lasted even when I thought I should have run out of dreaming attention. A horrifying thought crossed my mind then: What if this was neither a dream nor the daily world?

Frightened, as an animal must experience fright, I recoiled into the clump of leaves I had emerged from. The momentum of my backward motion kept me going through the tree foliage and around the hard branches. It pulled me away from the tree, and in one split second I was standing next to don Juan, at the door of his house, in the desert in Sonora.

I instantly realized I had entered again into a state in which I could think coherently, but I could not talk. Don Juan told me not to worry. He said that our speech faculty is extremely flimsy, and attacks of muteness are common among sorcerers who venture beyond the limits of normal perception.

My gut feeling was that don Juan had taken pity on me and had decided to give me a pep talk. But the voice of the dreaming emissary, which I clearly heard at that instant, said that in a few hours and after some rest, I was going to be perfectly well.

Upon awakening I gave don Juan, at his request, a complete description of what I had seen and done. He warned me that it was not possible to rely on my rationality to understand my experience, not because my rationality was in any way impaired, but because what had taken place was a phenomenon outside the parameters of reason.

I, naturally, argued that nothing can be outside the limits of reason. Things can be obscure, but sooner or later reason always finds a way to shed light on anything. And I really believed this.

Don Juan, with extreme patience, pointed out that reason is only a by-product of the habitual position of the assemblage point. Therefore, knowing what is going on, being of sound mind, having our feet on the ground- sources of great pride to us and assumed to be a natural consequence of our worth- are merely the result of the fixation of the assemblage point on its habitual place. The more rigid and stationary it is, the greater our confidence in ourselves; the greater our feeling of knowing the world; of being able to predict.

He added that what dreaming does is give us the fluidity to enter into other worlds by destroying our sense of knowing this world. He called dreaming a journey of unthinkable dimensions; a journey that, after making us perceive everything we can humanly perceive, makes the assemblage point jump outside the human domain and perceive the inconceivable.

"We are back again," he went on, "harping on the most important topic of the sorcerers' world; the position of the assemblage point. The old sorcerers' curse, as well as mankind's thorn in the side."

"Why do you say that, don Juan?"

"Because both the old sorcerers fell prey and mankind in general falls prey to the position of the assemblage point: the old sorcerers because, although they knew all about the assemblage point, they fell for its facility to be manipulated; mankind in general, because by not knowing that the assemblage point exists, we are obliged to take the by-product of its habitual position as something final and indisputable.

"You must avoid falling into those traps," he continued. "It'd be really disgusting if you sided with mankind as if you didn't know about the existence of the assemblage point. But it'd be even more insidious if you sided with the old sorcerers and cynically manipulate the assemblage point for gain."

"I still don't understand. What is the connection of all this with what I experienced yesterday?"

"Yesterday, you were in a different world. But if you ask me where that world is, and I tell you that it is in the position of the assemblage point, my answer won't make any sense to you."

Don Juan's argument was that I had two choices.

One was to follow mankind's rationales and be faced with a predicament: My experience would tell me that other worlds exist, but my reason would say that such worlds do not and cannot exist.

The other choice was to follow the old sorcerers' rationales, in which case I would automatically accept the existence of other worlds, and my greed alone would make my assemblage point hold on to the position that creates those worlds. The result would be another kind of predicament; that of having to move physically into visionlike realms, driven by expectations of power and gain.

I was too numb to follow his argument, but then I realized I did not have to follow it because I agreed with him completely despite the fact that I did not have a total picture of what I was agreeing about. Agreeing with him was rather a feeling that came from far away; an ancient certainty I had lost which was now slowly finding its way back to me.

The return to my dreaming practices eliminated these turmoils, but created new ones. For example, after months of hearing it daily, I stopped finding the dreaming emissary's voice an annoyance or a wonder. It became a matter of course for me.

And I made so many mistakes influenced by what it said that I almost understood don Juan's reluctance to take it seriously. A psychoanalyst would have had a field day interpreting the emissary according to all the possible permutations of my intrapersonal dynamics.

Don Juan maintained a steadfast view on the dreaming emissary: It is an impersonal but constant force from the realm of inorganic beings. Thus, every dreamer experiences it, in more or less the same terms. If we choose to take its words as advice, we are incurable fools.

And I was definitely one of them. There was no way I could have remained impassive being in direct contact with such an extraordinary event: a voice that clearly and concisely told me in three languages hidden things about anything or anyone I focused my attention on. Its only drawback, which was of no consequence to me, was that we were not synchronized. The emissary used to tell me things about people or events when I had honestly forgotten I had been interested in them.

I asked don Juan about this oddity, and he said that it had to do with the rigidity of my assemblage point. He explained that I had been reared by old adults and that they had imbued me with old people's views. Therefore, I was dangerously righteous. His urge to give me potions of hallucinogenic plants was but an effort, he said, to shake my assemblage point and allow it to have a minimal margin of fluidity.

"If you don't develop this margin," he went on, "either you'll become more righteous or you'll become a hysterical sorcerer. My interest in telling you about the old sorcerers is not to bad-mouth them but to pit them against you. Sooner or later, your assemblage point will be more fluid, but not fluid enough to offset your facility to be like them: righteous and hysterical."

"How can I avoid all that, don Juan?"

"There is only one way. Sorcerers call it sheer understanding. I call it a romance with knowledge. It's the drive sorcerers use to know, to discover, to be bewildered."

Don Juan changed the subject and continued to explain the fixation of the assemblage point. He said that seeing children's assemblage points constantly fluttering as if moved by tremors and changing their place with ease, the old sorcerers came to the conclusion that the assemblage point's habitual location is not innate but brought about by habituation. Seeing also that only in adults is it fixed on one spot, they surmised that the specific location of the assemblage point fetters a specific way of perceiving. Through usage, this specific way of perceiving becomes a system of interpreting sensory data.

Don Juan pointed out that since we are drafted into that system by being born into it, from the moment of our birth we imperatively strive to adjust our perceiving to conform to the demands of this system; a system that rules us for life. Consequently, the old sorcerers were thoroughly right in believing that the act of countermanding that system and perceiving energy directly is what transforms a person into a sorcerer.

Don Juan expressed wonder at what he called the greatest accomplishment of our human upbringing: The ability to lock our assemblage point on its habitual position. And furthermore, once it is immobilized there, our perception can be coached and guided to interpret what we perceive. In other words, we can then be guided to perceive more in terms of our system than in terms of our senses.

He assured me that human perception is universally homogeneous, because the assemblage points of the whole human race are fixed on the same spot.

He went on to say that sorcerers prove all this to themselves when they see that at the moment the assemblage point is displaced beyond a certain threshold, and new filaments of energy begin to be perceived, there is no sense to what we perceive. The immediate cause is that new sensory data has rendered our conventional system inoperative; our formerly established system can no longer be used to interpret what we are newly perceiving.

"Perceiving without our customary system is, of course, chaotic," don Juan continued. "But strangely enough, when we think we have truly lost our bearings, our old system rallies. It comes to our rescue and transforms our new incomprehensible perception into a thoroughly comprehensible new world. Just like what happened to you when you gazed at the leaves of the mesquite tree."

"What exactly happened to me, don Juan?"

"Your perception was chaotic for a while. Everything came to you at once, and your system for interpreting the world didn't function. Then, the chaos cleared up, and there you were in front of a new world."

"We are again, don Juan, at the same place we were before. Does that world exist, or is it merely my mind that concocted it?"

"We certainly are back, and the answer is still the same. It exists in the precise position your assemblage point was at that moment. In order to perceive it, you needed cohesion, that is, you needed to maintain your assemblage point fixed on that position; which you did. The result was that you totally perceived a new world for a while."

"But would others perceive that same world?"

"If they had uniformity and cohesion, they would. Uniformity is to hold, in unison, the same position of the assemblage point. The old sorcerers called the entire act of acquiring uniformity and cohesion outside the normal world stalking perception.

"The art of stalking," he continued, "as I have already said, deals with the fixation of the assemblage point. The old sorcerers discovered, through practice, that important as it is to displace the assemblage point, it is equallly important to make it stay fixed on its new position, wherever that new position might be."

He explained that if the assemblage point does not become stationary, there is no way that we can perceive coherently. We would experience then a kaleidoscope of disassociated images. This is the reason the old sorcerers put as much emphasis on stalking as they did on dreaming. One art cannot exist without the other, especially for the kinds of activities in which the old sorcerers were involved.

"What were those activities, don Juan?"

"The old sorcerers called them the intricacies of the second attention, or the grand adventure of the unknown."

Don Juan said that these activities stem from the displacements of the assemblage point. Not only had the old sorcerers learned to displace their assemblage points to thousands of positions on the surface or on the inside of their energy masses, but they had also learned to fixate their assemblage points on those positions; and thus retain their cohesiveness indefinitely.

"What was the benefit of that, don Juan?"

"We can't talk about benefits. We can talk only about end results."

He explained that the cohesiveness of the old sorcerers was such that it allowed them to become perceptually and physically everything the specific position of their assemblage points dictated. They could transform themselves into anything for which they had a specific inventory. An inventory is, he said, all the details of perception involved in becoming, for example, a jaguar, a bird, an insect, et cetera, et cetera.

"It's very hard for me to believe that this transformation can be possible," I said.

"It is possible," he assured me. "Not so much for you and me, but for them. For them, it was nothing."

He said that the old sorcerers had superb fluidity. All they needed was the slightest shift of their assemblage points, the slightest perceptual cue from their dreaming, and they would instantaneously stalk their perception, rearrange their cohesiveness to fit their new state of awareness, and be an animal, another person, a bird, or anything.

"But isn't that what mentally ill people do? Make up their own reality as they go along?" I said.

"No, it isn't the same. Insane people imagine a reality of their own because they don't have any preconceived purpose at all. Insane people bring chaos into the chaos. Sorcerers, on the contrary, bring order to the chaos. Their preconceived, transcendental purpose is to free their perception.

Sorcerers don't make up the world they are perceiving. They perceive energy directly. And then they discover that what they are perceiving is an unknown new world which can swallow them whole because it is as real as anything we know to be real."

Don Juan then gave me a new version of what had happened to me as I gazed at the mesquite tree. He said that I began by perceiving the energy of the tree. On the subjective level, however, I believed I was dreaming because I employed dreaming techniques to perceive energy.

He asserted that to use dreaming techniques in the world of everyday life was one of the old sorcerers' most effective devices. It made perceiving energy directly dreamlike, instead of totally chaotic, until a moment when something rearranged perception and the sorcerer found himself facing a new world- the very thing that had happened to me.

I told him about the thought I'd had, which I had barely dared to think: that the scenery I was viewing was not a dream, nor was it our daily world.

"It wasn't," he said. "I've been saying this to you over and over, and you think that I am merely repeating myself. I know how difficult it is for the mind to allow mindless possibilities to become real. But new worlds exist! They are wrapped one around the other, like the skins of an onion. The world we exist in is but one of those skins."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the goal of your teaching is to prepare me to go into those worlds?"

"No. I don't mean that. Those journeys are the antecedent of the sorcerers of today.

We go into those worlds only as an exercise. We do the same dreaming that the old sorcerers used to do, but at one moment we deviate into new ground. The old sorcerers preferred the shifts of the assemblage point, so they were always on more or less known, predictable ground. We prefer the movements of the assemblage point. The old sorcerers were after the human unknown. We are after the nonhuman unknown."

"I haven't gotten to that yet, have I?"

"No. You are only beginning. And at the beginning everyone has to go through the old sorcerers' steps. After all, they were the ones who invented dreaming."

"At what point will I then begin to learn the new sorcerers' brand of dreaming?"

"You have enormous ground yet to cover. Years from now perhaps. Besides, in your case, I have to be extraordinarily careful. In character, you are definitely linked to the old sorcerers. I've said this to you before, but you always manage to avoid my probes.

"Sometimes I even think that some alien energy is advising you, but then I discard the idea. You are not devious."

"What are you talking about, don Juan?"

"You've done, unwittingly, two things that worry the hell out of me.

"You traveled with your energy body to a place outside this world the first time you dreamt; you even walked there!

"And then you traveled with your energy body to another place outside this world, but parting from the awareness of the daily world."

"Why would that worry you, don Juan?"

"Dreaming is too easy for you. That is a damnation if we don't watch it. It leads to the human unknown. As I said to you, modern-day sorcerers strive to get to the nonhuman unknown."

"What can the nonhuman unknown be?"

"Freedom from being human. Inconceivable worlds that are outside the band of man but that we still can perceive. This is where modern sorcerers take the side road. Their predilection is what's outside the human domain. And what are outside that domain are all-inclusive worlds; not merely the realm of birds or the realm of animals or the realm of man- even if it be the unknown man.

"What I am talking about are worlds, like the one where we live; total worlds with endless realms."

"Where are those worlds, don Juan? In different positions of the assemblage point?"

"Right. In different positions of the assemblage point, but positions sorcerers arrive at with a movement of the assemblage point, not a shift.

Entering into those worlds is the type of dreaming only sorcerers of today do. The old sorcerers stayed away from it because it requires a great deal of detachment and no self-importance whatsoever. A price they couldn't afford to pay.

"For the sorcerers who practice dreaming today, dreaming is freedom to perceive worlds beyond the imagination."

"But, what's the point of perceiving all that?"

"You already asked me, today, the same question. You speak like a true merchant. What's the risk? you ask. What's the percentage gain to my investment? Is it going to better me?"

"There is no way to answer that. The merchant mind does commerce. But freedom cannot be an investment. Freedom is an adventure with no end in which we risk our lives and much more for a few moments of something beyond words; beyond thoughts or feelings."

"I didn't ask that question in that spirit, don Juan. What I want to know is what can be the driving force to do all this for a lazy bum like myself?"

"To seek freedom is the only driving force I know. Freedom to fly off into that infinity out there. Freedom to dissolve; to lift off; to be like the flame of a candle, which, in spite of being up against the light of a billion stars, remains intact, because it never pretended to be more than what it is: a mere candle."





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 05. The World of Inorganic Beings.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 05. The World of Inorganic Beings.

Faithful to my agreement to wait for don Juan to initiate any comment on dreaming, only in cases of necessity did I ask him for advice. Ordinarily, though, he not only seemed reluctant to touch the subject but was somehow displeased with me about it. In my estimation, a confirmation of his disapproval was the fact that whenever we talked about my dreaming activities, he always minimized the import of anything I had accomplished.

For me, at that time, the animate existence of inorganic beings had become the most crucial aspect of my dreaming practices. After encountering them in my dreams, and especially after my bout with them in the desert around don Juan's house, I should have been more willing to take their existence as a serious affair. But all these events had quite the opposite effect on me. I became adamant and doggedly denied the possibility that they existed.

Then I had a change of heart and decided to conduct an objective inquiry about them. The method of this inquiry required that I first compile a record of everything that transpired in my dreaming sessions, then use that record as a matrix to find out if my dreaming proved or disproved anything about the inorganic beings. I actually wrote down hundreds of pages of meticulous but meaningless details when it should have been clear to me that the evidence of their existence had been gathered almost as soon as I had started my inquiry.

It took but a few sessions for me to discover that what I thought to be don Juan's casual recommendation- to suspend judgment and let the inorganic beings come to me- was, in fact, the very procedure used by the sorcerers of antiquity to attract them. By leaving me to find it out for myself, don Juan was simply following his sorcery training. He had remarked time and time again that it is very difficult to make the self give up its strongholds except through practice. One of the self's strongest lines of defense is indeed our rationality, and this is not only the most durable line of defense when it comes to sorcery actions and explanations but also the most threatened. Don Juan believed that the existence of inorganic beings is a foremost assailant of our rationality.

In my dreaming practices, I had an established course, which I followed every single day without deviation. I aimed first at observing every conceivable item of my dreams, then at changing dreams. I can say in sincerity that I observed universes of detail in dreams upon dreams.

As a matter of course, at one given moment my dreaming attention began to wane, and my dreaming sessions ended: either in my falling asleep and having regular dreams in which I had no dreaming attention whatsoever; or in my waking up and not being able to sleep at all.

From time to time, however, as don Juan had described it, a current of foreign energy, a scout, as he called it, was injected into my dreams. Being forewarned helped me to adjust my dreaming attention and be on the alert. The first time I noticed foreign energy, I was dreaming about shopping in a department store. I was going from counter to counter looking for antiques. I finally found one. The incongruence of looking for antiques in a department store was so obvious that it made me chuckle, but since I had found one, I forgot about that incongruence. The antique was the handle of a walking stick. The salesman told me that it was made of iridium, which he called one of the hardest substances in the world. It was a carved piece: the head and shoulders of a monkey. It looked like jade to me. The salesman was insulted when I insinuated that it might be jade, and to prove his point he hurled the object, with all his strength, against the cement floor. It did not break but bounced like a ball and then sailed away, spinning like a Frisbee. I followed it. It disappeared behind some trees. I ran to look for it, and I found it, stuck on the ground. It had been transformed into an extraordinarily beautiful, deep green and black, full-length walking stick.

I coveted it. I grabbed it and struggled to pull it out of the ground before anyone else came along. But, hard as I tried, I could not make it budge. I was afraid I would break it if I attempted to pry it loose by shaking it back and forth. So I began to dig around it with my bare hands. As I kept on digging, it kept on melting, until only a puddle of green water was left in its place. I stared at the water; it suddenly seemed to explode. It turned into a white bubble, and then it was gone. My dream continued into other images and details, which were not outstanding, although they were crystal clear.

When I told don Juan about this dream, he said, "You isolated a scout. Scouts are more numerous when our dreams are average, normal dreams. The dreams of dreamers are strangely free from scouts. When they appear, they are identifiable by the strangeness and incongruity surrounding them."

"Incongruity, in what manner, don Juan?"

"Their presence doesn't make any sense."

"Very few things make sense in a dream."

"Only in average dreams are things nonsensical. I would say that this is so because more scouts are injected then, because average people are subject to a greater barrage from the unknown."

"Do you know why is that so, don Juan?"

"In my opinion, what takes place is a balance of forces. Average people have stupendously strong barriers to protect themselves against those onslaughts. Barriers such as worries about the self. The stronger the barrier, the greater the attack.

"Dreamers, by contrast, have fewer barriers and fewer scouts in their dreams. It seems that in dreamers' dreams nonsensical things disappear, perhaps to ensure that dreamers catch the presence of scouts."

Don Juan advised me to pay close attention and remember every single possible detail of the dream I had had. He even made me repeat what I had told him.

"You baffle me," I said. "You don't want to hear anything about my dreaming, and then you do. Is there any order to your refusals and acceptances?"

"You bet there is order behind all this," he said. "Chances are, you'll do the same someday to another dreamer. Some items are of key importance because they are associated with the spirit. Others are entirely unimportant because they are associated with our indulging personality."

"The first scout you isolate will always be present; it could be in any form, even iridium. By the way, what's iridium?"

"I don't really know," I said in total sincerity.

"There you are! And what will you say if it turns out to be one of the strongest substances in the world?"

Don Juan's eyes shone with delight while I nervously laughed at that absurd possibility- which I later learned was true.

I began to notice from then on the presence of incongruous items in my dreams. Once I had accepted don Juan's categorization of foreign energy in dreams, I totally agreed with him that incongruous items were foreign invaders of my dreams. Upon isolating them, my dreaming attention always focused on them with an intensity that did not occur under any other circumstances.

Another thing I noticed was that every time foreign energy invaded my dreams, my dreaming attention had to work hard to turn it into a known object. The handicap of my dreaming attention was its inability to accomplish fully such a transformation. The end result was a bastardized item, nearly unknown to me. The foreign energy then dissipated quite easily, the bastardized item vanished, turning into a blob of light, which was quickly absorbed by other pressing details of my dreams.

When I asked don Juan to comment on what was happening to me, he said, "At this point in your dreaming, scouts are reconnoiterers sent by the inorganic realm. They are very fast, meaning that they don't stay long."

"Why do you say that they are reconnoiterers, don Juan?"

"They come in search of potential awareness. They have consciousness and purpose, although it is incomprehensible to our minds, comparable perhaps to the consciousness and purpose of trees. The inner speed of trees and inorganic beings is incomprehensible to us because it is infinitely slower than ours."

"What makes you say that, don Juan?"

"Both trees and inorganic beings last longer than we do. They are made to stay put. They are immobile, yet they make everything move around them."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that inorganic beings are stationary like trees?"

"Certainly. What you see in dreaming as bright or dark sticks are their projections. What you hear as the voice of the dreaming emissary is equally their projection. And so are their scouts."

For some unfathomable reason, I was overwhelmed by these statements. I was suddenly filled with anxiety. I asked don Juan if trees also had projections like that."

"They do," he said. "Their projections are, however, even less friendly to us than those of the inorganic beings. Dreamers never seek them, unless they are in a state of profound amenity with trees, which is a very difficult state to attain. We have no friends on this earth, you know." He chuckled and added, "It's no mystery why."

"It may not be a mystery to you, don Juan, but it certainly is to me."

"We are destructive. We have antagonized every living being on this earth. That's why we have no friends."

I felt so ill at ease that I wanted to stop the conversation altogether. But a compulsive urge made me return to the subject of inorganic beings.

"What do you think I should do to follow the scouts?" I asked.

"Why in the world would you want to follow them?"

"I am conducting an objective inquiry about inorganic beings."

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you? I thought you were unmovable on your stand that inorganic beings don't exist."

His scoffing tone and cackling laughter told me what his thoughts and feelings about my objective inquiry were.

"I've changed my mind, don Juan. Now I want to explore all those possibilities."

"Remember, the realm of inorganic beings was the old sorcerers' field. To get there, they tenaciously fixed their dreaming attention on the items of their dreams. In that fashion, they were able to isolate the scouts. And when they had the scouts in focus, they shouted their intent to follow them. The instant the old sorcerers voiced that intent, off they went, pulled by that foreign energy."

"Is it that simple, don Juan?"

He did not answer. He just laughed at me as if daring me to do it.

At home, I tired of searching for don Juan's true meanings. I was thoroughly unwilling to consider that he might have described an actual procedure. After running out of ideas and patience, one day I let my guard down. In a dream I was having then, I was baffled by a fish that had suddenly jumped out of a pond I was walking by. The fish twitched by my feet, then flew like a colored bird, perching on a branch, still being a fish. The scene was so outlandish that my dreaming attention was galvanized. I instantly knew it was a scout. A second later, when the fish-bird turned into a point of light, I shouted my intent to follow it, and, just as don Juan had said, off I went into another world.

I flew through a seemingly dark tunnel as if I were a weightless flying insect. The sensation of a tunnel ended abruptly. It was exactly as if I had been spewed out of a tube and the impulse had left me smack against an immense physical mass. I was almost touching it. I could not see the end of it in any direction I looked. The entire thing reminded me so much of science fiction movies that I was utterly convinced I was constructing the view of that mass myself, as one constructs a dream. Why not? The thought I had was that, after all, I was asleep, dreaming.

I settled down to observe the details of my dream. What I was viewing looked very much like a gigantic sponge. It was porous and cavernous. I could not feel its texture, but it looked rough and fibrous. It was dark brownish in color. Then I had a momentary jolt of doubt about that silent mass being just a dream. What I was facing did not change shape. It did not move either. As I looked at it fixedly, I had the complete impression of something real but stationary. It was planted somewhere, and it had such a powerful attraction that I was incapable of deviating my dreaming attention to examine anything else, including myself. Some strange force, which I had never before encountered in my dreaming, had me riveted down.

Then I clearly felt that the mass released my dreaming attention. All my awareness focused on the scout that had taken me there. It looked like a firefly in the darkness, hovering over me, by my side. In its realm, it was a blob of sheer energy. I was able to see its energetic sizzling. It seemed to be conscious of me. Suddenly, it lurched onto me and tugged me or prodded me. I did not feel its touch, yet I knew it was touching me. That sensation was startling and new, it was as if a part of me that was not there had been electrified by that touch, ripples of energy went through it, one after another.

From that moment on, everything in my dreaming became much more real. I had a very difficult time keeping the idea that I was dreaming a dream. To this difficulty, I had to add the certainty I had that with its touch the scout had made an energetic connection with me. I knew what it wanted me to do the instant it seemed to tug me or shove me.

The first thing it did was to push me through a huge cavern or opening into the physical mass I had been facing. Once I was inside that mass, I realized that the interior was as homogeneously porous as the outside but much softer looking, as if the roughness had been sanded down. What I was facing was a structure that looked something like the enlarged picture of a beehive. There were countless geometric-shaped tunnels going in every direction. Some went up or down, or to my left or my right. They were at angles with one another, or going up or down on steep or mild inclines.

The light was very dim, yet everything was perfectly visible. The tunnels seemed to be alive and conscious: They sizzled. I stared at them, and the realization that I was seeing hit me. Those were tunnels of energy. At the instant of this realization, the voice of the dreaming emissary roared inside my ears, so loudly I could not understand what it said. "Lower it down," I yelled with unusual impatience and became aware that if I spoke, I blocked my view of the tunnels and entered into a vacuum where all I could do was hear.

The emissary modulated its voice and said, "You are inside an inorganic being. Choose a tunnel and you can even live in it." The voice stopped for an instant, then added, "That is, if you want to do it."

I could not bring myself to say anything. I was afraid that any statement of mine might be construed as the opposite of what I meant.

"There are endless advantages for you," the emissary's voice continued. "You can live in as many tunnels as you want. And each one of them will teach something different. The sorcerers of antiquity lived in this manner and learned marvelous things."

I sensed without any feeling that the scout was pushing me from behind. It appeared to want me to move onward. I took the tunnel to my immediate right. As soon as I was in it, something made me aware that I was not walking on the tunnel; I was hovering in it, flying. I was a blob of energy no different from the scout.

The voice of the emissary sounded inside my ears again. "Yes, you are just a blob of energy," it said. Its redundancy brought me an intense relief. "And you are floating inside one inorganic being," it went on. "This is the way the scout wants you to move in this world. When it touched you, it changed you forever. You are practically one of us now. If you want to stay here, just voice your intent." The emissary stopped talking, and the view of the tunnel returned to me. But when it spoke again, something had been adjusted. I did not lose sight of that world and I still could hear the emissary's voice. "The ancient sorcerers learned everything they knew about dreaming by staying here among us," it said.

I was going to ask if they had learned everything they knew by just living inside those tunnels, but before I voiced my question the emissary answered it. "Yes, they learned everything by just living inside the inorganic beings," it said. "To live inside them, all the old sorcerers had to do was say they wanted to, just like all it took for you to get here was to voice your intent, loud and clear."

The scout pushed against me to signal me to continue moving. I hesitated, and it did something equivalent to shoving me with such a force that I shot like a bullet through endless tunnels. I finally stopped because the scout stopped. We hovered for an instant. Then we dropped into a vertical tunnel. I did not feel the drastic change of direction. As far as my perception was concerned, I was still moving seemingly parallel to the ground.

We changed directions many times with the same perceptual effect on me. I began to formulate a thought about my incapacity to feel that I was moving up or down when I heard the emissary's voice. "I think you'll be more comfortable if you crawl rather than fly," it said. "You can also move like a spider or a fly, straight up or down or upside down."

Instantaneously, I settled down. It was as if I had been fluffy and suddenly I got some weight, which grounded me. I could not feel the tunnel's walls, but the emissary was right about my being more comfortable when crawling.

"In this world you don't have to be pinned down by gravity," it said. Of course, I was able to realize that myself. "You don't have to breathe either," the voice went on. "And, for your convenience alone, you can retain your eyesight and see as you see in your world." The emissary seemed to be deciding whether to add more. It coughed, just like a man clearing his throat, and said, "The eyesight is never impairedf. Therefore, a dreamer always speaks about his dreaming in terms of what he sees."

The scout pushed me into a tunnel to my right. It was somehow darker than the others. To me, at a preposterous level, it seemed cozier than the others, more friendly or even known to me. The thought crossed my mind that I was like that tunnel or that the tunnel was like me.

"You two have met before," the emissary's voice said.

"I beg your pardon," I said. I had understood what it said, but the statement was incomprehensible."

"You two wrestled, and because of that you now carry each other's energy." I thought that the emissary's voice carried a touch of malice or even sarcasm.

"No, it isn't sarcasm," the emissary said. "I am glad that you have relatives here among us."

"What do you mean by relatives?" I asked.

"Shared energy makes kinship," it replied. "Energy is like blood."

I was unable to say anything else. I clearly felt pangs of fear.

"Fear is something that is absent in this world," the emissary said.

And that was the only statement that was not true.

My dreaming ended there. I was so shocked by the vividness of everything, and by the impressive clarity and continuity of the emissary's statements, that I could not wait to tell don Juan. It surprised and disturbed me that he did not want to hear my account. He did not say so, but I had the impression that he believed all of it had been a product of my indulging personality.

"Why are you behaving like this with me?" I asked. "Are you displeased with me?"

"No. I am not displeased with you," he said. "The problem is that I can't talk about this part of your dreaming. You are completely by yourself in this case. I have said to you that inorganic beings are real. You are finding out how real they are. But what you do with this finding is your business, yours alone. Someday you'll see the reason for my staying away."

"But isn't there something you can tell me about that dream?" I insisted.

"What I can say is that it wasn't a dream. It was a journey into the unknown. A necessary journey, I may add, and an ultrapersonal one."

He changed the subject then and began to talk about other aspects of his teachings.

From that day on, in spite of my fear and don Juan's reluctance to advise me, I became a regular dream traveler to that spongy world. I discovered right away that the greater my capacity to observe the details of my dreams, the greater my facility to isolate the scouts.

If I chose to acknowledge the scouts as foreign energy, they remained within my perceptual field for a while.

If I chose to turn the scouts into quasi known objects, they stayed even longer, changing shapes erratically.

But if I followed them, by revealing out loud my intent to go with them, the scouts veritably transported my dreaming attention to a world beyond what I can normally imagine.

Don Juan had said that inorganic beings are always poised to teach. But he had not told me that dreaming is what they are poised to teach. He had stated that the dreaming emissary, since it is a voice, is the perfect bridge between that world and ours. I found out that the dreaming emissary was not only a teacher's voice but the voice of a most subtle salesman. It repeated on and on, at the proper time and occasion, the advantages of its world. Yet it also taught me invaluable things about dreaming. Listening to what it said, I understood the old sorcerers' preference for concrete practices.

"For perfect dreaming, the first thing you have to do is shut off your internal dialogue," it said to me one time. "For best results in shutting it off, put between your fingers some two to three inch long quartz crystals or a couple of smooth, thin river pebbles. Bend your fingers slightly, and press the crystals or pebbles with them."

The emissary said that metal pins, if they were the size and width of one's fingers, were equally effective. The procedure consisted of pressing at least three thin items between the fingers of each hand and creating, an almost painful pressure in the hands. This pressure had the strange property of shutting off the internal dialogue. The emissary's expressed preference was for quartz crystals. It said that they gave the best results, although with practice anything was suitable.

"Falling asleep at a moment of total silence guarantees a perfect entrance into dreaming," said the emissary's voice, "and it also guarantees the enhancing of one's dreaming attention."

"Dreamers should wear a gold ring," said the emissary to me another time, "preferably fitted a bit tight."

The emissary's explanation was that such a ring serves as a bridge for surfacing from dreaming back into the daily world or for sinking from our daily awareness into the inorganic beings' realm.

"How does this bridge work?" I asked. I had not understood what was involved.

"The contact of the fingers on the ring lays the bridge down," the emissary said. "If a dreamer comes into my world wearing a ring, that ring attracts the energy of my world and keeps it; and when that energy is needed, that energy transports the dreamer back to this world through the ring's releasing it into the dreamer's fingers.

"The pressure of that ring around a finger serves equally well to ensure a dreamer's return to his world. It gives him a constant, familiar sense on his finger."

During another dreaming session, the emissary said that our skin is the perfect organ for transposing energy waves from the mode of the daily world to the mode of the inorganic beings and vice versa. It recommended that I keep my skin cool and free from pigments or oils.

It also recommended that dreamers wear a tight belt or headband or necklace to create a pressure point that serves as a skin center of energy exchange. The emissary explained that the skin automatically screens energy, and that what we need to do to make the skin not only screen but exchange energy from one mode to the other is to express our intent out loud, in dreaming.

One day the emissary's voice gave me a fabulous bonus. It said that, in order to ensure the keenness and accuracy of our dreaming attention, we must bring it from behind the roof of the mouth, where an enormous reservoir of attention is located in all human beings. The emissary's specific directions were to practice and learn the discipline and control necessary to press the tip of the tongue on the roof of the mouth while dreaming. This task is as difficult and consuming, the emissary said, as finding one's hands in a dream. But, once it is accomplished, this task gives the most astounding results in terms of controlling the dreaming attention.

I received a profusion of instructions on every conceivable subject, instructions that I promptly forgot if they were not endlessly repeated to me. I sought don Juan's advice on how to resolve this problem of forgetting.

His comment was as brief as I had expected. "Focus only on what the emissary tells you about dreaming," he said.

Whatever the emissary's voice repeated enough times, I grasped with tremendous interest and fervor. Faithful to don Juan's recommendation, I only followed its guidance when it referred to dreaming and I personally corroborated the value of its instruction. The most vital piece of information for me was that the dreaming attention comes from behind the roof of the mouth. It took a great deal of effort on my part to feel in dreaming that I was pressing the roof of my mouth with the tip of my tongue. Once I accomplished this, my dreaming attention took on a life of its own and became, I may say, keener than my normal attention to the daily world.

It did not take much for me to deduce how deep must have been the involvement of the old sorcerers with the inorganic beings. Don Juan's commentaries and warnings about the danger of such an involvement became more vital than ever. I tried my best to live up to his standards of self-examination with no indulgence. Thus, the emissary's voice and what it said became a superchallenge for me. I had to avoid, at all cost, succumbing to the temptation of the emissary's promise of knowledge, and I had to do this all by myself since don Juan continued to refuse to listen to my accounts.

"You must give me at least a hint about what I should do," I insisted on one occasion when I was bold enough to ask him.

"I can't," he said with finality, "and don't ask again. I've told you, in this instance, dreamers have to be left alone."

"But you don't even know what I want to ask you."

"Oh yes I do. You want me to tell you that it is all right to live in one of those tunnels, if for no other reason than just to know what the emissary's voice is talking about."

I admitted that this was exactly my dilemma. If nothing else, I wanted to know what was implied in the statement that one can live inside those tunnels.

"I went through the same turmoil myself," don Juan went on, "and no one could help me because this is a superpersonal and final decision; a final decision made the instant you voice your desire to live in that world. In order to get you to voice that desire, the inorganic beings are going to cater to your most secret wishes."

"This is really diabolical, don Juan."

"You can say that again. But not just because of what you are thinking. For you, the diabolical part is the temptation to give in, especially when such great rewards are at stake. For me, the diabolical nature of the inorganic beings' realm is that it might very well be the only sanctuary dreamers have in a hostile universe."

"Is it really a haven for dreamers, don Juan?"

"It definitely is for some dreamers. Not for me. I don't need props or railings. I know what I am. I am alone in a hostile universe, and I have learned to say. So be it!"

That was the end of our exchange. He had not said what I wanted to hear, yet I knew that even the desire to know what it was like to live in a tunnel meant almost to choose that way of life. I was not interested in such a thing. I made my decision right then to continue my dreaming practices without any further implications. I quickly told don Juan about it.

"Don't say anything," he advised me. "But do understand that if you choose to stay, your decision is final. You'll stay there forever."

It is impossible for me to judge objectively what took place during the countless times I dreamt of that world. I can say that it appeared to be a world as real as any dream can be real. Or I can say that it appeared to be as real as our daily world is real. Dreaming of that world, I became aware of what don Juan had said to me many times: that under the influence of dreaming, reality suffers a metamorphosis. I found myself then facing the two options which, according to don Juan, are the options faced by all dreamers: either we carefully revamp or we completely disregard our system of sensory input interpretation.

For don Juan, to revamp our interpretation system meant to intend its reconditioning. It meant that one deliberately and carefully attempts to enlarge its capabilities. By living in accordance with the sorcerers' way, dreamers save and store the necessary energy to suspend judgment and thus facilitate that intended revamping. He explained that if we choose to recondition our interpretation system, reality becomes fluid, and the scope of what can be real is enhanced without endangering the integrity of reality. Dreaming, then, indeed opens the door into other aspects of what is real.

If we choose to disregard our system, the scope of what can be perceived without interpretation grows inordinately. The expansion of our perception is so gigantic that we are left with very few tools for sensory interpretation, and thus leaves a sense of an infinite realness that is unreal; or an infinite unrealness that could very well be real but is not.

For me, the only acceptable option was reconstructing and enlarging my interpretation system. In dreaming the inorganic beings' realm, I was faced with the consistence of that world from dream to dream; from isolating the scouts through listening to the dreaming emissary's voice to going through tunnels. I went through them without feeling anything, yet being aware that space and time were constant, although not in terms discernible by rationality under normal conditions. However, by noticing the difference or the absence or profusion of detail in each tunnel, or by noticing the sense of distance between tunnels, or by noticing the apparent length or width of each tunnel in which I traveled, I arrived at a sense of objective observation.

The area where this reconstruction of my interpretation system had the most dramatic effect was the knowledge of how I related to the world of the inorganic beings. In that world, which was real to me, I was a blob of energy. Thus, I could whiz in the tunnels, like a fast-moving light, or I could crawl on their walls, like an insect. If I flew, a voice told me not arbitrary but consistent information about details on the walls on which I had focused my dreaming attention. Those details were intricate protuberances, like the Braille system of writing. When I crawled on the walls, I could see the same details with greater accuracy and hear the voice giving me more complex descriptions.

The unavoidable consequence for me was the development of a dual stand. On the one hand, I knew I was dreaming a dream; on the other, I knew I was involved in a pragmatic journey, as real as any journey in the world. This bona fide split was a corroboration of what don Juan had said: that the existence of inorganic beings is the foremost assailant of our rationality.

Only after I had really suspended judgment did I get any relief. At one moment, when the tension of my untenable position- seriously believing in the attestable existence of inorganic beings, while seriously believing that it was only a dream- was about to destroy me, something in my attitude changed drastically, but without any solicitation on my part.

Don Juan maintained that my energy level, which had been steadily growing, one day reached a threshold that allowed me to disregard assumptions and prejudgments about the nature of man, reality, and perception. That day I became enamored with knowledge, regardless of logic or functional value, and, above all, regardless of personal convenience.

When my objective inquiry into the subject of inorganic beings no longer mattered to me, don Juan himself brought up the subject of my dream journey into that world. He said, "I don't think you are aware of the regularity of your meetings with inorganic beings."

He was right. I had never bothered to think about it. I commented on the oddity of my oversight.

"It isn't an oversight," he said. "It's the nature of that realm to foster secretiveness. Inorganic beings veil themselves in mystery, darkness. Think about their world: stationary, fixed to draw us like moths to a light or a fire.

"There is something the emissary hasn't dared to tell you so far: that the inorganic beings are after our awareness or the awareness of any being that falls into their nets. They'll give us knowledge, but they'll extract a payment: our total being."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the inorganic beings are like fishermen?"

"Exactly. At one moment, the emissary will show you men who got caught in there or other beings that are not human that also got caught in there."

Revulsion and fear should have been my response. Don Juan's revelations affected me deeply, but in the sense of creating uncontainable curiosity. I was nearly panting.

"Inorganic beings can't force anyone to stay with them," don Juan went on. "To live in their world is a voluntary affair. Yet they are capable of imprisoning any one of us by catering to our desires, by pampering and indulging us. Beware of awareness that is immobile. Awareness like that has to seek movement, and it does this, as I've told you, by creating projections, phantasmagorical projections at times."

I asked don Juan to explain what 'phantasmagorical projections' meant. He said that inorganic beings hook onto dreamers' innermost feelings and play them mercilessly. They create phantoms to please dreamers or frighten them. He reminded me that I had wrestled with one of those phantoms. He explained that inorganic beings are superb projectionists, who delight in projecting themselves like pictures on the wall.

"The old sorcerers were brought down by their inane trust in those projections," he continued. "The old sorcerers believed their allies had power. They overlooked the fact their allies were tenuous energy projected through worlds, like in a cosmic movie."

"You are contradicting yourself, don Juan. You yourself said that the inorganic beings are real. Now you tell me that they are mere pictures."

"I meant to say that the inorganic beings, in our world, are like moving pictures projected on a screen; and I may even add that they are like moving pictures of rarefied energy projected through the boundaries of two worlds."

"But what about inorganic beings in their world? Are they also like moving pictures?"

"Not a chance. That world is as real as our world. The old sorcerers portrayed the inorganic beings' world as a blob of caverns and pores floating in some dark space. And they portrayed the inorganic beings as hollow canes bound together, like the cells of our bodies. The old sorcerers called that immense bundle the labyrinth of penumbra."

"Then every dreamer sees that world in the same terms, right?"

"Of course. Every dreamer sees it as it is. Do you think you are unique?"

I confessed that something in that world had been giving me all along the sensation I was unique. What created this most pleasant and clear feeling of being exclusive was not the voice of the dreaming emissary, or anything I could consciously think about.

"That's exactly what floored the old sorcerers," don Juan said. "The inorganic beings did to them what they are doing to you now; they created for them the sense of being unique, exclusive plus a more pernicious sense yet: the sense of having power. Power and uniqueness are unbeatable as corrupting forces. Watch out!"

"How did you avoid that danger yourself, don Juan?"

"I went to that world a few times, and then I never went back."

Don Juan explained that in the opinion of sorcerers, the universe is predatorial, and sorcerers more than anyone else have to take this into account in their daily sorcery activities. His idea was that consciousness is intrinsically compelled to grow, and the only way it can grow is through strife; through life-or-death confrontations.

"The awareness of sorcerers grows when they do dreaming," he went on. "And the moment it grows, something out there acknowledges its growth, recognizes it and makes a bid for it. The inorganic beings are the bidders for that new, enhanced awareness. Dreamers have to be forever on their toes. They are prey the moment they venture out in that predatorial universe."

"What do you suggest I do to be safe, don Juan?"

"Be on your toes every second! Don't let anything or anybody decide for you. Go to the inorganic beings' world only when you want to go."

"Honestly, don Juan, I wouldn't know how to do that. Once I isolate a scout, a tremendous pull is exerted on me to go. I don't have a chance in hell to change my mind."

"Come on! Who do you think you're kidding? You can definitely stop it. You haven't tried to, that's all."

I earnestly insisted that it was impossible for me to stop. He did not pursue the subject any longer, and I was thankful for that. A disturbing feeling of guilt had begun to gnaw at me. For some unknown reason, the thought of consciously stopping the pull of the scouts had never occurred to me.

As usual, don Juan was correct. I found out that I could change the course of my dreaming by intending that course. After all, I did intend for the scouts to transport me to their world. It was feasible that if I deliberately intended the opposite, my dreaming would follow the opposite course.

With practice, my capacity to intend my journeys into the inorganic beings' realm became extraordinarily keen. An increased capacity to intend brought forth an increased control over my dreaming attention. This additional control made me more daring. I felt that I could journey with impunity, because I could stop the journey any time I wanted to.

"Your confidence is very scary" was don Juan's comment when I told him, at his request, about the new aspect of my control over my dreaming attention.

"Why should it be scary?" I asked. I was truly convinced of the practical value of what I had found out.

"Because yours is the confidence of a fool," he said. "I am going to tell you a sorcerers' story that is apropos. I did not witness it myself, but my teacher's teacher, the nagual Elias, did."

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias and the love of his life, a sorceress named Amalia, were lost, in their youth, in the inorganic beings' world.

I had never heard don Juan talk about sorcerers being the love of anybody's life. His statement startled me. I asked him about this inconsistency.

"It's not an inconsistency. I have simply refrained all along from telling you stories of sorcerers' affection," he said. "You've been so oversaturated with love all your life that I wanted to give you a break.

"Well, the nagual Elias and the love of his life, the witch Amalia, got lost in the inorganic beings' world," don Juan went on. "They went there not in dreaming but with their physical bodies."

"How did that happen, don Juan?"

"Their teacher, the nagual Rosendo, was very close in temperament and practice to the old sorcerers. He intended to help Elias and Amalia, but instead he pushed them across some deadly boundaries. The nagual Rosendo didn't have that crossing in mind. What he wanted to do was to put his two disciples into the second attention, but what he got as a result was their disappearance."

Don Juan said that he was not going to go into the details of that long and complicated story. He was only going to tell me how they became lost in that world. He stated that the nagual Rosendo's miscalculation was to assume that the inorganic beings are not, in the slightest, interested in women. His reasoning was correct and was guided by the sorcerers' knowledge that the universe is markedly female and that maleness, being an offshoot of femaleness, is almost scarce, thus, coveted.

Don Juan made a digression and commented that perhaps that scarcity of males is the reason for men's unwarranted dominion on our planet. I wanted to remain on that topic, but he went ahead with his story. He said that the nagual Rosendo's plan was to give instruction to Elias and Amalia exclusively in the second attention. And to that effect, he followed the old sorcerers' prescribed technique. He engaged a scout, in dreaming, and commanded it to transport his disciples into the second attention by displacing their assemblage points on the proper position.

Theoretically, a powerful scout could displace their assemblage points on the proper position with no effort at all. What the nagual Rosendo did not take into consideration was the trickery of the inorganic beings. The scout did displace the assemblage points of his disciples, but it displaced them on a position from which it was easy to transport them bodily into the realm of the inorganic beings.

"Is this possible, to be transported bodily?" I asked.

"It is possible," he assured me. "We are energy that is kept in a specific shape and position by the fixation of the assemblage point on one location. If that location is changed, the shape and position of that energy will change accordingly. All the inorganic beings have to do is to place our assemblage point on the right location, and off we go, like a bullet, shoes, hat, and all."

"Can this happen to any one of us, don Juan?"

"Most certainly. Especially if our sum total of energy is right. Obviously, the sum total of the combined energies of Elias and Amalia was something the inorganic beings couldn't overlook. It is absurd to trust the inorganic beings. They have their own rhythm, and it isn't human."

I asked don Juan what exactly the nagual Rosendo did to send his disciples to that world. I knew it was stupid of me to ask, knowing that he was going to ignore my question. My surprise was genuine when he began to tell me.

"The steps are simplicity itself," he said. "He put his disciples inside a very small, closed space, something like a closet. Then he went into dreaming, called a scout from the inorganic beings' realm by voicing his intent to get one, then voiced his intent to offer his disciples to the scout.

"The scout, naturally, accepted the gift and took them away, at an unguarded moment, when they were making love inside that closet. When the nagual opened the closet, they were no longer there."

Don Juan explained that making gifts of their disciples to the inorganic beings was precisely what the old sorcerers used to do. The nagual Rosendo did not mean to do that, but he got swayed by the absurd belief that the inorganic beings were under his control.

"Sorcerers' maneuvers are deadly," don Juan went on. "I beseech you to be extraordinarily aware. Don't get involved in having some idiotic confidence in yourself."

"What finally happened to the nagual Elias and Amalia?" I asked.

"The nagual Rosendo had to go bodily into that world and look for them," he replied.

"Did he find them?"

"He did, after untold struggles. However, he could not totally bring them out. So the two young people were always semiprisoners of that realm."

"Did you know them, don Juan?"

"Of course I knew them, and I assure you, they were very strange."





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 06. The Shadows' World.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 06. The Shadows' World.

"You must be extremely careful, for you are about to fall prey to the inorganic beings," don Juan said to me, quite unexpectedly, after we had been talking about something totally unrelated to dreaming.

His statement caught me by surprise. As usual, I attempted to defend myself.

"You don't have to warn me. I'm very careful," I assured him.

"The inorganic beings are plotting," he said. "I sense that, and I can't console myself by saying that they set traps at the beginning and, in this manner, undesirable dreamers are effectively and permanently screened out."

The tone of his voice was so urgent that I immediately had to reassure him I was not going to fall into any trap.

"You must seriously consider that the inorganic beings have astounding means at their disposal," he went on. "Their awareness is superb. In comparison, we are children, children with a lot of energy, which the inorganic beings covet."

I wanted to tell him that, on an abstract level, I had understood his point and his concern, but, on a concrete plane, I saw no reason for his warning, because I was in control of my dreaming practices.

A few minutes of uneasy silence followed before don Juan spoke again. He changed the subject and said that he had to bring to my attention a very important issue of his dreaming instruction, an issue that had, so far, bypassed my awareness.

"You already understand that the gates of dreaming are specific obstacles," he said, "but you haven't understood yet that whatever is given as the exercise to reach and cross a gate is not really what that gate is all about."

"This is not clear to me at all, don Juan."

"I mean that it's not true to say, for example, that the second gate is reached and crossed when a dreamer learns to wake up in another dream, or when a dreamer learns to change dreams without waking up in the world of daily life."

"Why isn't it true, don Juan?"

"Because the second gate of dreaming is reached and crossed only when a dreamer learns to isolate and follow the foreign energy scouts."

"Why then is the idea of changing dreams given at all?"

"Waking up in another dream or changing dreams is the drill devised by the old sorcerers to exercise a dreamer's capacity to isolate and follow a scout."

Don Juan stated that following a scout is a high accomplishment and that when dreamers are able to perform it, the second gate is flung open and the universe that exists behind it becomes accessible to them. He stressed that this universe is there all the time but that we cannot go into it because we lack energetic prowess and that, in essence, the second gate of dreaming is the door into the inorganic beings' world, and dreaming is the key that opens that door.

"Can a dreamer isolate a scout directly, without having to go through the drill of changing dreams?" I asked.

"No, not at all," he said. "The drill is essential. The question here is whether this is the only drill that exists. Or can a dreamer follow another drill?"

Don Juan looked at me quizzically. It seemed that he actually expected me to answer the question.

"It's too difficult to come up with a drill as complete as the one the old sorcerers devised," I said, without knowing why but with irrefutable authority.

Don Juan admitted that I was absolutely right and said that the old sorcerers had devised a series of perfect drills to go through the gates of dreaming into the specific worlds that exist behind every gate. He reiterated that dreaming, being the old sorcerers' invention, has to be played by their rules. He described the rule of the second gate in terms of a series of three steps: one, through practicing the drill of changing dreams, dreamers find out about the scouts; two, by following the scouts, they enter into another veritable universe; and three, in that universe, by means of their actions, dreamers find out, on their own, the governing laws and regulations of that universe.

Don Juan said that in my dealings with the inorganic beings, I had followed the rule so well that he feared devastating consequences. He thought that the unavoidable reaction on the part of the inorganic beings was going to be an attempt to keep me in their world.

"Don't you think that you are exaggerating, don Juan?" I asked. I could not believe that the picture was as bleak as he was painting it.

"I am not exaggerating at all," he said, in a dry, serious tone. "You'll see. The inorganic beings don't let anyone go, not without a real fight."

"But what makes you think they want me?"

"They've already shown you too many things. Do you really believe that they are going to all this trouble just to entertain themselves?"

Don Juan laughed at his own remark. I did not find him amusing. A strange fear made me ask him whether he thought I should interrupt or even discontinue my dreaming practices.

"You have to continue your dreaming until you have gone through the universe behind the second gate," he said. "I mean that you alone must either accept or reject the lure of the inorganic beings. That is why I remain aloof and hardly ever comment on your dreaming practices."

I confessed to him that I had been at a loss to explain why he was so generous in elucidating other aspects of his knowledge and so miserly with dreaming.

"I was forced to teach you dreaming," he said, "only because that is the pattern set out by the old sorcerers. The path of dreaming is filled with pitfalls, and to avoid those pitfalls or to fall into them is the personal and individual affair of each dreamer, and I may add that it is a final affair."

"Are those pitfalls the result of succumbing to adulation or to promises of power?" I asked.

"Not only succumbing to those, but succumbing to anything offered by the inorganic beings. There is no way for sorcerers to accept anything offered by them, beyond a certain point."

"And what is that certain point, don Juan?"

"That point depends on us as individuals. The challenge is for each of us to take only what is needed from that world, nothing more. To know what's needed is the virtuosity of sorcerers, but to take only what's needed is their highest accomplishment. To fail to understand this simple rule is the surest way of plummeting into a pitfall."

"What happens if you fall, don Juan?"

"If you fall, you pay the price, and the price depends on the circumstances and the depth of the fall. But there is really no way of talking about an eventuality of this sort, because we are not facing a problem of punishment. Energetic currents are at stake here, energetic currents which create circumstances that are more dreadful than death. Everything in the sorcerers' path is a matter of life or death, but in the path of dreaming this matter is enhanced a hundred fold."

I reassured don Juan that I always exercised the utmost care in my dreaming practices, and that I was extremely disciplined and conscientious.

"I know that you are," he said. "But I want you to be even more disciplined and handle everything related to dreaming with kid gloves. Be, above all, vigilant. I can't foretell where the attack will come from."

"Are you seeing, as a seer, imminent danger for me, don Juan?"

"I have seen imminent danger for you since the day you walked in that mysterious city the first time I helped you round up your energy body."

"But do you know specifically what I should do and what I should avoid?"

"No, I don't. I only know that the universe behind the second gate is the closest to our own, and our own universe is pretty crafty and heartless. So the two can't be that different."

I persisted in asking him to tell me what was in store for me. And he insisted that, as a sorcerer, he sensed a state of general danger but that he could not be more specific.

"The universe of the inorganic beings is always ready to strike," he went on. "But so is our own universe. That's why you have to go into their realm exactly as if you were venturing into a war zone."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that dreamers always have to be afraid of that world?"

"No. I don't mean that. Once a dreamer goes through the universe behind the second gate, or once a dreamer refuses to consider it as a viable option, there are no more headaches."

Don Juan stated that only then are dreamers free to continue. I was not sure what he meant; he explained that the universe behind the second gate is so powerful and aggressive that it serves as a natural screen or a testing ground where dreamers are probed for their weaknesses. If they survive the tests, they can proceed to the next gate; if they do not, they remain forever trapped in that universe.

I was left choking with anxiety but, in spite of my coaxing, that was all he said. When I went home, I continued my journeys to the inorganic beings' realm, exerting great care. My carefulness seemed only to increase my sense of enjoying those journeys. I got to the point that the mere contemplation of the inorganic beings' world was enough to create an exultation impossible to describe. I feared that my delight was going to end sooner or later, but it was not so. Something unexpected made it even more intense.

On one occasion, a scout guided me very roughly through countless tunnels, as if searching for something, or as if it were trying to draw all my energy out and exhaust me. By the time it finally stopped, I felt as if I had run a marathon. I seemed to be at the edge of that world. There were no more tunnels, only blackness all around me. Then something lit up the area right in front of me. Light shone from an indirect source. It was a subdued light that rendered everything diffusely gray or brownish. When I became used to the light, I vaguely distinguished some dark, moving shapes. After a while, it seemed to me that focusing my dreaming attention on those moving shapes made them substantial. I noticed that there were three types: some of them were round, like balls; others were like bells; and others yet like gigantic, undulating candle flames. All of them were basically round and the same size. I judged that they were three to four feet in diameter. There were hundreds, perhaps even thousands of them.

I knew that I was having a strange, sophisticated vision, yet those shapes were so real that I found myself reacting with genuine queasiness. I got the nauseating feeling of being over a nest of giant, round, brown and grayish bugs. I felt somehow safe, though, hovering above them. I discarded all these considerations, however, the moment I realized that it was idiotic of me to feel safe or ill at ease, as if my dream were a real-life situation. However, as I observed those buglike shapes squirm, I became very disturbed at the idea that they were about to touch me.

"We are the mobile unit of our world," the emissary's voice said, all of a sudden. "Don't be afraid. We are energy, and, for sure, we're not intending to touch you. It would be impossible anyway. We are separated by real boundaries."

After a long pause, the voice added, "We want you to join us. Come down to where we are. And don't be ill at ease. You are not ill at ease with the scouts and certainly not with me. The scouts and I are just like the others. I am bell-shaped, and scouts are like candle flames."

That last statement was definitely a cue of sorts for my energy body. On hearing it, my queasiness and fear vanished. I descended to their level, and the balls and bells and candle flames surrounded me. They came so close to me that they would have touched me had I had a physical body. Instead, we went through one another, like encapsulated air puffs.

I had, at that point, an unbelievable sensation. Although I did not feel anything with or in my energy body, I was feeling and recording the most unusual tickling somewhere else; soft, airlike things were definitely going through me, but not right there. The sensation was vague and fast and did not give me time to catch it fully. Instead of focusing my dreaming attention on it, I became entirely absorbed in watching those oversized bugs of energy.

At the level where we were, it seemed to me that there was a commonality between the shadow entities and myself: size.

Perhaps it was because I judged them to be the same size as my energy body that I felt almost cozy with them. On examining them, I concluded that I did not mind them at all. They were impersonal, cold, detached, and I liked that immensely. I wondered for an instant whether my disliking them one minute and liking them the next was a natural consequence of dreaming or a product of some energetic influence those entities were exerting on me.

"They are most likable," I said to the emissary, at the very moment I was overpowered by a wave of profound friendship or even affection for them.

No sooner had I spoken my mind than the dark shapes scurried away, like bulky guinea pigs, leaving me alone in semidarkness.

"You projected too much feeling and scared them off," the emissary's voice said. "Feeling is too hard for them, and for me for that matter." The emissary actually laughed shyly.

My dreaming session ended there. On awakening, my first reaction was to pack my bag to go to Mexico and see don Juan. However, an unexpected development in my personal life made it impossible for me to travel, in spite of my frantic preparations to leave. The anxiety resulting from this setback interrupted my dreaming practices altogether. I did not engage my conscious volition to stop them. I had unwittingly put so much emphasis on this specific dream that I simply knew if I could not get to don Juan there was no point in continuing dreaming.

After an interruption that lasted over half a year, I became more and more mystified by what had happened. I had no idea that my feelings alone were going to stop my practices. I wondered then if the desire would be sufficient to reinstate it. It was! Once I had formulated the thought of reentering dreaming, my practices continued as if they had never been interrupted. The scout picked up where we had left off and took me directly to the vision I'd had during my last session.

"This is the shadows' world," the emissary's voice said as soon as I was there. "But, even though we are shadows, we shed light. Not only are we mobile but we are the light in the tunnels. We are another kind of inorganic being that exists here. There are three kinds: one is like an immobile tunnel, the other is like a mobile shadow. We are the mobile shadows. The tunnels give us their energy, and we do their bidding."

The emissary stopped talking. I felt it was daring me to ask about the third kind of inorganic being. I also felt that if I did not ask, the emissary would not tell me.

"What's the third kind of inorganic being?" I said.

The emissary coughed and chuckled. To me, it sounded like it relished being asked.

"Oh, that's our most mysterious feature," it said. "The third kind is revealed to our visitors only when they choose to stay with us."

"Why is that so?" I asked.

"Because it takes a great deal of energy to see them," the emissary answered. "And we would have to provide that energy."

I knew that the emissary was telling me the truth. I also knew that a horrendous danger was lurking. Yet I was driven by a curiosity without limits. I wanted to see that third kind.

The emissary seemed to be aware of my mood.

"Would you like to see them?" it asked casually.

"Most certainly," I said.

"All you have to do is to say out loud that you want to stay with us," the emissary said with a nonchalant intonation.

"But if I say that, I have to stay, right?" I asked.

"Naturally," the emissary said in a tone of ultimate conviction. "Everything you say out loud in this world is for keeps."

I could not help thinking that, if the emissary had wanted to trick me into staying, all it had to do was lie to me. I would not have known the difference.

"I cannot lie to you, because a lie doesn't exist," the emissary said, intruding into my thoughts. "I can tell you only about what exists. In my world, only intent exists; a lie has no intent behind it; therefore, it has no existence."

I wanted to argue that there is intent even behind lies, but before I could voice my argument, the emissary said that behind lies there is intention but that that intention is not intent.

I could not keep my dreaming attention focused on the argument the emissary was posing. It went to the shadow beings. Suddenly, I noticed that they had the appearance of a herd of strange, childlike animals. The emissary's voice warned me to hold my emotions in check, for sudden bursts of feelings had the capacity to make them disperse, like a flock of birds.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Come down to our side and try to push or pull us," the emissary's voice urged me. "The quicker you learn to do that, the quicker you'll be able to move things around in your world by merely looking at them."

My merchant's mind went berserk with anticipation. I was instantly among them, desperately trying to push them or pull them. After a while, I thoroughly exhausted my energy. I then had the impression that I had been trying to do something equivalent to lifting a house with the strength of my teeth.

Another impression I had was that the more I exerted myself, the greater the number of shadows. It was as if they were coming from every corner to watch me, or to feed on me. The moment I had that thought, the shadows again scurried away.

"We are not feeding on you," the emissary said. "We all come to feel your energy, very much like what you do with sunlight on a cold day."

The emissary urged me to open up to them by canceling out my suspicious thoughts. I heard the voice, and as I listened to what it was saying, I realized that I was hearing, feeling, and thinking exactly as I do in my daily world. I slowly turned to see around me. Taking the clarity of my perception as a gauge, I concluded that I was in a real world.

The emissary's voice sounded in my ears. It said that for me the only difference between perceiving my world and perceiving theirs was that perceiving their world started and ended in the blink of an eye; perceiving mine did not, because my awareness- together with the awareness of an immense number of beings like me who held my world in place with their intent- was fixed on my world. The emissary added that perceiving my world started and ended the same way for the inorganic beings, in the blink of an eye, but perceiving their world did not, because there were immense numbers of them holding it in place with their intent.

At that instant the scene started to dissolve. I was like a diver, and waking up from that world was like swimming up to reach the surface.


In the following session, the emissary began its dialogue with me by restating that a totally coordinated and coactive relationship existed between mobile shadows and stationary tunnels. It finished its statement saying, "We can't exist without each other."

"I understand what you mean," I said.

There was a touch of scorn in the emissary's voice when it retorted that I could not possibly understand what it means to be related in that fashion, which was infinitely more than being dependent. I intended to ask the emissary to explain what it meant by that, but the next instant I was inside of what I can only describe as the very tissue of the tunnel. I saw some grotesquely merged, glandlike protuberances that emitted an opaque light. The thought crossed my mind that those were the same protuberances that had given me the impression of being like Braille. Considering that they were energy blobs three to four feet in diameter, I began to wonder about the actual size of those tunnels.

"Size here is not like size in your world," the emissary said. "The energy of this world is a different kind of energy; its features don't coincide with the features of the energy of your world, yet this world is as real as your own."

The emissary went on to say that it had told me everything about the shadow beings when it described and explained the protuberances on the tunnels' walls. I retorted that I had heard the explanations but I had not paid attention to them because I believed that they did not pertain directly to dreaming.

"Everything here, in this realm, pertains directly to dreaming," the emissary stated.

I wanted to think about the reason for my misjudgment, but my mind became blank. My dreaming attention was waning. I was having trouble focusing it on the world around me. I braced myself for waking up. The emissary started to speak again, and the sound of its voice propped me up. My dreaming attention perked up considerably.

"Dreaming is the vehicle that brings dreamers to this world," the emissary said, "and everything sorcerers know about dreaming was taught to them by us. Our world is connected to yours by a door called dreams. We know how to go through that door, but men don't. They have to learn it."

The emissary's voice went on explaining what it had already explained to me before.

"The protuberances on the tunnels' walls are shadow beings," it said. "I am one of them. We move inside the tunnels, on their walls, charging ourselves with the energy of the tunnels, which is our energy."

An idle thought crossed my mind: I was really incapable of conceiving a symbiotic relationship such as the one I was witnessing.

"If you would stay among us, you would certainly learn to feel what it is like to be connected as we are connected," the emissary said.

The emissary seemed to be waiting for my reply. I had the feeling that what it really wanted was for me to say that I had decided to stay.

"How many shadow beings are in each tunnel?" I asked to change the mood and immediately regretted it because the emissary began to give me a detailed account of the numbers and functions of the shadow beings in each tunnel. It said that each tunnel had a specific number of dependent entities, which performed specific functions having to do with the needs and expectations of the supporting tunnels.

I did not want the emissary to go into more detail. I reasoned that the less I knew about the tunnel and shadow beings the better off I was. The instant I formulated that thought, the emissary stopped, and my energy body jerked as if it had been pulled by a cable. The next moment, I was fully awake, in my bed.


From then on, I had no more fears that could have interrupted my practices. Another idea had begun to rule me: the idea that I had found unparalleled excitation. I could hardly wait every day to start dreaming and have the scout take me to the shadows' world. The added attraction was that my visions of the shadows' world became even more true to life than before. Judged by the subjective standards of orderly thoughts, orderly visual and auditory sensory input, orderly responses on my part, my experiences, for as long as they lasted, were as real as any situation in our daily world. Never had I had perceptual experiences in which the only difference between my visions and my everyday world was the speed with which my visions ended. One instant I was in a strange, real world, and the next instant I was in my bed.

I craved don Juan's commentaries and explanations, but I was still marooned in Los Angeles. The more I considered my situation, the greater my anxiety: I even began to sense that something in the inorganic beings' realm was brewing at tremendous speed.

As my anxiety grew, my body entered into a state of profound fright, although my mind was ecstatic in the contemplation of the shadows' world. To make things worse, the dreaming emissary's voice lapsed into my daily consciousness. One day while I was attending a class at the university, I heard the voice say, over and over, that any attempt on my part to end my dreaming practices would be deleterious to my total aims. It argued that warriors do not shy away from a challenge and that I had no valid rationale for discontinuing my practices. I agreed with the emissary. I had no intention of stopping anything, and the voice was merely reaffirming what I felt.

Not only did the emissary change but a new scout appeared on the scene. On one occasion, before I had begun to examine the items of my dream, a scout had literally jumped in front of me and aggressively captured my dreaming attention. The notable feature of this scout was that it did not need to go through any energetic metamorphosis. It was a blob of energy from the start. In the blink of an eye, the scout transported me, without my having to voice my intent to go with it, to another part of the inorganic beings' realm: the world of the saber-toothed tigers.

I have described in my other works glimpses of those visions. I say glimpses because I did not have sufficient energy then to render these perceived worlds comprehensible to my linear mind.

My nightly visions of the saber-toothed tigers occurred regularly for a long time, until one night when the aggressive scout that had taken me for the first time to that realm suddenly appeared again. Without waiting for my consent, it took me to the tunnels.

I heard the emissary's voice. It immediately went into the longest and most poignant sales pitch I had heard so far. It told me about the extraordinary advantages of the inorganic beings' world. It spoke of acquiring knowledge that would definitely stagger the mind and about acquiring it by the simplest act, of staying in those marvelous tunnels. It spoke of incredible mobility, of endless time to find things, and, above all, of being pampered by cosmic servants that would cater to my slightest whims.

"Aware beings from the most unbelievable corners of the cosmos stay with us," the emissary said, ending its talk. "And they love their stay with us. In fact, no one wants to leave."

The thought that crossed my mind at that moment was that servitude was definitely antithetical to me. I had never been at ease with servants or with being served.

The scout took over and made me glide through many tunnels. It came to a halt in a tunnel that seemed somehow larger than the others. My dreaming attention became riveted on the size and configuration of that tunnel, and it would have stayed glued there had I not been made to turn around. My dreaming attention focused then on a blob of energy a bit bigger than the shadow entities. It was blue, like the blue in the center of a candle's flame. I knew that this energy configuration was not a shadow entity and that it did not belong there.

I became absorbed in sensing it. The scout signaled me to leave, but something was making me impervious to its cues. I remained, uneasily, where I was. However, the scout's signaling broke my concentration, and I lost sight of the blue shape.

Suddenly, a considerable force made me spin around and put me squarely in front of the blue shape. As I gazed at it, it turned into the figure of a person: very small, slender, delicate, almost transparent. I desperately attempted to determine whether it was a man or a woman, but, hard as I tried, I could not.

My attempts to ask the emissary failed. It flew away quite abruptly, leaving me suspended in that tunnel, facing now an unknown person. I tried to talk to that person the way I talked to the emissary. I got no response. I felt a wave of frustration at not being able to break the barrier that separated us. Then I was besieged by the fear of being alone with someone who might have been an enemy.

I had a variety of reactions triggered by the presence of that stranger. I even felt elation, because I knew that the scout had finally shown me another human being caught in that world. I only despaired at the possibility that we were not able to communicate perhaps because that stranger was one of the sorcerers of antiquity and belonged to a time different from mine.

The more intense my elation and curiosity, the heavier I became, until a moment in which I was so massive that I was back in my body, and back in the world. I found myself in Los Angeles, in a park by the University of California. I was standing on the grass, right in the line of people playing golf.

The person in front of me had solidified at the same rate. We stared at each other for a fleeting instant. It was a girl, perhaps six or seven years old. I thought I knew her. On seeing her, my elation and curiosity grew so out of proportion that they triggered a reversal. I lost mass so fast that in another instant I was again a blob of energy in the inorganic beings' realm. The scout came back for me and hurriedly pulled me away.

I woke up with a jolt of fright. In the process of surfacing into the daily world, something had let a message slip through. My mind went into a frenzy trying to put together what I knew or thought I knew. I spent more than forty-eight continuous hours attempting to get at a hidden feeling or a hidden knowledge that had gotten stuck to me. The only success I had was to sense a force- I fancied it to be outside my mind or my body- that told me not to trust my dreaming anymore.

After a few days, a dark and mysterious certainty began to get hold of me, a certainty that grew by degrees until I had no doubt about its authenticity: I was sure that the blue blob of energy was a prisoner in the inorganic beings' realm.

I needed don Juan's advice more desperately than ever. I knew that I was throwing years of work out the window, but I couldn't help it: I dropped everything I was doing and ran to Mexico.

"What do you really want?" don Juan asked me as a way to contain my hysterical babbling.

I could not explain to him what I wanted because I did not know it myself.

"Your problem must be very serious to make you run like this," don Juan said with a pensive expression.

"It is, in spite of the fact that I can't figure out what my problem really is," I said.

He asked me to describe my dreaming practices in all the detail that was pertinent. I told him about my vision of the little girl and how it had affected me at an emotional level. He instantly advised me to ignore the event and regard it as a blatant attempt, on the part of the inorganic beings, to cater to my fantasies. He remarked that if dreaming is overemphasized, it becomes what it was for the old sorcerers: a source of inexhaustible indulging.

For some inexplicable reason, I was unwilling to tell don Juan about the realm of the shadow entities. It was only when he discarded my vision of the little girl that I felt obliged to describe to him my visits to that world. He was silent for a long time, as if he were overwhelmed.

When he finally spoke, he said, "You are more alone than I thought, because I can't discuss your dreaming practices at all. You are at the position of the old sorcerers. All I can do is to repeat to you that you must exercise all the care you arc able to muster up."

"Why do you say that I am at the position of the old sorcerers?"

"I've told you repeatedly that your mood is dangerously like the old sorcerers'. They were very capable beings. Their flaw was that they took to the inorganic beings' realm like fish take to the water. You are in the same boat. You know things about it that none of us can even conceive. For instance, I never knew about the shadows' world, and neither did the nagual Julian. Nor did the nagual Elias, in spite of the fact that he spent a long time in the world of the inorganic beings."

"But what difference does knowing the shadows' world make?"

"A great deal of difference. Dreamers are taken there only when the inorganic beings are sure the dreamers are going to stay in that world. We know this through the old sorcerers' stories."

"I assure you, don Juan, that I have no intention whatsoever of staying there. You talk as if I am just about to be lured by promises of service or promises of power. I am not interested in either, and that's that."

"At this level, it isn't that easy anymore. You've gone beyond the point where you could simply quit. Besides, you had the misfortune of being singled out by a watery inorganic being. Remember how you tumbled with it? And how it felt? I told you then that watery inorganic beings are the most annoying. They are dependent and possessive, and once they sink their hooks, they never give up."

"And what does that mean in my case, don Juan?"

"It means real trouble. The specific inorganic being who's running the show is the one you grabbed that fatal day. Over the years, it has grown familiar with you. It knows you intimately."

I sincerely remarked to don Juan that the mere idea that an inorganic being knew me intimately made me sick to my stomach.

"When dreamers realize that the inorganic beings have no appeal," he said, "it is usually too late for them, because by then the inorganic beings have them in the bag."

I felt in the depths of me that he was talking abstractly, about dangers that might exist theoretically but not in practice. I was secretly convinced there was no danger of any sort.

"I am not going to allow the inorganic beings to lure me in any way, if that's what you're thinking," I said.

"I am thinking that they are going to trick you," he said. "Like they tricked the nagual Rosendo. They are going to set you up, and you won't see the trap or even suspect it. They are smooth operators. Now they have even invented a little girl."

"But there is no doubt in my mind that the little girl exists," I insisted.

"There is no little girl," he snapped. "That bluish blob of energy is a scout; an explorer caught in the inorganic beings' realm. I've said to you that the inorganic beings are like fishermen: They attract and catch awareness."

Don Juan said that he believed, without a doubt, that the bluish blob of energy was from a dimension entirely different from ours; a scout that got stranded and caught like a fly in a spider's web.

I did not appreciate his analogy. It worried me to the point of physical discomfort. I did mention this to don Juan, and he told me that my concern with the prisoner scout was making him feel very close to despair.

"Why does this bother you?" I asked.

"Something is brewing in that confounded world," he said. "And I can't figure out what it is."

While I remained with don Juan and his companions, I did not dream at all about the inorganic beings' world. As usual, my practice was to focus my dreaming attention on the items of my dreams and to change dreams. As a way to offset my concerns, don Juan made me gaze at clouds and at faraway mountain peaks. The result was an immediate feeling of being level with the clouds, or the feeling that I was actually at the faraway mountain peaks.

"I am very pleased, but very worried," don Juan said as a comment on my effort. "You are being taught marvels, and you don't even know it. And I don't mean that you are being taught by me."

"You are talking about the inorganic beings, true?"

"Yes, the inorganic beings. I recommend that you don't gaze at anything; gazing was the old sorcerers' technique. They were able to get to their energy bodies in the blink of an eye, simply by gazing at objects of their predilection. A very impressive technique, but useless to modern sorcerers. It does nothing to increase our sobriety or our capacity to seek freedom. All it does is pin us down to concreteness; a most undesirable state."

Don Juan added that, unless I kept myself in check, by the time I had merged the second attention with the attention of my everyday life, I was going to be an insufferable man. There was, he said, a dangerous gap between my mobility in the second attention and my insistence on immobility in my awareness of the daily world. He remarked that the gap between the two was so great that in my daily state I was nearly an idiot, and in the second attention I was a lunatic.

Before I went home, I took the liberty of discussing my dreaming visions of the shadows' world with Carol Tiggs, although don Juan had advised me not to discuss them with anybody. She was most understanding and most interested, since she was my total counterpart. Don Juan was definitely annoyed with me for having revealed my troubles to her. I felt worse than ever. Self-pity possessed me, and I began to complain about always doing the wrong thing.

"You haven't done anything yet," don Juan snapped at me. "That much, I know."

Was he right! On my next dreaming session, at home, all hell broke loose. I reached the shadows' world, as I had done on countless occasions: The difference was the presence of the blue energy shape. It was among the other shadow beings. I felt it was possible that the blob had been there before and I hadn't noticed it. As soon as I spotted it, my dreaming attention was inescapably attracted to that blob of energy. In a matter of seconds, I was next to it. The other shadows came to me, as usual, but I paid no attention to them.

All of a sudden, the blue, round shape turned into the little girl I had seen before. She craned her thin, delicate, long neck to one side and said in a barely audible whisper, "Help me!" Either she said that or I fantasized that she said it. The result was the same: I stood frozen, galvanized by genuine concern. I experienced a chill, but not in my energy mass. I felt a chill in another part of me. This was the first time I was completely aware that my experience was thoroughly separate from my sensorial feelings. I was experiencing the shadows' world, with all the implications of what I normally consider experiencing: I was able to think, to assess, to make decisions; I had psychological continuity; in other words, I was myself. The only part of me that was missing was my sensorial self. I had no bodily sensations. All my input came through seeing and hearing. My rationality then considered a strange dilemma: seeing and hearing were not physical faculties but qualities of the visions I was having.

"You are really seeing and hearing," the emissary's voice said, erupting into my thoughts. "That is the beauty of this place. You can experience everything through seeing and hearing, without having to breathe. Think of it! You don't have to breathe! You can go anywhere in the universe and not breathe."

A most disquieting ripple of emotion went through me, and, again, I did not feel it there, in the shadows' world. I felt it in another place. I became enormously agitated by the obvious yet veiled realization that there was a live connection between the me that was experiencing and a source of energy, a source of sensorial feeling located somewhere else. It occurred to me that this somewhere else was my actual physical body, which was asleep in my bed.

At the instant of this thought, the shadow beings scurried away, and the little girl was alone in my field of vision. I watched her and became convinced that I knew her. She seemed to falter as if she were about to faint. A boundless wave of affection for her enveloped me.

I tried to speak to her, but I was incapable of uttering sounds. It became clear to me then that all my dialogues with the emissary had been elicited and accomplished by the emissary's energy. Left to my own devices, I was helpless. I attempted next to direct my thoughts to the little girl. It was useless. We were separated by a membrane of energy I could not pierce.

The little girl seemed to understand my despair and actually communicated with me, directly into my thoughts. She told me, essentially, what don Juan had already said: that she was a scout caught in the webs of that world. Then she added that she had adopted the shape of a little girl because that shape was familiar to me and to her; and that she needed my help as much as I needed hers. She said this to me in one clump of energetic feeling, which was like words that came to me all at once. I had no difficulty understanding her, although this was the first time anything of the sort had happened to me.

I did not know what to do. I tried to convey to her my sensation of incapacity. She seemed to comprehend me instantly. She silently appealed to me with a burning look. She even smiled as if to let me know that she had left it up to me to extricate her from her bonds. When I retorted, in a thought, that I had no abilities whatsoever, she gave me the impression of a hysterical child in the throes of despair.

I frantically tried to talk to her. The little girl actually cried, like a child her age would cry, out of desperation and fear. I couldn't stand it. I charged at her, but with no effective result. My energy mass went through her. My idea was to lift her up and take her with me.

I attempted the same maneuver over and over until I was exhausted. I stopped to consider my next move. I was afraid that my dreaming attention was going to wane, and then I would lose sight of her. I doubted that the inorganic beings would bring me back to that specific part of their realm. It seemed to me that this was going to be my last visit to them: the visit that counted.

Then I did something unthinkable. Before my dreaming attention vanished, I yelled loud and clear my intent to merge my energy with the energy of that prisoner scout and set it free.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 07. The Blue Scout.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 07. The Blue Scout.

I was dreaming an utterly nonsensical dream. Carol Tiggs was by my side. She was speaking to me, although I could not understand what she said. Don Juan was also in my dream, as were all the members of his party. They seemed to be trying to drag me out of a foggy, yellowish world.

After a serious effort, during which I lost and regained sight of them various times, they succeeded in extricating me from that place. Since I could not conceive the sense of all that endeavor, I finally figured that I was having a normal, incoherent dream.

My surprise was staggering when I woke up and found myself in bed, in don Juan's house. I was incapable of moving. I had no energy at all. I did not know what to think, although I immediately sensed the gravity of my situation. I had the vague feeling that I had lost my energy because of fatigue caused by dreaming.

Don Juan's companions seemed to be extremely affected by whatever was happening to me. They kept on coming into my room, one at a time. Each stayed for a moment, in complete silence, until someone else showed up. It appeared to me that they were taking turns watching over me. I was too weak to ask them to explain their behavior.

During the subsequent days, I began to feel better, and they started to talk to me about my dreaming. At first, I did not know what they wanted of me. Then it dawned on me, because of their questions, that they were obsessed with the shadow beings. Every one of them appeared to be scared and said to me more or less the same thing. They insisted that they had never been in the shadows' world. Some of them even claimed that they did not know it existed. Their claims and reactions increased my sense of bewilderment and my fear.

The questions everyone asked were, "Who took you into that world? Or how did you even begin to know how to get there?" When I told them that the scouts had shown me that world, they could not believe me. Obviously, they had surmised that I had been there, but since it was not possible for them to use their personal experience as a reference point, they were unable to fathom what I was saying. Yet they still wanted to know all I could tell them about the shadow beings and their realm. I obliged them. All of them, with the exception of don Juan, sat by my bed, hanging on every word I said. However, every time I asked them about my situation, they scurried away, just like the shadow beings.

Another disturbing reaction, which they never had before, was that they frantically avoided any physical contact with me. They kept their distance, as if I were carrying the plague. Their reaction worried me so much that I felt obliged to ask them about it. They denied it. They seemed insulted and even went so far as to insist on proving to me that I was wrong. I laughed heartily at the tense situation that ensued. Their bodies went rigid every time they tried to embrace me.

Florinda Grau, don Juan's closest cohort, was the only member of his party who lavished physical attention on me and tried to explain to me what was going on. She told me that I had been discharged of energy in the inorganic beings' world and charged again, but that my new energetic charge was a bit disturbing to the majority of them.

Florinda used to put me to bed every night, as if I were an invalid. She even spoke to me in baby talk, which all of them celebrated with gales of laughter. But regardless of how she made fun of me, I appreciated her concern, which seemed to be real.

I have written about Florinda before in connection with my meeting her. She was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Once I said to her, and I really meant it, that she could have been a fashion magazine model.

"Of a magazine of nineteen ten," she retorted.

Florinda, although she was old, was not old at all. She was young and vibrant. When I asked don Juan about her unusual youthfulness, he replied that sorcery kept her in a vital state. Sorcerers' energy, he remarked, was seen by the eye as youth and vigor.

After satisfying their initial curiosity about the shadows' world, don Juan's companions stopped coming into my room, and their conversation remained at the level of casual inquiries about my health. Every time I tried to get up, however, there was someone around who gently put me back to bed. I did not want their ministrations, yet it seemed that I needed them; I was weak. I accepted that. But what really took its toll on me was not having anyone explain to me what I was doing in Mexico when I had gone to bed to dream in Los Angeles. I asked them repeatedly. Every one of them gave me the same answer, "Ask the nagual. He's the only one who can explain it."

Finally, Florinda broke the ice. "You were lured into a trap: That's what happened to you," she said.

"Where was I lured into a trap?"

"In the world of the inorganic beings, of course. That has been the world you've been dealing with for years. Isn't that so?"

"Most definitely, Florinda. But can you tell me about the kind of trap it was?"

"Not really. All I can tell you is that you lost all your energy there. But you fought very well."

"Why am I sick, Florinda?"

"You are not sick with an illness: You were energetically wounded. You were critical, but now you are only gravely wounded."

"How did all this happen?"

"You entered into a mortal combat with the inorganic beings, and you were defeated."

"I don't remember fighting anyone, Florinda."

"Whether you remember or not is immaterial. You fought and were outclassed. You didn't have a chance against those masterful manipulators."

"I fought the inorganic beings?"

"Yes. You had a mortal encounter with them. I really don't know how you have survived their death blow."

She refused to tell me anything else and hinted that the nagual was coming to see me any day.

The next day don Juan showed up. He was very jovial and supportive. He jokingly announced that he was paying me a visit in his capacity of energy doctor. He examined me by gazing at me from head to toe.

"You're almost cured," he concluded.

"What happened to me, don Juan?" I asked.

"You fell into a trap the inorganic beings set for you," he answered.

"How did I end up here?"

"Right there is the big mystery, for sure," he said and smiled jovially, obviously trying to make light of a serious matter. "The inorganic beings snatched you, body and all. First they took your energy body into their realm when you followed one of their scouts; and then they took your physical body."

Don Juan's companions seemed to be in a state of shock. One of them asked don Juan whether the inorganic beings could abduct anyone. Don Juan answered that they certainly could. He reminded them that the nagual Elias was taken into that universe, and he definitely did not intend to go there.

All of them assented with a nod. Don Juan continued speaking to them, referring to me in the third person. He said that the combined awareness of a group of inorganic beings had first consumed my energy body by forcing an emotional outburst from me: to free the blue scout. Then the combined awareness of the same group of inorganic beings had pulled my inert physical mass into their world. Don Juan added that without the energy body one is merely a lump of organic matter that can be easily manipulated by awareness.

"The inorganic beings are glued together, like the cells of the body," don Juan went on. "When they put their awareness together, they are unbeatable. It's nothing for them to yank us out of our moorings and plunge us into their world. Especially if we make ourselves conspicuous and available, like he did."

Their sighs and gasps echoed against the walls. All of them seemed to be genuinely frightened and concerned.

I wanted to whine and blame don Juan for not stopping me, but I remembered how he had tried to warn me, to deviate me, time and time again, to no avail. Don Juan was definitely aware of what was going on in my mind. He gave a knowing smile.

"The reason you think you're sick," he said, addressing me, "is that the inorganic beings discharged your energy and gave you theirs. That should have been enough to kill anyone. As the nagual, you have extra energy; therefore, you barely survived."

I mentioned to don Juan that I remembered bits and pieces of quite an incoherent dream, in which I was in a yellow-fogged world. He, Carol Tiggs, and his companions were pulling me out.

"The inorganic beings' realm looks like a yellow fog world to the physical eye," he said. "When you thought you were having an incoherent dream, you were actually looking with your physical eyes for the first time at the inorganic beings' universe. And, strange as it may seem to you, it was also the first time for us. We knew about the fog only through sorcerers' stories, not through experience."

Nothing of what he was saying made sense to me. Don Juan assured me that because of my lack of energy, a more complete explanation was impossible. I had to be satisfied, he said, with what he was telling me and how I understood it.

"I don't understand it at all," I insisted.

"Then you haven't lost anything," he said. "When you get stronger, you yourself will answer your questions."

I confessed to don Juan that I was having hot flashes. My temperature would rise suddenly, and while I felt hot and sweaty, I had extraordinary but disturbing insights into my situation.

Don Juan scanned my entire body with his penetrating gaze. He said that I was in a state of energetic shock. Losing energy had temporarily affected me, and what I interpreted as hot flashes were, in essence, blasts of energy during which I momentarily regained control of my energy body and knew everything that had happened to me.

"Make an effort, and tell me yourself what happened to you in the inorganic beings' world," he ordered me.

I told him that the clear sensation I got, from time to time, was that he and his companions had gone into that world with their physical bodies and had snatched me out of the inorganic beings' clutches.

"Right!" he exclaimed. "You're doing fine. Now, turn that sensation into a view of what happened."

I was unable to do what he wanted, hard as I tried. Failing made me experience an unusual fatigue which seemed to dry up the inside of my body. Before don Juan left the room, I remarked to him that I was suffering from anxiety.

"That means nothing," he said, unconcerned. "Gain back your energy, and don't worry about nonsense."

More than two weeks went by, during which I slowly gained back my energy. However, I kept on worrying about everything. I worried mainly about being unknown to myself, especially about a streak of coldness in me that I had not noticed before; a sort of indifference; a detachment that I had attributed to my lack of energy until I regained it. Then I realized that detachment was a new feature of my being; a feature that had me permanently out of synchronization. To elicit the feelings I was accustomed to, I had to summon them up and actually wait a moment until they made their appearance in my mind.

Another new feature of my being was a strange longing that took hold of me from time to time. I longed for someone I did not know. It was such an overpowering and consuming feeling that when I experienced it, I had to move around the room incessantly to alleviate it. The longing remained with me until I made use of another newcomer in my life: a rigid control of myself so new and powerful that it only added more fuel to my worrying.

By the end of the fourth week, everybody felt that I was finally cured. They cut down their visits drastically. I spent much of the time alone, sleeping. The rest and relaxation I was getting was so complete that my energy began to increase remarkably. I felt like my old self again. I even began to exercise.

One day around noon, after a light lunch, I returned to my room to take a nap. Just before I sank into a deep sleep, I was tossing in my bed trying to find a more comfortable spot, when a strange pressure on my temples made me open my eyes. The little girl of the inorganic beings' world was standing by the foot of my bed, peering at me with her cold, steel blue eyes.

I jumped out of bed and screamed so loudly that three of don Juan's companions were in the room before I had stopped my scream. They were aghast. They watched in horror as the little girl came to me and was stopped by the boundaries of my luminous physical being. We looked at each other for an eternity. She was telling me something, which I could not comprehend at first but which in the next moment became as clear as a bell. She said that for me to understand what she was saying, my awareness had to be transferred from my physical body into my energy body.

Don Juan came into the room at that moment. The little girl and don Juan stared at each other. Without a word, don Juan turned around and walked out of the room. The little girl swished past the door after him. The commotion this scene created among don Juan's companions was indescribable. They lost all their composure. Apparently, all of them had seen the little girl as she left the room with the nagual.

I myself seemed to be on the verge of exploding. I felt faint and had to sit down. I had experienced the presence of the little girl as a blow on my solar plexus. She bore an astonishing likeness to my father. Waves of sentiment hit me. I wondered about the meaning of this until I was actually sick.

When don Juan returned to the room, I had gained minimal control over myself. The expectation of hearing what he had to say about the little girl was making my breathing very difficult. Everybody was as excited as I was. They all talked to don Juan at once and laughed when they realized what they were doing. Their main interest was to find out whether there was any uniformity in the way they had perceived the scout's appearance. Everybody was in agreement that they had seen a little girl, six to seven years old, very thin, with angular, beautiful features. They also agreed that her eyes were steel blue and burning with a mute emotion: Her eyes, they said, expressed gratitude and loyalty.

Every detail they described about the little girl I corroborated myself. Her eyes were so bright and overpowering that they had actually caused me something like pain. I had felt the weight of her look on my chest.

A serious query, which don Juan's companions had and which I echoed myself, was about the implications of this event. All agreed that the scout was a portion of foreign energy that had filtered through the walls separating the second attention and the attention of the daily world. They asserted that; since they were not dreaming and yet all of them had seen the alien energy projected into the figure of a human child; that child had existence.

They argued that there must have been hundreds, if not thousands, of cases in which foreign energy slips unnoticed through natural barriers into our human world, but that in the history of their lineage there was no mention whatsoever of an event of this nature. What worried them the most was that there were no sorcerers' stories about it.

"Is this the first time in the history of mankind that this has happened?" one of them asked don Juan.

"I think it happens all the time," he replied, "but it has never happened in such an overt, volitional way."

"What does it mean to us?" another one of them asked don Juan.

"Nothing to us, but everything to him," he said and pointed at me.

All of them then entered into a most disturbing silence. Don Juan paced back and forth for a moment. Then he stopped in front of me and peered at me, giving all the indications of someone who cannot find words to express an overwhelming realization.

"I can't even begin to assess the scope of what you've done," don Juan finally said to me in a tone of bewilderment. "You fell into a pitfall, but it wasn't the kind of pitfall I was worrying about. Your pitfall was designed for you alone, and it was deadlier than anything I could have thought of. I worried about your falling prey to flattery and being served. What I never counted on was that the shadow beings would set a trap using your inherent aversion to chains."

Don Juan had once made a comparison of his reaction and mine, in the sorcerers' world, to the things that pressed us the most. He said, without making it sound like a complaint, that although he wanted and tried to, he had never been able to inspire the kind of affection his teacher, the nagual Julian, inspired in people.

"My unbiased reaction, which I am putting on the table for you to examine, is to be able to say, and mean it: it's not my fate to evoke blind and total affection. So be it!"

"Your unbiased reaction," he went on, "is that you can't stand chains, and you would forfeit your life to break them."

I sincerely disagreed with him and told him that he was exaggerating. My views were not that clear.

"Don't worry," he said laughing, "sorcery is action. When the time comes, you'll act your passion the same way I act mine. Mine is to acquiesce to my fate, not passively, like an idiot, but actively, like a warrior. Yours is to jump without either capriciousness or premeditation to cut someone else's chains."

Don Juan explained that upon merging my energy with the scout I had truthfully ceased to exist. All my physicalness had then been transported into the inorganic beings' realm and, had it not been for the scout who guided don Juan and his companions to where I was, I would have died or remained in that world, inextricably lost.

"Why did the scout guide you to where I was?" I asked.

"The scout is a sentient being from another dimension," he said. "It's a little girl now, and as such she told me that in order to get the necessary energy to break the barrier that had trapped her in the inorganic beings' world, she had to take all of yours. That's her human part now. Something resembling gratitude drove her to me. When I saw her, I knew instantly that you were done for."

"What did you do then, don Juan?"

"I rounded up everyone I could get hold of, especially Carol Tiggs, and off we went into the inorganic beings' realm."

"Why Carol Tiggs?"

"In the first place, because she has endless energy, and, in the second place, because she had to familiarize herself with the scout. All of us got something invaluable out of this experience. You and Carol Tiggs got the scout. And the rest of us got a reason to round up our physicality and place it on our energy bodies: We became energy."

"How did all of you do that, don Juan?"

"We displaced our assemblage points, in unison. Our impeccable intent to save you did the work. The scout took us, in the blink of an eye, to where you were lying, half dead, and Carol dragged you out."

His explanation made no sense to me. Don Juan laughed when I tried to raise that point.

"How can you understand this when you don't even have enough energy to get out of your bed?" he retorted.

I confided to him that I was certain I knew infinitely more than I rationally admitted but that something was keeping a tight lid on my memory.

"Lack of energy is what has put a tight lid on your memory," he said. "When you have sufficient energy, your memory will work fine."

"Do you mean that I can remember everything if I want to?"

"Not quite. You may want as much as you like, but if your energy level is not on a par with the importance of what you know, you might as well kiss your knowledge good-bye: it'll never be available to you."

"So what's the thing to do, don Juan?"

"Energy tends to be cumulative: If you follow the warrior's way impeccably, a moment will come when your memory opens up."

I confessed that hearing him talk gave me the absurd sensation that I was indulging in feeling sorry for myself; that there was nothing wrong with me.

"You are not just indulging," he said. "You were actually energetically dead four weeks ago. Now you are merely stunned. Being stunned and lacking energy is what makes you hide your knowledge. You certainly know more than any of us about the inorganic beings' world. That world was the exclusive concern of the old sorcerers. All of us have told you that only through sorcerers' stories do we know about it. I sincerely say that it is more than strange to me that you've become, in your own right, another source of sorcerers' stories for us."

I reiterated that it was impossible for me to believe I had done something he had not. But I could not believe either that he was merely humoring me.

"I am not flattering or humoring you," he said, visibly annoyed. "I am stating a sorcery fact. Knowing more than any of us about that world shouldn't be a reason for feeling pleased. There's no advantage in that knowledge. In fact, in spite of all you know, you couldn't save yourself. We saved you, because we found you. But without the aid of the scout, there was no point in even trying to find you. You were so infinitely lost in that world that I shudder at the mere thought."

In my state of mind, I did not find it strange in the least that I actually saw a ripple of emotion going through all of don Juan's companions and apprentices. The only one who remained unaltered was Carol Tiggs. She seemed to have fully accepted her role. She was one with me.

"You did free the scout," don Juan continued, "but you gave up your life. Or, worse yet, you gave up your freedom. The inorganic beings let the scout go in exchange for you."

"I can hardly believe that, don Juan. Not that I doubt you, you understand, but you describe such an underhanded maneuver that I am stunned."

"Don't consider it underhanded and you have the whole thing in a nutshell. The inorganic beings are forever in search of awareness and energy. If you supply them with the possibility of both, what do you think they'll do? Blow you kisses from across the street?"

I knew that don Juan was right. However, I could not hold that certainty for too long: Clarity kept drifting away from me.

Don Juan's companions continued asking him questions. They wanted to know if he had given any thought to what to do with the scout.

"Yes, I have. It is a most serious problem, which the nagual here has to resolve," he said, pointing at me. "He and Carol Tiggs are the only ones who can free the scout. And he knows it too."

Naturally, I asked him the only possible question, "How can I free it?"

"Instead of my telling you how, there is a much better and more just way of finding out," don Juan said with a big smile. "Ask the emissary. The inorganic beings cannot lie, you know."





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 08. The Third Gate of Dreaming.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 08. The Third Gate of Dreaming.

"The third gate of dreaming is reached when you find yourself in a dream, staring at someone else who is asleep. And that someone else turns out to be you," don Juan said.

My energy level was so keyed up at the time that I went to work on the third task right away although he did not offer any more information about it. Journeying to the realm of inorganic beings was no longer an issue for me.

The first thing I noticed in my dreaming practices was that a surge of energy immediately rearranged the focus of my dreaming attention. Its focus was now on waking up in a dream and seeing myself sleeping.

Very soon after, I found myself in a dream looking at myself asleep. I immediately reported it to don Juan. The dream had happened while I was at his house.

"There are two phases to each of the gates of dreaming," he said. "The first, as you know, is to arrive at the gate: The second is to cross it. By dreaming what you've dreamt- that you saw yourself asleep- you arrived at the third gate. The second phase is to move around once you've seen yourself asleep.

"At the third gate of dreaming," he went on, "you begin to deliberately merge your dreaming reality with the reality of the daily world. This is the drill, and sorcerers call it completing the energy body. The merge between the two realities has to be so thorough that you need to be more fluid than ever. Examine everything at the third gate with great care and curiosity."

I complained that his recommendations were too cryptic and were not making any sense to me.

"What do you mean by great care and curiosity?" I asked.

"Our tendency at the third gate is to get lost in detail," he replied. "To view things with great care and curiosity means to resist the nearly irresistible temptation to plunge into detail.

"The given drill at the third gate, as I said, is to consolidate the energy body.

"Dreamers begin forging the energy body by fulfilling the drills of the first and second gates. When they reach the third gate, the energy body is ready to come out, or perhaps it would be better to say that it is ready to act. Unfortunately, this also means that it's ready to be mesmerized by detail."

"What does it mean to be mesmerized by detail?"

"The energy body is like a child who's been imprisoned all its life. The moment it is free, it soaks up everything it can find, and I mean everything. Every irrelevant, minute detail totally absorbs the energy body."

An awkward silence followed. I had no idea what to say. I had understood him perfectly, I just didn't have anything in my experience to give me an idea of exactly what it all meant.

"The most asinine detail becomes a world for the energy body," don Juan explained. "The effort that dreamers have to make to direct the energy body is staggering. I know that it sounds awkward to tell you to view things with care and curiosity, but that is the best way to describe what you should do. At the third gate, dreamers have to avoid a nearly irresistible impulse to plunge into everything, and they avoid it by being so curious, so desperate to get into everything that they don't let any particular thing imprison them."

Don Juan added that his recommendations, which he knew sounded absurd to the mind, were directly aimed at my energy body. He stressed over and over that my energy body had to unite all its resources in order to act.

"But hasn't my energy body been acting all along?" I asked.

"Part of it has, otherwise you wouldn't have journeyed to the inorganic beings' realm," he replied. "Now your entire energy body has to be engaged to perform the drill of the third gate. Therefore, to make things easier for your energy body, you must hold back your rationality."

"I am afraid you are barking up the wrong tree," I said. "There is very little rationality left in me after all the experiences you've brought into my life."

"Don't say anything," don Juan replied. "At the third gate, rationality is responsible for the insistence of our energy bodies on being obsessed with superfluous detail. At the third gate, then, we need irrational fluidity; irrational abandon to counteract that insistence."

Don Juan's statement that each gate is an obstacle could not have been more truthful. I labored to fulfill the drill of the third gate of dreaming more intensely than I had on the other two tasks combined. Don Juan put tremendous pressure on me. Besides, something else had been added to my life: a true sense of fear. I had been normally and even excessively afraid of one thing or another throughout my life, but there had been nothing in my experience comparable to the fear I felt after my bout with the inorganic beings. Yet all this wealth of experience was inaccessible to my normal memory. Only in the presence of don Juan were those memories at my disposal.

I asked him about this strange situation once when we were at the National Museum of Anthropology and History in Mexico City. What had prompted my question was that, at the moment, I had the odd ability to remember everything that had happened to me in the course of my association with don Juan. And that made me feel so free, so daring and light-footed that I was practically dancing around.

"It just happens that the presence of the nagual induces a shift of the assemblage point," he said.

He guided me then into one of the display rooms of the museum and said that my question was apropos to what he had been planning to tell me.

"My intention was to explain to you that the position of the assemblage point is like a vault where sorcerers keep their records," he said. "I was tickled pink when your energy body felt my intent and you asked me about it. The energy body knows immensities. Let me show you how much it knows."

He instructed me to enter into total silence. He reminded me that I was already in a special state of awareness because my assemblage point had been made to shift by his presence. He assured me that entering into total silence was going to allow the sculptures in that room to make me see and hear inconceivable things.

He added, apparently to increase my confusion, that some of the archaeological pieces in that room had the capacity to produce, by themselves, a shift of the assemblage point, and that if I reached a state of total silence I would be actually witnessing scenes pertaining to the lives of the people who made those pieces.

He then began the strangest tour of a museum I have ever taken. He went around the room, describing and interpreting astounding details of every one of the large pieces. According to him, every archaeological piece in that room was a purposeful record left by the people of antiquity, a record that don Juan as a sorcerer was reading to me as one would read a book.

"Every piece here is designed to make the assemblage point shift," he went on. "Fix your gaze on any of them, silence your mind, and find out whether or not your assemblage point can be made to shift."

"How would I know that it has shifted?"

"Because you would see and feel things that are beyond your normal reach."

I gazed at the sculptures and saw and heard things that I would be at a loss to explain.

In the past, I had examined all those pieces with the bias of anthropology; always bearing in mind the descriptions of scholars in the field. Their descriptions of the functions of those pieces, rooted in modern man's cognition of the world, appeared to me, for the first time, to be utterly prejudiced if not asinine.

What don Juan said about those pieces, and what I heard and saw myself while gazing at them was the farthest thing from what I had always read about them.

My discomfort was so great that I felt obliged to apologize to don Juan for what I thought was my suggestibility. He did not laugh or make fun of me. He patiently explained that sorcerers were capable of leaving accurate records of their findings in the position of the assemblage point.

He maintained that when it comes to getting to the essence of a written account, we have to use our sense of sympathetic or imaginative participation to go beyond the mere page into the experience itself.

However, in the sorcerers' world, since there are no written pages, total records, which can be relived instead of read, are left in the position of the assemblage point.

To illustrate his argument, don Juan talked about the sorcerers' teachings for the second attention. He said that they are given when the apprentice's assemblage point is on a place other than the normal one. The position of the assemblage point becomes, in this manner, the record of the lesson. In order to play the lesson back, the apprentice has to return his assemblage point to the position it occupied when the lesson was given. Don Juan concluded his remarks by reiterating that to return the assemblage point to all the positions it occupied when the lessons were given is an accomplishment of the highest magnitude.


For nearly a year, don Juan did not ask me anything about my third dreaming task. Then one day, quite abruptly, he wanted me to describe to him all the nuances of my dreaming practices.

The first thing I mentioned was a baffling recurrence. For a period of months, I had dreams in which I found myself staring at me, sleeping in my bed. The odd part was the regularity of those dreams; they happened every four days, like clockwork.

During the other three days, my dreaming was what it always had been so far: I examined every possible item in my dreams, I changed dreams, and occasionally, driven by a suicidal curiosity, I followed the foreign energy scouts, although I felt extremely guilty doing this. I fancied it to be like having a secret drug addiction. The realness of that world was irresistible to me.

Secretly, I felt somehow exonerated from total responsibility, because don Juan himself had suggested that I ask the dreaming emissary about what to do to free the blue scout trapped among us. He meant for me to pose the question in my everyday practice, but I construed his statement to imply that I had to ask the emissary while I was in its world. The question I really wanted to ask the emissary was whether the inorganic beings had set a trap for me.

The emissary not only told me that everything don Juan had said was true but also gave me instructions on what Carol Tiggs and I had to do to liberate the scout.

"The regularity of your dreams is something that I rather expected," don Juan remarked, after listening to me.

"Why did you expect something like that, don Juan?"

"Because of your relationship with the inorganic beings."

"That's over and forgotten, don Juan," I lied, hoping he would not pursue the subject any further.

"You are saying that for my benefit, aren't you? You don't need to; I know the true story. Believe me, once you get to play with them, you are hooked. They'll always be after you. Or, what's worse yet, you'll always be after them."

He stared at me, and my guilt must have been so obvious that it made him laugh.

"The only possible explanation for such regularity is that the inorganic beings are catering to you again," don Juan said in a serious tone.

I hurried to change the subject and told him that another nuance of my dreaming practices worth mentioning was my reaction to the sight of myself lying sound asleep. That view was always so startling that it either glued me to the spot until the dream changed, or frightened me so profoundly that it made me wake up screaming at the top of my voice. I had gotten to the point where I was afraid to go to sleep on the days I knew I was going to have that dream.

"You are not yet ready for a true merging of your dreaming reality and your daily reality," he concluded. "You must recapitulate your life further."

"But I've done all the recapitulating possible," I protested. "I've been recapitulating for years. There is nothing more I can remember about my life."

"There must be much more," he said adamantly, "otherwise, you wouldn't wake up screaming."

I did not like the idea of having to recapitulate again. I had done it, and I believed I had done it so well that I did not need to touch the subject ever again.

"The recapitulation of our lives never ends, no matter how well we've done it once," don Juan said. "The reason average people lack volition in their dreams is that they have never recapitulated and their lives are filled to capacity with heavily loaded emotions like memories, hopes, fears, et cetera, et cetera.

"Sorcerers, in contrast, are relatively free from heavy, binding emotions, because of their recapitulation. And if something stops them, as it has stopped you at this moment, the assumption is that there still is something in them that is not quite clear."

"To recapitulate is too involving, don Juan. Maybe there is something else I can do instead."

"No. There isn't. Recapitulating and dreaming go hand in hand. As we regurgitate our lives, we get more and more airborne."

Don Juan had given me very detailed and explicit instructions about the recapitulation. It consisted of reliving the totality of one's life experiences by remembering every possible minute detail of them. He saw the recapitulation as the essential factor in a dreamer's redefinition and redeployment of energy.

"The recapitulation sets free energy imprisoned within us; and without this liberated energy, dreaming is not possible." That was his statement.

Years before, don Juan had coached me to make a list of all the people I had met in my life, starting at the present. He helped me to arrange my list in an orderly fashion, breaking it down into areas of activity, such as jobs I had had, schools I had attended. Then he guided me to go, without deviation, from the first person on my list to the last one, reliving every one of my interactions with them.

He explained that recapitulating an event starts with one's mind arranging everything pertinent to what is being recapitulated. Arranging means reconstructing the event, piece by piece; starting by recollecting the physical details of the surroundings; then going to the person with whom one shared the interaction; and then going to oneself- to the examination of one's feelings.

Don Juan taught me that the recapitulation is coupled with a natural, rhythmical breathing. Long exhalations are performed as the head moves gently and slowly from right to left; and long inhalations are taken as the head moves back from left to right. He called this act of moving the head from side to side 'fanning the event'. The mind examines the event from beginning to end while the body fans, on and on, everything the mind focuses on.

Don Juan said that the sorcerers of antiquity, the inventors of the recapitulation, viewed breathing as a magical, life-giving act and used it, accordingly, as a magical vehicle; the exhalation, to eject the foreign energy left in them during the interaction being recapitulated; and the inhalation to pull back the energy that they themselves left behind during the interaction.

Because of my academic training, I took the recapitulation to be the process of analyzing one's life. But don Juan insisted that it was more involved than an intellectual psychoanalysis. He postulated the recapitulation as a sorcerer's ploy to induce a minute but steady displacement of the assemblage point. He said that the assemblage point, under the impact of reviewing past actions and feelings, goes back and forth between its present site and the site it occupied when the event being recapitulated took place.

Don Juan stated that the old sorcerers' rationale behind the recapitulation was their conviction that there is an inconceivable dissolving force in the universe, which makes organisms live by lending them awareness. That force also makes organisms die in order to extract the same lent awareness; which organisms have enhanced through their life experiences.

Don Juan explained the old sorcerers' reasoning. They believed that since it is our life experience this force is after, it is of supreme importance that it can be satisfied with a facsimile of our life experience: the recapitulation. Having had what it seeks, the dissolving force then lets sorcerers go, free to expand their capacity to perceive and reach with it the confines of time and space.

When I started again to recapitulate, it was a great surprise to me that my dreaming practices were automatically suspended the moment my recapitulation began. I asked don Juan about this unwanted recess.

"Dreaming requires every bit of our available energy," he replied. "If there is a deep preoccupation in our life, there is no possibility of dreaming."

"But I have been deeply preoccupied before," I said, "and my practices were never interrupted."

"It must be then that every time you thought you were preoccupied, you were only egomaniacally disturbed," he said, laughing. "To be preoccupied, for sorcerers, means that all your energy sources are taken on. This is the first time you've engaged your energy sources in their totality. The rest of the time, even when you recapitulated before, you were not completely absorbed."

Don Juan gave me this time a new recapitulation pattern. I was supposed to construct a jigsaw puzzle by recapitulating, without any apparent order, different events of my life.

"But it's going to be a mess," I protested.

"No, it won't be," he assured me. "It'll be a mess if you let your pettiness choose the events you are going to recapitulate. Instead, let the spirit decide. Be silent, and then get to the event the spirit points out."

The results of that pattern of recapitulation were shocking to me on many levels. I was very impressed to find out that, whenever I silenced my mind, a seemingly independent force immediately plunged me into a most detailed memory of some event in my life. But it was even more impressive that a very orderly configuration resulted. What I thought was going to be chaotic turned out to be extremely effective.

I asked don Juan why he had not made me recapitulate in this manner from the start. He replied that there are two basic rounds to the recapitulation; that the first is called formality and rigidity; and the second fluidity.

I had no inkling about how different my recapitulation was going to be this time. The ability to concentrate, which I had acquired by means of my dreaming practices, permitted me to examine my life at a depth I would never have imagined possible.

It took me over a year to view and review all I could about my life experiences. At the end, I had to agree with don Juan: There had been immensities of loaded emotions hidden so deeply inside me as to be virtually inaccessible.

The result of my second recapitulation was a new, more relaxed attitude. The very day I returned to my dreaming practices, I dreamt I saw myself asleep. I turned around and daringly left my room, penuriously going down a flight of stairs to the street.

I was elated with what I had done and reported it to don Juan. My disappointment was enormous when he did not consider this dream part of my dreaming practices. He argued that I had not gone to the street with my energy body, because if I had I would have had a sensation other than walking down a flight of stairs.

"What kind of sensation are you talking about, don Juan?" I asked, with genuine curiosity.

"You have to establish some valid guide to find out whether you are actually seeing your body asleep in your bed," he said instead of answering my question. "Remember, you must be in your actual room, seeing your actual body. Otherwise, what you are having is merely a dream. If that's the case, control that dream, either by observing its detail or by changing it."

I insisted he tell me more about the valid guide he had referred to, but he cut me short.

"Figure out a way to validate the fact that you are looking at yourself," he said.

"Do you have any suggestions as to what can be a valid guide?" I insisted.

"Use your own judgment. We are coming to the end of our time together. You have to be on your own very soon." He changed the subject then, and I was left with a clear taste of my ineptitude. I was unable to figure out what he wanted or what he meant by a valid guide.

In the next dream in which I saw myself asleep, instead of leaving the room and walking down the stairs, or waking up screaming, I remained glued, for a long time, to the spot from which I watched. Without fretting or despairing, I observed the details of my dream. I noticed then that I was asleep wearing a white T-shirt that was ripped at the shoulder. I tried to come closer and examine the rip, but moving was beyond my capabilities. I felt a heaviness that seemed to be part of my very being. In fact, I was all weight. Not knowing what to do next, I instantly entered into a devastating confusion. I tried to change dreams, but some unaccustomed force kept me staring at my sleeping body.

In the midst of my turmoil, I heard the dreaming emissary saying that not having control to move around was frightening me to the point that I might have to do another recapitulation. The emissary's voice and what it said did not surprise me at all. I had never felt so vividly and terrifyingly unable to move. I did not, however, give in to my terror. I examined it and found out that it was not a psychological terror but a physical sensation of helplessness, despair, and annoyance. It bothered me beyond words that I was not capable of moving my limbs. My annoyance grew in proportion to my realization that something outside me had me brutally pinned down. The effort I made to move my arms or legs was so intense and single-minded that at one moment I actually saw one leg of my body, sleeping on the bed, flung out as if kicking.

My awareness was then pulled into my inert, sleeping body, and I woke up with such a force that it took more than half an hour to calm myself down. My heart was beating almost erratically. I was shivering, and some of the muscles in my legs twitched uncontrollably. I had suffered such a radical loss of body heat that I needed blankets and hot-water bottles to raise my temperature.

Naturally, I went to Mexico to ask don Juan's advice about the sensation of paralysis, and about the fact that I really had been wearing a ripped T-shirt, thus, I had indeed seen myself asleep. Besides, I was deadly afraid of hypothermia. He was reluctant to discuss my predicament. All I got out of him was a caustic remark.

"You like drama," he said flatly. "Of course you really saw yourself asleep. The problem is that you got nervous because your energy body has never been consciously in one piece before. If you ever get nervous and cold again, hold on to your dick. That will restore your body temperature in a jiffy and without any fuss."

I felt a bit offended by his crassness. However, the advice proved effective. The next time I became frightened, I relaxed and returned to normal in a few minutes, doing what he had prescribed. In this manner, I discovered that if I did not fret and kept my annoyance in check, I did not panic. To remain controlled did not help me move, but it certainly gave me a deep sensation of peace and serenity.

After months of useless efforts at walking, I sought don Juan's comments once again, not so much for his advice this time but because I wanted to concede defeat. I was up against an impassable barrier, and I knew with indisputable certainty that I had failed.

"Dreamers have to be imaginative," don Juan said with a malicious grin. "Imaginative you are not. I didn't warn you about having to use your imagination to move your energy body because I wanted to find out whether you could resolve the riddle by yourself. You didn't, and your friends didn't help you either."

In the past, I had been driven to defend myself viciously whenever he accused me of lacking imagination. I thought I was imaginative, but having don Juan as a teacher had taught me, the hard way, that I am not. Since I was not going to engage my energy in futile defenses of myself, I asked him instead, "What is this riddle you are talking about, don Juan?"

"The riddle of how impossible and yet how easy it is to move the energy body. You are trying to move it as if you were in the daily world. We spend so much time and effort learning to walk that we believe our dreaming bodies should also walk. There is no reason why they should, except that walking is foremost in our minds."

I marveled at the simplicity of the solution. I instantly knew that don Juan was right. I had gotten stuck again at the level of interpretation. He had told me I had to move around once I reached the third gate of dreaming, and to me moving around meant walking. I told him that I understood his point.

"It isn't my point," he curtly answered. "It's a sorcerers' point. Sorcerers say that at the third gate the entire energy body can move like energy moves: fast and directly. Your energy body knows exactly how to move. It can move as it moves in the inorganic beings' world.

"And this brings us to the other issue here," don Juan added with an air of pensiveness. "Why didn't your inorganic being friends help you?"

"Why do you call them my friends, don Juan?"

"They are like the classic friends who are not really thoughtful or kind to us but not mean either. The friends who are just waiting for us to turn our backs so they can stab us there."

I understood him completely and agreed with him one hundred percent.

"What makes me go there? Is it a suicidal tendency?" I asked him, more rhetorically than not.

"You don't have any suicidal tendency," he said. "What you have is a total disbelief that you were near death. Since you were not in physical pain, you can't quite convince yourself you were in mortal danger."

His argument was most reasonable, except that I did believe a deep, unknown fear had been ruling my life since my bout with the inorganic beings. Don Juan listened in silence as I described to him my predicament. I could not discard or explain away my urge to go to the inorganic beings' world, in spite of what I knew about it.

"I have a streak of insanity," I said. "What I do doesn't make sense."

"It does make sense. The inorganic beings are still reeling you in, like a fish hooked at the end of a line," he said. "They throw worthless bait at you from time to time to keep you going. To arrange your dreams to occur every four days without fail is worthless bait. But they didn't teach you how to move your energy body."

"Why do you think they didn't?"

"Because when your energy body learns to move by itself, you'll be thoroughly out of their reach. It was premature of me to believe that you are free from them. You are relatively but not completely free. They are still bidding for your awareness."

I felt a chill in my back. He had touched a sore spot in me.

"Tell me what to do, don Juan, and I'll do it," I said.

"Be impeccable. I have told you this dozens of times. To be impeccable means to put your life on the line in order to back up your decisions, and then to do quite a lot more than your best to realize those decisions. When you are not deciding anything, you are merely playing roulette with your life in a helter-skelter way."

Don Juan ended our conversation, urging me to ponder what he had said.

At the first opportunity I had, I put don Juan's suggestion about moving my energy body to the test. When I found myself looking at my body asleep, instead of struggling to walk toward it I simply willed myself to move closer to the bed. Instantly, I was nearly touching my body. I saw my face. In fact, I could see every pore in my skin. I cannot say that I liked what I saw. My view of my own body was too detailed to be aesthetically pleasing. Then something like a wind came into the room, totally disarranged everything, and erased my view.

During subsequent dreams, I entirely corroborated that the only way the energy body can move is to glide or soar. I discussed this with don Juan. He seemed unusually satisfied with what I had done, which certainly surprised me. I was accustomed to his cold reaction to anything I did in my dreaming practices.

"Your energy body is used to moving only when something pulls it," he said. "The inorganic beings have been pulling your energy body right and left, and until now you have never moved it by yourself with your own volition. It doesn't seem like you've done much, moving the way you did, yet I assure you that I was seriously considering ending your practices. For a while, I believed you were not going to learn how to move on your own."

"Were you considering ending my dreaming practices because I am slow?"

"You're not slow. It takes sorcerers forever to learn to move the energy body. I was going to end your dreaming practices because I have no more time. There are other topics, more pressing than dreaming, on which you can use your energy."

"Now that I've learned how to move my energy body by myself, what else should I do, don Juan?"

"Continue moving. Moving your energy body has opened up a new area for you; an area of extraordinary exploration."

He urged me again to come up with an idea to validate the faithfulness of my dreams; that request did not seem as odd as it had the first time he voiced it.

"As you know, to be transported by a scout is the real dreaming task of the second gate," he explained. "It is a very serious matter, but not as serious as forging and moving the energy body. Therefore, you have to make sure, by some means of your own, whether you are actually seeing yourself asleep or whether you are merely dreaming that you're seeing yourself asleep. Your new extraordinary exploration hinges on really seeing yourself asleep."

After some heavy pondering and wondering, I believed that I had come up with the right plan. Having seen my ripped T-shirt gave me an idea for a valid guide. I started from the assumption that, if I were actually observing myself asleep, I would also be observing whether I had the same sleeping attire I had gone to bed in, an attire that I had decided to change radically every four days. I was confident that I was not going to have any difficulty in remembering, in dreams, what I was wearing when I went to bed; the discipline I had acquired through my dreaming practices made me think that I had the ability to record things like this in my mind and remember them in dreams.

I engaged my best efforts to follow this guide, but the results did not pan out as I thought they would. I lacked the necessary control over my dreaming attention, and I could not quite remember the details of my sleeping attire. Yet something else was definitely at work. Somehow I always knew whether my dreams were ordinary dreams or not. The outstanding aspect of the dreams that were not just ordinary dreams was that my body lay asleep in bed while my consciousness observed it.

A notable feature of these dreams was my room. It was never like my room in the daily world but an enormous empty hall with my bed at one end. I used to soar over a considerable distance to be at the side of the bed where my body lay. The moment I was next to it, a windlike force used to make me hover over it, like a hummingbird. At times the room used to vanish; disappear piece by piece until only my body and the bed were left. At other times, I used to experience a complete loss of volition. My dreaming attention seemed then to function independently of me. Either it was completely absorbed by the first item it encountered in the room or it seemed unable to decide what to do. In those instances, I had the sensation that I was helplessly floating, going from item to item.

The voice of the dreaming emissary explained to me once that all the elements of the dreams, which were not just commonplace dreams, were really energy configurations different from those of our normal world. The emissary's voice pointed out that, for example, the walls were liquid. It urged me then to plunge into one of them.

Without thinking twice, I dived into a wall as if I were diving into a huge lake. I did not feel the waterlike wall; what I felt was not a physical sensation of plunging into a body of water either. It was more like the thought of diving and the visual sensation of going through liquid matter. I was going, head-first, into something that opened up, like water does, as I kept moving downward.

The sensation of going down, headfirst, was so real that I began to wonder how long or how deep or how far I was diving. From my point of view, I spent an eternity in there. I saw clouds and rocklike masses of matter suspended in a waterlike substance. There were some glowing, geometric objects that resembled crystals, and blobs of the deepest primary colors I had ever seen. There were also zones of intense light and others of pitch blackness. Everything went by me, either slowly or at a fast speed. I had the thought that I was viewing the cosmos. At the instant of that thought, my speed increased so immensely that everything became blurred, and all of a sudden, I found myself awake with my nose smack against the wall of my room.

Some hidden fear urged me to consult with don Juan. He listened to me, hanging on every word.

"You need to do some drastic maneuvering at this point," he said. "The dreaming emissary has no business interfering with your dreaming practices. Or rather, you should not, under any conditions, permit it to do so."

"How can I stop it?"

"Perform a simple but difficult maneuver. Upon entering into dreaming, voice out loud your desire not to have the dreaming emissary anymore."

"Does that mean, don Juan, that I will never hear it again?"

"Positively. You'll get rid of it forever."

"But is it advisable to get rid of it forever?"

"It most certainly is, at this point."

With those words, don Juan involved me in a most disturbing dilemma. I did not want to put an end to my relationship with the emissary, but, at the same time, I wanted to follow don Juan's advice. He noticed my hesitation.

"I know it's a very difficult affair," he conceded, "but if you don't do it, the inorganic beings will always have a line on you. If you want to avoid this, do what I said, and do it now."

During my next dreaming session, as I prepared myself to utter my intent, the emissary's voice interrupted me. It said, "If you refrain from stating your request, I promise you never to interfere with your dreaming practices and talk to you only if you ask me direct questions."

I instantly accepted its proposition and sincerely felt that it was a good deal. I was even relieved it had turned out this way. I was afraid, however, that don Juan was going to be disappointed.

"It was a good maneuver," he remarked and laughed. "You were sincere: You really intended to voice your request. To be sincere is all that was required. There was, essentially, no need for you to eliminate the emissary. What you wanted was to corner it into proposing an alternative way, convenient to you. I am sure the emissary won't interfere anymore."

He was right. I continued my dreaming practices without any meddling from the emissary. The remarkable consequence was that I began to have dreams in which my dream rooms were my room in the daily world, with one difference: In the dreams, my room was always so slanted and so distorted that it looked like a giant cubist painting: Obtuse and acute angles were the rule instead of the normal right angles of walls, ceiling, and floor. In my lopsided room, the very slant created by the acute or obtuse angles was a device to display prominently some absurd, superfluous, but real detail; for example, intricate lines in the hardwood floor; or weather discolorations in the wall paint, or dust spots on the ceiling; or smudged fingerprints on the edge of a door.

In those dreams, I unavoidably got lost in the waterlike universes of the detail pointed out by the slant. During my entire dreaming practices, the profusion of detail in my room was so immense and its pull so intense that it instantly made me dive into it.

At the first free moment I had, I was at don Juan's place, consulting him about this state.

"I can't overcome my room," I said to him after I had given him the details of my dreaming practices.

"What gives you the idea you have to overcome it?" he asked with a grin.

"I feel that I have to move beyond my room, don Juan."

"But you are moving beyond your room. Perhaps you should ask yourself whether you are caught again in interpretations. What do you think moving means in this case?"

I told him walking from my room to the street had been such a haunting dream for me that I felt a real need to do it again.

"But you are doing greater things than that," he protested. "You are going to unbelievable regions. What else do you want?"

I tried to explain to him that I had a physical urge to move away from the trap of detail. What upset me the most was my incapacity to free myself from whatever caught my attention. To have a modicum of volition was the bottom line for me.

A very long silence followed. I waited to hear more about the trap of detail. After all, he had warned me about its dangers.

"You are doing fine," he finally said. "Dreamers take a very long time to perfect their energy bodies. And this is exactly what's at stake here; perfecting your energy body."

Don Juan explained that the reason my energy body was compelled to examine detail and get inextricably stuck in it was its inexperience; its incompleteness. He said that sorcerers spend a lifetime consolidating the energy body by letting it sponge up everything possible.

"Until the energy body is complete and mature, it is self-absorbed," don Juan went on. "It can't get free from the compulsion to be absorbed by everything. But if one takes this into consideration, instead of fighting the energy body as you're doing now, one can lend it a hand."

"How can I do that, don Juan?"

"By directing its behavior, that is to say, by stalking it."

He explained that since everything related to the energy body depends on the appropriate position of the assemblage point, and since dreaming is nothing else but the means to displace it, stalking is, consequently, the way to make the assemblage point stay put on the perfect position; in this case, the position where the energy body can become consolidated and from which it can finally emerge.

Don Juan said that the moment the energy body can move on its own, sorcerers assume that the optimum position of the assemblage point has been reached. The next step is to stalk it, that is, to fixate it on that position in order to complete the energy body. He remarked that the procedure is simplicity itself. One intends to stalk it.

Silence and looks of expectation followed that statement. I expected him to say more, and he expected me to have understood what he had said. I had not.

"Let your energy body intend to reach the optimum dreaming position," he explained. "Then, let your energy body intend to stay at that position and you will be stalking."

He paused, and with his eyes urged me to consider his statement.

"Intending is the secret, but you already know that," he said. "Sorcerers displace their assemblage points through intending; and fixate them, equally, through intending. And there is no technique for intending. One intends through usage."

To have another of my wild assumptions about my worth as a sorcerer was unavoidable at that point. I had boundless confidence that something was going to put me on the right track to intend the fixation of my assemblage point on the ideal spot. I had accomplished in the past all kinds of successful maneuvers without knowing how I performed them. Don Juan himself had marveled at my ability or my luck, and I was sure this was going to be one of those instances. I was gravely mistaken. No matter what I did, or how long I waited, I had no success whatsoever in fixing my assemblage point on any spot, much less on the ideal one.

After months of serious but unsuccessful struggling, I gave up.

"I really believed I could do it," I said to don Juan, the moment I was in his house. "I am afraid that nowadays I am more of an egomaniac than ever."

"Not really," he said with a smile. "What happens is that you are caught in another of your routinary misinterpretations of terms. You want to find the ideal spot, as if you were finding your lost car keys. Then you want to tie your assemblage point, as if you were tying your shoes. The ideal spot and the fixation of the assemblage point are metaphors. They have nothing to do with the words used to describe them."

He asked me then to tell him the latest events of any dreaming practices. The first thing I mentioned was that my urge to be absorbed by detail had subsided notably. I said that perhaps because I moved in my dreams, compulsively and incessantly, the movement might have been what always managed to stop me before I plunged into the detail I was observing. To be stopped in that fashion gave me the opportunity to examine the act of being absorbed by detail. I came to the conclusion that inanimate matter actually possesses an immobilizing force, which I saw as a beam of dull light that kept me pinned down. For example, many times some minute mark on the walls or in the wood lines of the hardwood floor of my room used to send a line of light that transfixed me. From the moment my dreaming attention was focused on that light, the whole dream rotated around that minute mark. I saw it enlarged perhaps to the size of the cosmos. That view used to last until I woke up, usually with my nose pressed against the wall or the wood floor. My own observations were that, in the first place, the detail was real, and, in the second place, I seemed to have been observing it while I was asleep.

Don Juan smiled and said, "All this is happening to you because the forging of your energy body was completed the moment it moved by itself. I didn't tell you that, but I insinuated it. I wanted to know whether or not you were capable of finding it out by yourself, which, of course, you did."

I had no idea what he meant. Don Juan scrutinized me in his usual manner. His penetrating gaze scanned my body.

"What exactly did I find out by myself, don Juan?" I was forced to ask.

"You found out that your energy body had been completed," he answered.

"I didn't find out anything of the kind, I assure you."

"Yes, you did. It started some time ago, when you couldn't find a guide to validate the realness of your dreams, but then something went to work for you and let you know whether you were having a regular dream. That something was your energy body. Now, you despair that you couldn't find the ideal spot to fix your assemblage point. And I tell you that you did. The proof is that, by moving around, your energy body curtailed its obsession with detail."

I was nonplussed. I could not even ask one of my feeble questions.

"What comes next for you is a sorcerers' gem," don Juan went on. "You are going to practice seeing energy in your dreaming. You have fulfilled the drill for the third gate of dreaming: moving your energy body by itself. Now you are going to perform the real task: seeing energy with your energy body.

"You have seen energy before," he went on, "many times, in fact. But each of those times, seeing was a fluke. Now you are going to do it deliberately.

"Dreamers have a rule of thumb," he continued. "If their energy body is complete, they see energy every time they gaze at an item in the daily world. In dreams, if they see the energy of an item, they know they are dealing with a real world, no matter how distorted that world may appear to their dreaming attention. If they can't see the energy of an item, they are in an ordinary dream and not in a real world."

"What is a real world, don Juan?"

"A world that generates energy; the opposite of a phantom world of projections, where nothing generates energy, like most of our dreams, where nothing has an energetic effect."

Don Juan then gave me another definition of dreaming: a process by which dreamers isolate dream conditions in which they can find energy-generating elements.

He must have noticed my bewilderment. He laughed and gave another, even more convoluted definition: dreaming is the process by which we intend to find adequate positions of the assemblage point; positions that permit us to perceive energy-generating items in dreamlike states.

He explained that the energy body is also capable of perceiving energy that is quite different from the energy of our own world; as in the case of items of the inorganic beings' realm, which the energy body perceives as sizzling energy.

He added that in our world nothing sizzles. Everything here wavers.

"From now on," he said, "the issue of your dreaming is going to be to determine whether the items on which you focus your dreaming attention are energy generating, mere phantom projections, or generators of foreign energy."

Don Juan admitted that he had hoped I was going to come up with the idea of seeing energy as the gauge to determine whether or not I was observing my real body asleep. He laughed at my spurious device of putting on elaborate sleeping attire every four days. He said that I'd had, at my fingertips, all the information necessary to deduce what was the real task of the third gate of dreaming and to come up with the right idea, but that my interpretation system had forced me to seek contrived solutions that lacked the simplicity and directness of sorcery.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 09. The New Area of Exploration.

I propose that you do one nonsensical thing that might turn the tide. Repeat to yourself incessantly that the hinge of sorcery is the mystery of the assemblage point. If you repeat this to yourself long enough, some unseen force takes over and makes the appropriate changes in you.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 09. The New Area of Exploration.

Don Juan told me that in order to see in dreaming not only did I have to intend seeing but I had to put my intent into loud words. For reasons he refused to explain, he insisted that I had to speak up. He conceded that there are other means to accomplish the same result, but he asserted that voicing one's intent is the simplest and most direct way.

The first time I put into words my intent to see, I was dreaming of a church bazaar. There were so many articles that I could not make up my mind which one to gaze at. A giant, conspicuous vase in a corner made up my mind for me. I gazed at it, voicing my intent to see. The vase remained in my view for an instant, then it changed into another object.

I gazed at as many things as I could in that dream. After I voiced my intent to see, every item I had chosen to gaze at vanished or turned into something else, as had happened all along in my dreaming practices. My dreaming attention was finally exhausted, and I woke up tremendously frustrated, almost angry.

For months on end, I actually gazed at hundreds of items in my dreams and deliberately voiced my intent to see, but nothing ever happened. Tired of waiting, I finally had to ask don Juan about it.

"You need to have patience. You are learning to do something extraordinary," he remarked. "You are learning to intend to see in your dreams. Someday you will not have to voice your intent: You'll simply will it, silently."

"I think I have not understood the function of whatever I am doing," I said. "Nothing happens when I shout my intent to see. What does that mean?"

"It means that your dreams, so far, have been ordinary dreams: They have been phantom projections; images that have life only in your dreaming attention."

He wanted to know exactly what had happened to the items on which I had focused my gaze. I said that they had vanished or changed shape or even produced vortexes that eventually changed my dreams.

"It has been like that in all my daily dreaming practices," I said. "The only thing out of the ordinary is that I am learning to yell in my dreams, at the top of my voice."

My last statement threw don Juan into a genuine fit of belly laughter, which I found disconcerting. I failed to find the humor of my statement or the reason for his reaction.

"Someday you'll appreciate how funny all this is," he said as an answer to my silent protest. "In the meantime, don't give up or get discouraged. Keep on trying. Sooner or later, you'll hit the right note."


As usual, he was right. A couple of months later, I hit the jackpot. I had a most unusual dream. It started with the appearance of a scout from the inorganic beings' world. The scouts as well as the dreaming emissary had been strangely absent from my dreams. I had not missed them or pondered their disappearance. In fact, I was so at ease without them, I had even forgotten to ask don Juan about their absence.

In that dream, the scout had been, at first, a gigantic yellow topaz which I had found stuck in the back of a drawer. The moment I voiced my intent to see, the topaz turned into a blob of sizzling energy. I feared that I would be compelled to follow it, so I moved my gaze away from the scout and focused it on an aquarium with tropical fish. I voiced my intent to see and got a tremendous surprise. The aquarium emitted a low, greenish glow and changed into a large surrealist portrait of a bejeweled woman. The portrait emitted the same greenish glow when I voiced my intent to see.

As I gazed at that glow, the whole dream changed. I was walking then on a street in a town that seemed familiar to me: It might have been Tucson. I gazed at a display of women's clothes in a store window and spoke out loud my intent to see. Instantly, a black mannequin, prominently displayed, began to glow. I gazed next at a saleslady who came at that moment to rearrange the window. She looked at me. After voicing my intent, I saw her glow. It was so stupendous that I was afraid some detail in her splendorous glow would trap me, but the woman moved inside the store before I had time to focus my total attention on her. I certainly intended to follow her inside, however, my dreaming attention was caught by a moving glow. It came to me charging, filled with hatred. There was loathing in it and viciousness. I jumped backward. The glow stopped its charge. A black substance swallowed me, and I woke up.

These images were so vivid that I firmly believed I had seen energy and my dream had been one of those conditions that don Juan had called dreamlike, energy-generating. The idea that dreams can take place in the consensual reality of our daily world intrigued me, just as the dream images of the inorganic beings' realm had intrigued me.

"This time, you not only saw energy but crossed a dangerous boundary," don Juan said, after hearing my account.

He reiterated that the drill for the third gate of dreaming is to make the energy body move on its own. In my last session, he said, I had unwittingly superseded the effect of that drill and crossed into another world.

"Your energy body moved," he said. "It journeyed by itself. That kind of journeying is beyond your abilities at this moment, and something attacked you."

"What do you think it was, don Juan?"

"This is a predatorial universe. It could have been one of thousands of things existing out there."

"Why do you think it attacked me?"

"For the same reason the inorganic beings attacked you: because you made yourself available."

"Is it that clear-cut, don Juan?"

"Certainly. It's as clear-cut as what you would do if a strange-looking spider crept across your desk while you were writing. You'd squash it out of fright, rather than admire it or examine it."

I was at a loss and searched for words to ask the proper question. I wanted to ask him where my dream had taken place, or what world I was in in that dream. But those questions did not make any sense. I could gather that myself. Don Juan was very understanding.

"You want to know where your dreaming attention was focused, don't you?" he asked with a grin.

This was exactly how I wanted to word my question. I reasoned that in the dream under consideration, I must have been looking at some real object- just like what had happened when I saw in dreams the minute details on the floor or the walls or the door of my room; details that I later had corroborated existed.

Don Juan said that in special dreams, like the one I'd had, our dreaming attention focuses on the daily world, and that it moves instantly from one real object to another in the world. What makes this movement possible is that the assemblage point is on the proper dreaming position. From that position, the assemblage point gives the dreaming attention such fluidity that it can move in a split second over incredible distances, and in doing so it produces a perception so fast, so fleeting that it resembles an ordinary dream.

Don Juan explained that in my dream I had seen a real vase, and then my dreaming attention had moved over distances to see a real surrealist painting of a bejeweled woman. The result, with the exception of seeing energy, had been very close to an ordinary dream in which items, when gazed at, quickly turn into something else.

"I know how disturbing this is," he went on, definitely aware of my bewilderment. "For some reason pertinent to the mind, to see energy in dreaming is more upsetting than anything one can think of."

I remarked that I had seen energy in dreaming before, yet it had never affected me like this.

"Now your energy body is complete and functioning," he said. "Therefore, the implication that you see energy in your dream is that you are perceiving a real world through the veil of a dream. That's the importance of the journey you took. It was real. It involved energy-generating items that nearly ended your life."

"Was it that serious, don Juan?"

"You bet! The creature that attacked you was made of pure awareness and was as deadly as anything can be. You saw its energy. I am sure that you realize by now that unless we see in dreaming, we can't tell a real energy-generating thing from a phantom projection. So, even though you battled the inorganic beings and indeed saw the scouts and the tunnels, your energy body doesn't know for sure if they were real; meaning energy generating. You are ninety-nine but not one hundred percent sure."

Don Juan insisted on talking about the journey I had taken. For inexplicable reasons, I was reluctant to deal with that subject. What he was saying produced an instantaneous reaction in me. I found myself trying to come to grips with a deep, strange fear: It was dark and obsessive in a nagging, visceral way.

"You definitely went into another layer of the onion," don Juan said, finishing a statement to which I had not paid attention.

"What is this other layer of the onion, don Juan?"

"The world is like an onion, it has many skins. The world we know is but one of them. Sometimes, we cross boundaries and enter into another skin; another world, very much like this one, but not the same. And you entered into one all by yourself."

"How is this journey you're talking about possible, don Juan?"

"That is a meaningless question, because no one can answer it. In the view of sorcerers, the universe is constructed in layers which the energy body can cross. Do you know where the old sorcerers are still existing to this day? In another layer; in another skin of the onion."

"For me, the idea of a real, pragmatic journey taken in dreams is very difficult to understand or to accept, don Juan."

"We have discussed this topic to exhaustion. I was convinced you understood that the journey of the energy body depends exclusively on the position of the assemblage point."

"You've told me that, and I have been mulling it over and over. Still, saying that the journey is in the position of the assemblage point doesn't say anything to me."

"Your problem is your cynicism. I was just like you. Cynicism doesn't allow us to make drastic changes in our understanding of the world. It also forces us to feel that we are always right."

I understood his point to perfection, but I reminded him about my fight against all that.

He said, "I propose that you do one nonsensical thing that might turn the tide. Repeat to yourself incessantly that the hinge of sorcery is the mystery of the assemblage point. If you repeat this to yourself long enough, some unseen force takes over and makes the appropriate changes in you."

Don Juan did not give me any indication that he was being facetious. I knew he meant every word of it. What bothered me was his insistence that I repeat the formula ceaselessly to myself. I caught myself thinking that all of it was asinine.

"Cut your cynical attitude," he snapped at me. "Repeat this in a bona fide manner.

"The mystery of the assemblage point is everything in sorcery," he continued, without looking at me. "Or rather, everything in sorcery rests on the manipulation of the assemblage point. You know all this, but you have to repeat it."

For an instant, as I heard his remarks, I thought I was going to die of anguish. An incredible sense of physical sadness gripped my chest and made me scream with pain. My stomach and diaphragm seemed to be pushing up, moving into my chest cavity. The push was so intense that my awareness changed levels, and I entered into my normal state. Whatever we had been talking about became a vague thought about something that might have happened, but actually had not according to the mundane reasoning of my everyday-life consciousness.

The next time don Juan and I talked about dreaming, we discussed the reasons I had been unable to proceed with my dreaming practices for months on end. Don Juan warned me that to explain my situation he had to go in a roundabout way. He pointed out, first, that there is an enormous difference between the thoughts and deeds of the men of antiquity and those of modern men. Then he pointed out that the men of ancient times had a very realistic view of perception and awareness because their view stemmed from their observations of the universe around them. Modern men, in contrast, have an absurdly unrealistic view of perception and awareness because their view stems from their observations of the social order and from their dealings with it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Because you are a modern man involved with the views and observations of men of antiquity," he replied. "And none of those views and observations are familiar to you. Now more than ever you need sobriety and aplomb. I am trying to make a solid bridge- a bridge you can walk on, between the views of men of ancient times and those of modern men."

He remarked that of all the transcendental observations of the men of ancient times, the only one with which I was familiar, because it had filtered down to our day, was the idea of selling our souls to the devil in exchange for immortality; which he admitted sounded to him like something coming straight out of the relationship of the old sorcerers with the inorganic beings. He reminded me how the dreaming emissary had tried to induce me to stay in its realm by offering me the possibility of maintaining my individuality and self-awareness for nearly an eternity.

"As you know, succumbing to the lure of the inorganic beings is not just an idea: It's real," don Juan went on. "But you haven't yet fully realized the implication of that realness. Dreaming, likewise, is real: It is an energy-generating condition. You hear my statements and you certainly understand what I mean, but your awareness hasn't caught up with the total implication of it yet."

Don Juan said that my rationality knew the import of a realization of this nature, and during our last talk it had forced my awareness to change levels. I ended up in my normal awareness before I could deal with the nuances of my dream. My rationality had further protected itself by suspending my dreaming practices.

"I assure you that I am fully aware of what an energy-generating condition means," I said.

"And I assure you that you are not," he retorted. "If you were, you would measure dreaming with greater care and deliberation. Since you believe you are just dreaming, you take blind chances. Your faulty reasoning tells you that no matter what happens, at a given moment the dream will be over and you will wake up."

He was right. In spite of all the things I had witnessed in my dreaming practices, somehow I still retained the general sense that all of it had been a dream.

"I am talking to you about the views of men of antiquity and the views of modern man," don Juan went on, "because your awareness, which is the awareness of modern man, prefers to deal with an unfamiliar concept as if it were an empty ideality.

"If I left it up to you, you'd regard dreaming as an idea. Of course, I'm sure you take dreaming seriously, but you don't quite believe in the reality of dreaming."

"I understand what you are saying, don Juan, but I don't understand why you are saying it."

"I am saying all this because you are now, for the first time, in the proper position to understand that dreaming is an energy-generating condition. For the first time, you can understand now that ordinary dreams are the honing devices used to train the assemblage point to reach the position that creates this energy-generating condition we call dreaming."

He warned me that since dreamers touch and enter real worlds of all-inclusive effects, they ought to be in a permanent state of the most intense and sustained alertness: Any deviation from total alertness imperils the dreamer in ways more than dreadful.

I began again, at this point, to experience a movement in my chest cavity, exactly as I had felt the day my awareness changed levels by itself. Don Juan forcibly shook me by the arm.

"Regard dreaming as something extremely dangerous!" he commanded me. "And begin that now! Don't start any of your weird maneuvers."

His tone of voice was so urgent that I stopped whatever I was, unconsciously, doing.

"What is going on with me, don Juan?" I asked.

"What's going on with you is that you can displace your assemblage point quickly and easily," he said. "Yet that ease has the tendency to make the displacement erratic. Bring your ease to order; and don't allow yourself even a fraction of an inch leeway."

I could easily have argued that I did not know what he was talking about; but I knew. I also knew I had only a few seconds to round up my energy and change my attitude; and I did.


This was the end of our exchange that day. I went home, and for nearly a year I faithfully and daily repeated what don Juan had asked me to say; that the hinge of sorcery is the mystery of the assemblage point.

The results of my litany-like invocation were incredible. I was firmly convinced that it had the same effect on my awareness that exercise has on the muscles of the body. My assemblage point became more agile; which meant that seeing energy in dreaming became the sole goal of my practices. My skill at intending to see grew in proportion to my efforts. A moment came when I was able just to intend seeing without saying a word; and actually experience the same result as when I voiced out loud my intent to see.

Don Juan congratulated me on my accomplishment. I, naturally, assumed he was being facetious. He assured me that he meant it, but beseeched me to continue shouting- at least whenever I was at a loss. His request did not seem odd to me. On my own, I had been yelling in my dreams at the top of my voice every time I deemed it necessary.

I discovered that the energy of our world wavers. It scintillates. Not only living beings but everything in our world glimmers with an inner light of its own. Don Juan explained that the energy of our world consists of layers of shimmering hues.

The top layer is whitish; another, immediately adjacent to it, is chartreuse; and another one, more distant yet, is amber.

I found all those hues, or rather I saw glimmers of them whenever items that I encountered in my dreamlike states changed shapes. However, a whitish glow was always the initial impact of seeing anything that generated energy.

"Are there only three different hues?" I asked don Juan.

"There is an endless number of them," he replied, "but for the purposes of a beginning order, you should be concerned with those three. Later on, you can get as sophisticated as you want and isolate dozens of hues if you are able to do it.

"The whitish layer is the hue of the present position of mankind's assemblage point," don Juan continued. "Let's say that it is a modern hue. Sorcerers believe that everything man does nowadays is tinted with that whitish glow. At another time, the position of mankind's assemblage point made the hue of the ruling energy in the world chartreuse; and at another time, more distant yet, it made it amber. The color of sorcerers' energy is amber; which means that they are energetically associated with the men who existed in a distant past."

"Do you think, don Juan, that the present whitish hue will change someday?"

"If man is capable of evolving. The grand task of sorcerers is to bring forth the idea that, in order to evolve, man must first free his awareness from its bindings to the social order. Once awareness is free, intent will redirect it into a new evolutionary path."

"Do you think sorcerers will succeed in that task?"

"They have already succeeded. They themselves are the proof. To convince others of the value and import of evolving is another matter."


The other kind of energy I found present in our world but alien to it was the scouts' energy; the energy don Juan had called sizzling. I encountered scores of items in my dreams that, once I saw them, turned into blobs of energy that seemed to be frying; bubbling with some heatlike inner activity.

"Bear in mind that not every scout you are going to find belongs to the realm of inorganic beings," don Juan remarked. "Every scout you have found so far, except for the blue scout, has been from that realm; but that was because the inorganic beings were catering to you. They were directing the show. Now you are on your own. Some of the scouts you will encounter are going to be, not from the inorganic beings' realm, but from other even more distant levels of awareness."

"Are the scouts aware of themselves?" I asked.

"Most certainly," he replied.

"Then why don't they make contact with us when we are awake?"

"They do. But our great misfortune is to have our consciousness so fully engaged that we don't have time to pay attention. In our sleep, however, the two-way-traffic trapdoor opens: We dream. And in our dreams, we make contact."

"Is there any way to tell whether the scouts are from a level besides the inorganic beings' world?"

"The greater their sizzling, the farther they come from. It sounds simplistic, but you have to let your energy body tell you what is what. I assure you, it'll make very fine distinctions and unerring judgments when faced with alien energy."


He was right again. Without much ado, my energy body distinguished two general types of alien energy. The first was the scouts from the inorganic beings' realm. Their energy fizzled mildly. There was no sound to it, but it had all the overt appearance of effervescence, or of water that is starting to boil.

The energy of the second general type of scouts gave me the impression of considerably more power. Those scouts seemed to be just about to burn. They vibrated from within as if they were filled with pressurized gas.

My encounters with the alien energy were always fleeting because I paid total attention to what don Juan recommended. He said, "Unless you know exactly what you are doing and what you want out of alien energy, you have to be content with a brief glance. Anything beyond a glance is as dangerous and as stupid as petting a rattlesnake."

"Why is it dangerous, don Juan?" I asked.

"Scouts are always very aggressive and extremely daring," he said. "They have to be that way in order to prevail in their explorations. Sustaining our dreaming attention on them is tantamount to soliciting their awareness to focus on us. Once they focus their attention on us, we are compelled to go with them. And that, of course, is the danger. We may end up in worlds beyond our energetic possibilities."

Don Juan explained that there are many more types of scouts than the two I had classified, but that at my present level of energy I could only focus on three. He described the first two types as the easiest to spot. Their disguises in our dreams are so outlandish, he said, that they immediately attract our dreaming attention. He depicted the scouts of the third type as the most dangerous in terms of aggressiveness and power- and because they hide behind subtle disguises.

"One of the strangest things dreamers find, which you yourself will find presently," don Juan continued, "is this third type of scout. So far, you have found samples of only the first two types, but that's because you haven't looked in the right place."

"And what is the right place, don Juan?"

"You have again fallen prey to words; this time the culprit word is 'items', which you have taken to mean only things, objects. Well, the most ferocious scout hides behind people in our dreams. A formidable surprise was in store for me in my dreaming when I focused my gaze on the dream image of my mother. After I voiced my intent to see, she turned into a ferocious, frightening bubble of sizzling energy."

Don Juan paused to let his statements sink in. I felt stupid for being disturbed at the possibility of finding a scout behind the dream image of my mother.

"It's annoying that they are always associated with the dream images of our parents or close friends," he went on. "Perhaps that's why we often feel ill at ease when we dream of them." His grin gave me the impression that he was enjoying my turmoil. "A rule of thumb for dreamers is to assume that the third type of scout is present whenever they feel perturbed by their parents or friends in a dream. Sound advice is to avoid those dream images. They are sheer poison."

"Where does the blue scout stand in relation to the other scouts?" I asked.

"Blue energy doesn't sizzle," he replied. "It is like ours; it wavers, but it is blue instead of white. Blue energy doesn't exist in a natural state in our world.

"And this brings us to something we've never talked about. What color were the scouts you've seen so far?"

Until the moment he mentioned it, I had never thought about this. I told don Juan that the scouts I had seen were either pink or reddish. And he said that the deadly scouts of the third type were bright orange.

I found out myself that the third type of scout is outright scary. Every time I found one of them, it was behind the dream images of my parents, especially of my mother. Seeing it always reminded me of the blob of energy that had attacked me in my first deliberate seeing dream. Every time I found it, the alien exploring energy actually seemed about to jump on me. My energy body used to react with horror even before I saw it.

During our next discussion of dreaming, I queried don Juan about the total absence of inorganic beings in my dreaming practices.

"Why don't they show up anymore?" I asked.

"They only show themselves at the beginning," he explained. "After their scouts take us to their world, there is no necessity for the inorganic beings' projections. If we want to see the inorganic beings, a scout takes us there. For no one, and I mean no one, can journey by himself to their realm."

"Why is that so, don Juan?"

"Their world is sealed. No one can enter or leave without the consent of the inorganic beings. The only thing you can do by yourself once you are inside is, of course, voice your intent to stay. To say it out loud means to set in motion currents of energy that are irreversible. In olden times, words were incredibly powerful. Now they are not. But in the inorganic beings' realm, words haven't lost their power."

Don Juan laughed and said that he had no business saying anything about the inorganic beings' world because I really knew more about it than he and all his companions combined.

"There is one last issue related to that world that we haven't discussed," he said.

He paused for a long while, as if searching for the appropriate words.

"In the final analysis," he began, "my aversion to the old sorcerers' activities is very personal. As a nagual, I detest what they did. They cowardly sought refuge in the inorganic beings' world. They argued that in a predatorial universe poised to rip us apart, the only possible haven for us is in that realm."

"Why did they believe that?" I asked.

"Because it's true," he said. "Since the inorganic beings can't lie, the sales pitch of the dreaming emissary is all true. That world can give us shelter and prolong our awareness for nearly an eternity."

"The emissary's sales pitch, even if it's the truth, has no appeal to me," I said.

"Do you mean you will chance a road that might rip you apart?" he asked with a note of bewilderment in his voice.

I assured don Juan that I did not want the inorganic beings' world no matter what advantages it offered. My statement seemed to please him to no end.

"You are ready then for one final statement about that world. The most dreadful statement I can make," he said, and tried smile, but did not quite make it.

Don Juan searched in my eyes, I suppose for a glimmer agreement or comprehension. He was silent for a moment.

"The energy necessary to move the assemblage points of sorcerers comes from the realm of inorganic beings," he said, as if he were hurrying to get it over with.

My heart nearly stopped. I felt a vertigo and had to stomp my feet on the ground not to faint.

Don Juan went on, "This is the truth, and the legacy of the old sorcerers to us. They have us pinned down to this day. This is the reason I don't like them. I resent having to dip into one source alone. Personally, I refuse to do it.

"And I have tried to steer you away from it; but with no success because something pulls you to that world, like a magnet."

I understood don Juan better than I could have thought. Journeying to that world had always meant to me, at an energetic level, a boost of dark energy. I had even thought of it in those terms, long before don Juan voiced his statement.

"What can we do about it?" I asked.

"We can't have dealings with them," he answered, "and yet we can't stay away from them. My solution has been to take their energy but not give in to their influence. This is known as the ultimate stalking. It is done by sustaining the unbending intent of freedom even though no sorcerer knows what freedom really is."

"Can you explain to me, don Juan, why sorcerers have to take energy from the realm of inorganic beings?"

"There is no other viable energy for sorcerers. In order to maneuver the assemblage point in the manner they do, sorcerers need an inordinate amount of energy."

I reminded him of his own statement: that a redeployment of energy is necessary in order to do dreaming.

"That is correct," he replied. "To start dreaming sorcerers need to redefine their premises and save their energy, but that redefining is valid only to have the necessary energy to set up dreaming. To fly into other realms, to see energy, to forge the energy body, et cetera, et cetera, is another matter. For those maneuvers, sorcerers need loads of dark, alien energy."

"But how do they take it from the inorganic beings' world?"

"By the mere act of going to that world. All the sorcerers of our line have to do this. However, none of us is idiotic enough to do what you've done. But this is because none of us has your proclivities."

Don Juan sent me home to ponder what he had revealed to me. I had endless questions, but he did not want to hear any of them.

"All the questions you have, you can answer yourself," he said as he waved good-bye to me.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 10. Stalking the Stalkers.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 10. Stalking the Stalkers.

At home, I soon realized that it was impossible for me to answer any of my questions. In fact, I could not even formulate them. Perhaps that was because the boundary of the second attention had begun to collapse on me: This was when I met Florinda Grau and Carol Tiggs in the world of everyday life. The confusion of not knowing them at all yet knowing them so intimately that I would have died for them at the drop of a hat was most deleterious to me. I had met Taisha Abelar a few years before, and I was just beginning to get used to the confounded feeling of knowing her without having the vaguest idea of how. To add two more people to my overloaded system proved too much for me. I got ill out of fatigue and had to seek don Juan's aid. I went to the town in southern Mexico where he and his companions lived.

Don Juan and his fellow sorcerers laughed uproariously at the mere mention of my turmoils. Don Juan explained to me that they were not really laughing at me, but at themselves. My cognitive problems reminded them of the ones they had had when the boundary of the second attention had collapsed on them just as it had on me. Their awareness, like mine, had not been prepared for it, don Juan said.

"Every sorcerer goes through the same agony," don Juan went on. "Awareness is an endless area of exploration for sorcerers and man in general. In order to enhance awareness, there is no risk we should not run; no means we should refuse. Bear in mind, however, that only in soundness of mind can awareness be enhanced."

Don Juan reiterated, then, that his time was coming to an end, and that I had to use my resources wisely to cover as much ground as I could before he left. Talk like that had used to throw me into states of profound depression. But as the time of his departure approached, I had begun to react with more resignation. I had no longer felt depressed, but I still panicked.

Nothing else was said after that. The next day, at his request, I drove don Juan to Mexico City. We arrived around noon and went directly to the hotel del Prado, in the Paseo Alameda, the place he usually lodged when he was in the city. Don Juan had an appointment with a lawyer that day at four in the afternoon. Since we had plenty of time, we went to have lunch in the famous Cafe Tacuba, a restaurant in the heart of downtown where it was purported that real meals were served.

Don Juan was not hungry. He ordered only two sweet tamales, while I gorged myself on a sumptuous feast. He laughed at me and made signs of silent despair at my healthy appetite.

"I'm going to propose a line of action for you," he said in a curt tone when we had finished our lunch. "It's the last task of the third gate of dreaming, and it consists of stalking the stalkers; a most mysterious maneuver. To stalk the stalkers means to deliberately draw energy from the inorganic beings' realm in order to perform a sorcery feat."

"What kind of sorcery feat, don Juan?"

"A journey; a journey that uses awareness as an element of the environment," he explained. "In the world of daily life, water is an element of the environment that we use for traveling. Imagine awareness being a similar element that can be used for traveling. Through the medium of awareness, scouts from all over the universe come to us, and vice versa; via awareness, sorcerers go to the ends of the universe."

There had been certain concepts, among the hosts of concepts don Juan had made me aware of in the course of his teachings, that attracted my full interest without any coaxing. This was one.

"The idea that awareness is a physical element is revolutionary," I said in awe.

"I didn't say it's a physical element," he corrected me. "It's an energetic element. You have to make that distinction. For sorcerers who see, awareness is a glow. They can hitch their energy body to that glow and go with it."

"What's the difference between a physical and an energetic element?" I asked.

"The difference is that physical elements are part of our interpretation system, but energetic elements are not. Energetic elements, like awareness, exist in our universe. But we, as average people, perceive only the physical elements because we were taught to do so. Sorcerers perceive the energetic elements for the same reason: They were taught to do so."

Don Juan explained that the use of awareness as an energetic element of our environment is the essence of sorcery; that in terms of practicalities, the trajectory of sorcery is, first, to free the existing energy in us by impeccably following the sorcerers' path; second, to use that energy to develop the energy body by means of dreaming; and, third, to use awareness as an element of the environment in order to enter with the energy body and all our physicality into other worlds.

"There are two kinds of energy journeys into other worlds," he went on. "One is when awareness picks up the sorcerer's energy body and takes it wherever it may; and the other is when the sorcerer decides, in full consciousness, to use the avenue of awareness to make a journey. You've done the first kind of journeying. It takes an enormous discipline to do the second."

After a long silence, don Juan stated that in the life of sorcerers there are issues that require masterful handling; and that dealing with awareness as an energetic element open to the energy body is the most important, vital, and dangerous of those issues.

I had no comment. I was suddenly on pins and needles; hanging on every one of his words.

"By yourself, you don't have enough energy to perform the last task of the third gate of dreaming," he went on, "but you and Carol Tiggs together can certainly do what I have in mind."

He paused, deliberately egging me on with his silence to ask what he had in mind. I did. His laughter only increased the ominous mood.

"I want you two to break the boundaries of the normal world, and using awareness as an energetic element, enter into another," he said. "This breaking and entering amounts to stalking the stalkers. Using awareness as an element of the environment bypasses the influence of the inorganic beings, but it still uses their energy."

He did not want to give me any more information- in order not to influence me- he said. His belief was that the less I knew beforehand the better off I would be. I disagreed, but he assured me that, in a pinch, my energy body was perfectly capable of taking care of itself.

We went from the restaurant to the lawyer's office. Don Juan quickly concluded his business, and we were, in no time at all, in a taxi on our way to the airport. Don Juan informed me that Carol Tiggs was arriving on a flight from Los Angeles, and that she was coming to Mexico City exclusively to fulfill this last dreaming task with me.

"The valley of Mexico is a superb place to perform the kind of sorcery feat you are after," he commented.

"You haven't told me yet what the exact steps to follow are," I said.

He didn't answer me. We did not speak any more, but while we waited for the plane to land, he explained the procedure I had to follow. I was to go to Carol's room at the Regis Hotel across the street from our hotel, and after getting into a state of total inner silence with her, we had to slip gently into dreaming; voicing our intent to go to the realm of the inorganic beings.

I interrupted to remind him that I always had to wait for a scout to show up before I could manifest out loud my intent to go to the inorganic beings' world.

Don Juan chuckled and said, "You haven't dreamt with Carol Tiggs yet. You'll find out that it's a treat. Sorceresses don't need any props. They just go to that world whenever they want to; for them, there is a scout on permanent call."

I could not bring myself to believe that a sorceress would be able to do what he was asserting. I thought I had a degree of expertise in handling the inorganic beings' world. When I mentioned to him what was going through my mind, he retorted that I had no expertise whatsoever when it came to what sorceresses are capable of.

"Why do you think I had Carol Tiggs with me to pull you bodily out of that world?" he asked. "Do you think it was because she's beautiful?"

"Why was it, don Juan?"

"Because I couldn't do it myself; and for her, it was nothing. She has a knack for that world."

"Is she an exceptional case, don Juan?"

"Women in general have a natural bent for that realm; sorceresses are, of course, the champions, but Carol Tiggs is better than anyone I know because she, as the nagual woman, has superb energy."

I thought I had caught don Juan in a serious contradiction. He had told me that the inorganic beings were not interested at all in women. Now he was asserting the opposite.

"No. I'm not asserting the opposite," he remarked when I confronted him. "I've said to you that the inorganic beings don't pursue females; they only go after males. But I've also said to you that the inorganic beings are female, and that the entire universe is female to a large degree. So draw your own conclusions."

Since I had no way to draw any conclusions, Don Juan explained to me that sorceresses, in theory, come and go as they please in that world because of their enhanced awareness and their femaleness.

"Do you know this for a fact?" I asked.

"The women of my party have never done that," he confessed, "not because they can't but because I dissuaded them. The women of your party, on the other hand, do it like changing skirts."

I felt a vacuum in my stomach. I really did not know anything about the women of my party. Don Juan consoled me saying that my circumstances were different from his; as was my role as a nagual. He assured me that I did not have it in me to dissuade any of the women of my party, even if I stood on my head.

As the taxi drove us to her hotel, Carol delighted don Juan and me with her impersonations of people we knew. I tried to be serious and questioned her about our task. She mumbled some apologies for not being able to answer me with the seriousness I deserved. Don Juan laughed uproariously when she mimicked my solemn tone of voice.

After registering Carol at the hotel, the three of us meandered around downtown looking for secondhand bookstores. We ate a light dinner at the Sanborn's restaurant in the House of Tiles. About ten o'clock, we walked to the Regis Hotel. We went directly to the elevator. My fear had sharpened my capacity to perceive details. The hotel building was old and massive. The furniture in the lobby had obviously seen better days. Yet there was still, all around us, something left of an old glory that had a definite appeal. I could easily understand why Carol liked that hotel so much.

Before we got into the elevator, my anxiety mounted to such heights that I had to ask don Juan for last-minute instructions.

"Tell me again how we are going to proceed," I begged.

Don Juan pulled us to the huge, ancient stuffed chairs in the lobby and patiently explained to us that, once we were in the world of the inorganic beings, we had to voice our intent to transfer our normal awareness to our energy bodies. He suggested that Carol and I voice our intent together, although that part was not really important. What was important, he said, was that each of us intend the transfer of the total awareness of our daily world to our energy body.

"How do we do this transference of awareness?" I asked.

"Transferring awareness is purely a matter of voicing our intent and having the necessary amount of energy," he said. "Carol knows all this. She's done it before. She entered physically into the inorganic beings' world when she pulled you out of it, remember? Her energy will do the trick. It'll tip the scales."

"What does it mean to tip the scales? I am in limbo, don Juan."

Don Juan explained that to tip the scales meant to add one's total physical mass to the energy body. He said that using awareness as a medium to make the journey into another world is not the result of applying any techniques, but is rather the corollary of intending and having enough energy. The bulk of energy from Carol Tiggs added to mine- or the bulk of my energy added to Carol's- was going to make us into one single entity; energetically capable of pulling our physicality and placing it on the energy body in order to make that journey.

"What exactly do we have to do in order to enter into that other world?" Carol asked. Her question scared me half to death: I thought she knew what was going on.

"Your total physical mass has to be added to your energy body," don Juan replied, looking into her eyes. "The great difficulty of this maneuver is to discipline the energy body, a thing the two of you have already done. Lack of discipline is the only reason the two of you may fail in performing this feat of ultimate stalking. Sometimes, as a fluke, an average person ends up performing it and entering into another world. But this is immediately explained away as insanity or hallucination."

I would have given anything in the world for don Juan to continue talking. But he put us in the elevator, and we went up to the second floor to Carol's room despite my protests and my rational need to know. Deep down, however, my turmoil was not so much that I needed to know: The bottom line was my fear. Somehow, this sorcerers' maneuver was more frightening to me than anything I had done so far.

Don Juan's parting words to us were "Forget the self and you will fear nothing." His grin and the nodding of his head were invitations to ponder the statement.

Carol laughed and began to clown; imitating don Juan's voice as he gave us his cryptic instructions. Her lisping added quite a bit of color to what don Juan had said. Sometimes I found her lisping adorable. Most of the time, I detested it. Fortunately, that night her lisping was hardly noticeable.

We went to her room and sat down on the edge of the bed. My last conscious thought was that the bed was a relic from the beginning of the century. Before I had time to utter a single word, I found myself in a strange-looking bed. Carol was with me. She half sat up at the same time I did. We were naked, each covered with a thin blanket.

"What's going on?" she asked in a feeble voice.

"Are you awake?" I asked inanely.

"Of course I am awake," she said in an impatient tone.

"Do you remember where we were?" I asked. There was a long silence, as she obviously tried to put her thoughts in order.

"I think I am real, but you are not," she finally said. "I know where I was before this. And you want to trick me."

I thought she was doing the same thing herself: that she knew what was going on and was testing me or pulling my leg. Don Juan had told me that her demons and mine were caginess and distrust. I was having a grand sample of that.

"I refuse to be part of any shit where you are in control," she said. She looked at me with venom in her eyes. "I am talking to you, whoever you are."

She took one of the blankets we had been covered with and wrapped herself with it. "I am going to lie here and go back to where I came from," she said, with an air of finality. "You and the nagual go and play with each other."

"You have to stop this nonsense," I said forcefully. "We are in another world."

She didn't pay any attention and turned her back to me like an annoyed, pampered child. I did not want to waste my dreaming attention in futile discussions of realness. I began to examine my surroundings. The only light in the room was moonlight shining through the window directly in front of us. We were in a small room, on a high bed. I noticed that the bed was primitively constructed. Four thick posts had been planted in the ground, and the bed frame was a lattice, made of long poles attached to the posts. The bed had a thick mattress, or rather a compact mattress. There were no sheets or pillows. Filled burlap sacks were stacked up against the walls. Two sacks by the foot of the bed, staggered one on top of the other, served as a stepladder to climb onto it.

Looking for a light switch, I became aware that the high bed was in a corner, against the wall. Our heads were to the wall; I was on the outside of the bed and Carol on the inside. When I sat on the edge of the bed, I realized that it was perhaps over three feet above the ground.

Carol sat up suddenly and said with a heavy lisp, "This is disgusting! The nagual certainly didn't tell me I was going to end up like this."

"I didn't know it either," I said. I wanted to say more and start a conversation, but my anxiety had grown to extravagant proportions.

"You shut up," she snapped at me, her voice cracking with anger. "You don't exist. You're a ghost. Disappear! Disappear!"

Her lisping was actually cute and distracted me from my obsessive fear. I shook her by the shoulders. She yelled, not so much in pain as in surprise or annoyance.

"I'm not a ghost," I said. "We made the journey because we joined our energy."

Carol Tiggs was famous among us for her speed in adapting to any situation. In no time at all, she was convinced of the realness of our predicament and began to look for her clothes in the semidarkness. I marveled at the fact that she was not afraid. She became busy, reasoning out loud where she might have put her clothes had she gone to bed in that room.

"Do you see any chair?" she asked.

I faintly saw a stack of three sacks that might have served as a table or high bench. She got out of the bed, went to it, and found her clothes and mine, neatly folded, the way she always handled garments. She handed my clothes to me: They were my clothes, but not the ones I had been wearing a few minutes before, in Carol's room at the Regis Hotel.

"These are not my clothes," she lisped. "And yet they are mine. How strange!"

We dressed in silence. I wanted to tell her that I was about to burst with anxiety. I also wanted to comment on the speed of our journey, but in the time I had taken to dress, the thought of our journey had become very vague. I could hardly remember where we had been before waking up in that room. It was as if I had dreamt the hotel room. I made a supreme effort to recollect, to push away the vagueness that had begun to envelop me. I succeeded in dispelling the fog, but that act exhausted all my energy. I ended up panting and sweating.

"Something nearly, nearly got me," Carol said. I looked at her. She, like me, was covered with perspiration. "It nearly got you too. What do you think it is?"

"The position of the assemblage point," I said with absolute certainty.

She did not agree with me. "It's the inorganic beings collecting their dues," she said shivering. "The nagual told me it was going to be horrible, but I never imagined anything this horrible."

I was in total agreement with her; we were in a horrifying mess, yet I could not conceive what the horror of that situation was. Carol and I were not novices: We had seen and done endless things, some of them outright terrifying. But there was something in that dream room that chilled me beyond belief.

"We are dreaming, aren't we?" Carol asked.

Without hesitation, I reassured her that we were, although I would have given anything to have don Juan there to reassure me of the same thing.

"Why am I so frightened?" she asked me, as if I were capable of rationally explaining it.

Before I could formulate a thought about it, she answered her question herself. She said that what frightened her was to realize, at a body level, that perceiving is an all-inclusive act when the assemblage point has been immobilized on one position. She reminded me that don Juan had told us that the power our daily world has over us is a result of the fact that our assemblage point is immobile on its habitual position. This immobility is what makes our perception of the world so inclusive and overpowering that we cannot escape from it. Carol also reminded me about another thing the nagual had said: that if we want to break this totally inclusive force, all we have to do is dispel the fog, that is to say, displace the assemblage point by intending its displacement.

I had never really understood what don Juan meant until the moment I had to bring my assemblage point to another position, in order to dispel that world's fog, which had begun to swallow me.

Carol and I, without saying another word, went to the window and looked out. We were in the country. The moonlight revealed some low, dark shapes of dwelling structures. By all indications, we were in the utility or supply room of a farm or a big country house.

"Do you remember going to bed here?" Carol asked.

"I almost do," I said and meant it. I told her I had to fight to keep the image of her hotel room in my mind as a point of reference.

"I have to do the same," she said in a frightened whisper. "I know that if we let go of that memory, we are goners."

Then she asked me if I wanted us to leave that shack and venture outside. I did not. My apprehension was so acute that I was unable to voice my words. I could only give her a signal with my head.

"You are so very right not to want to go out," she said. "I have the feeling that if we leave this shack, we'll never make it back."

I was going to open the door and just look outside, but she stopped me.

"Don't do that," she said. "You might let the outside in."

The thought that crossed my mind at that instant was that we had been placed inside a frail cage. Anything, such as opening the door, might upset the precarious balance of that cage. At the moment I had that thought, both of us had the same urge. We took off our clothes as if our lives depended on that. We then jumped into the high bed without using the two sack steps- only to jump down from it in the next instant.

It was evident that Carol and I had the same realization at the same time. She confirmed my assumption when she said, "Anything that we use belonging to this world can only weaken us. If I stand here naked and away from the bed and away from the window, I don't have any problem remembering where I came from. But if I lie in that bed or wear those clothes or look out the window, I am done for."

We stood in the center of the room for a long time, huddled together. A weird suspicion began to fester in my mind. "How are we going to return to our world?" I asked, expecting her to know.

"The reentry into our world is automatic if we don't let the fog set in," she said with the air of a foremost authority; which was her trademark.

And she was right. Carol and I woke up, at the same time, in the bed of her room in the Regis Hotel. It was so obvious we were back in the world of daily life that we didn't ask questions or make comments about it. The sunlight was nearly blinding.

"How did we get back?" Carol asked. "Or rather, when did we get back?"

I had no idea what to say or what to think. I was too numb to speculate, which was all I could have done.

"Do you think that we just returned?" Carol insisted. "Or maybe we've been asleep here all night. Look! We're naked. When did we take our clothes off?"

"We took them off in that other world," I said and surprised myself with the sound of my voice.

My answer seemed to stump Carol. She looked uncomprehendingly at me and then at her own naked body.

We sat there without moving for an endless time. Both of us seemed to be deprived of volition. But then, quite abruptly, we had the same thought at exactly the same time. We got dressed in record time, ran out of the room, went down two flights of stairs, crossed the street, and rushed into don Juan's hotel.

Inexplicably and excessively out of breath, since we had not really exerted ourselves physically, we took turns explaining to him what we had done. He confirmed our conjectures.

"What you two did was about the most dangerous thing one can imagine," he said.

He addressed Carol and told her that our attempt had been both a total success and a fiasco. We had succeeded in transferring our awareness of the daily world to our energy bodies, thus making the journey with all our physicality, but we had failed in avoiding the influence of the inorganic beings. He said that ordinarily dreamers experience the whole maneuver as a series of slow transitions, and that they have to voice their intent to use awareness as an element. In our case, all those steps were dispensed with. Because of the intervention of the inorganic beings, the two of us had actually been hurled into a deadly world with a most terrifying speed.

"It wasn't your combined energy that made your journey possible," he continued. "Something else did that. It even selected adequate clothes for you."

"Do you mean, nagual, that the clothes and the bed and the room happened only because we were being run by the inorganic beings?" Carol asked.

"You bet your life," he replied. "Ordinarily, dreamers are merely voyeurs. The way your journey turned out, you two got a ringside seat and lived the old sorcerers' damnation. What happened to them was precisely what happened to you. The inorganic beings took them to worlds from which they could not return. I should have known, but it didn't even enter my mind that the inorganic beings would take over and try to set up the same trap for you two."

"Do you mean they wanted to keep us there?" Carol asked.

"If you had gotten outside that shack, you'd now be meandering hopelessly in that world," don Juan said.

He explained that since we entered into that world with all our physicality, the fixation of our assemblage points on the position preselected by the inorganic beings was so overpowering that it created a sort of fog that obliterated any memory of the world we came from. He added that the natural consequence of such an immobility, as in the case of the sorcerers of antiquity, is that the dreamer's assemblage point cannot return to its habitual position.

"Think about this," he urged us. "Perhaps this is exactly what is happening to all of us in the world of daily life. We are here, and the fixation of our assemblage point is so overpowering that it has made us forget where we came from, and what our purpose was for coming here."

Don Juan did not want to say any more about our journey. I felt that he was sparing us further discomfort and fear. He took us to eat a late lunch. By the time we reached the restaurant, a couple of blocks down Francisco Madero Avenue, it was six o'clock in the afternoon. Carol and I had slept, if that is what we did, about eighteen hours.

Only don Juan was hungry. Carol remarked with a touch of anger that he was eating like a pig. Quite a few heads turned in our direction on hearing don Juan's laughter.

It was a warm night. The sky was clear. There was a soft, caressing breeze as we sat down on a bench in the Paseo Alameda.

"There is a question that's burning me," Carol said to don Juan. "We didn't use awareness as a medium for traveling, right?"

"That's true," don Juan said and sighed deeply. "The task was to sneak by the inorganic beings, not be run by them."

"What's going to happen now?" she asked.

"You are going to postpone stalking the stalkers until you two are stronger," he said. "Or perhaps you'll never accomplish it. It doesn't really matter: If one thing doesn't work, another will. Sorcery is an endless challenge."

He explained to us again, as if he were trying to fix his explanation in our minds, that in order to use awareness as an element of the environment, dreamers first have to make a journey to the inorganic beings' realm. Then they have to use that journey as a springboard, and, while they are in possession of the necessary dark energy, they have to intend to be hurled through the medium of awareness into another world.

"The failure of your trip was that you didn't have time to use awareness as an element for traveling," he went on. "Before you even got to the inorganic beings' world, you two were already in another world."

"What do you recommend we do?" Carol asked. "I recommend that you see as little of each other as possible," he said. "I'm sure the inorganic beings will not pass up the opportunity to get you two, especially if you join forces."

So Carol Tiggs and I deliberately stayed away from each other from then on. The prospect that we might inadvertently elicit a similar journey was too great a risk for us. Don Juan encouraged our decision by repeating over and over that we had enough combined energy to tempt the inorganic beings to lure us again.

Don Juan brought my dreaming practices back to seeing energy in energy-generating dreamlike states. In the course of time, I saw everything that presented itself to me. I entered in this manner into a most peculiar state: I became incapable of rendering intelligently what I saw. My sensation was always that I had reached states of perception for which I had no lexicon.

Don Juan explained my incomprehensible and indescribable visions as my energy body using awareness as an element not for journeying, because I never had enough energy, but for entering into the energy fields of inanimate matter or of living beings.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 11. The Tenant.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 11. The Tenant

There were no more dreaming practices for me, as I was accustomed to having them. The next time I saw don Juan, he put me under the guidance of two women of his party: Florinda and Zuleica- his two closest cohorts. Their instruction was not at all about the gates of dreaming but about different ways to use the energy body, and it did not last long enough to be influential. They gave me the impression that they were more interested in checking me out than in teaching me anything.

"There is nothing else I can teach you about dreaming," don Juan said when I questioned him about this state of affairs. "My time on this earth is up. But Florinda will stay. She's the one who will direct, not only you, but all my other apprentices."

"Will she continue my dreaming practices?"

"I don't know that, and neither does she. It's all up to the spirit. The real player. We are not players ourselves. We are mere pawns in its hands. Following the commands of the spirit, I have to tell you what the fourth gate of dreaming is, although I can't guide you anymore."

"What's the point of whetting my appetite? I'd rather not know."

"The spirit is not leaving that up to me or to you. I have to outline the fourth gate of dreaming for you, whether I like it or not."

Don Juan explained that, at the fourth gate of dreaming, the energy body travels to specific, concrete places and that there are three ways of using the fourth gate: one, to travel to concrete places in this world; two, to travel to concrete places out of this world; and, three, to travel to places that exist only in the intent of others. He stated that the last one is the most difficult and dangerous of the three and was, by far, the old sorcerers' predilection.

"What do you want me to do with this knowledge?" I asked.

"Nothing for the moment. File it away until you need it."

"Do you mean that I can cross the fourth gate by myself, without help?"

"Whether or not you can do that is up to the spirit."

He abruptly dropped the subject, but he did not leave me with the sensation that I should try to reach and cross the fourth gate by myself.

Don Juan then made one last appointment with me to give me, he said, a sorcerers' send-off: the concluding touch of my dreaming practices. He told me to meet him in the small town in southern Mexico where he and his sorcerer companions lived.

I arrived there in the late afternoon. Don Juan and I sat in the patio of his house on some uncomfortable wicker chairs fitted with thick, oversize pillows. Don Juan laughed and winked at me. The chairs were a gift from one of the women members of his party. The chairs had been bought for him in Phoenix, Arizona, and with great difficulty brought into Mexico. He said we simply had to sit as if nothing was bothering us, especially him.

Don Juan asked me to read to him a poem by Dylan Thomas, which he said had the most pertinent meaning for me at that point in time.


I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie

And the old terrors' continual cry

Growing more terrible as the day

Goes over the hill into the deep sea...


I have longed to move away but am afraid;

Some life, yet unspent, might explode

Out of the old lie burning on the ground,

And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.


Don Juan stood up and said that he was going for a walk in the plaza, in the center of town. He asked me to come along. I immediately assumed that the poem had evoked a negative response in him and he needed to dispel it.

We reached the square plaza without having said a word. We walked around it a couple of times, still not talking. There were quite a number of people, milling around the stores on the streets facing the east and north sides of the park. All the streets around the plaza were unevenly paved. The houses were massive, one-story adobe buildings with tiled roofs, whitewashed walls, and blue or brown painted doors. On a side street, a block away from the plaza, the high walls of the enormous colonial church, which looked like a Moorish mosque, loomed ominously over the roof of the only hotel in town. On the south side, there were two restaurants, which inexplicably coexisted side by side, doing good business, serving practically the same menu at the same prices.

I broke the silence and asked don Juan whether he also found it odd that both restaurants were just about the same.

"Everything is possible in this town," he replied.

The way he said it made me feel uneasy.

"Why are you so nervous?" he asked, with a serious expression. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"

"Why am I nervous? That's a laugh. I am always nervous around you, don Juan. Sometimes more so than others."

He seemed to be making a serious effort not to laugh.

"Naguals are not really the most friendly beings on earth," he said in a tone of apology. "I learned this the hard way, being pitted against my teacher, the terrible nagual Julian. His mere presence used to scare the daylights out of me. And when he used to zero in on me, I always thought my life wasn't worth a plug nickel."

"Unquestionably, don Juan, you have the same effect on me."

He laughed openly. "No, no. You are definitely exaggerating. I'm an angel in comparison."

"You may be an angel in comparison, except that I don't have the nagual Julian to compare you with."

He laughed for a moment, then became serious again.

"I don't know why, but I definitely feel scared," I explained.

"Do you feel you have reason to be scared?" he asked and stopped walking to peer at me.

His tone of voice and his raised eyebrows gave me the impression he suspected that I knew something I was not revealing to him. He was clearly expecting a disclosure on my part.

"Your insistence makes me wonder," I said. "Are you sure you are not the one who has something up his sleeve?"

"I do have something up my sleeve," he admitted and grinned. "But that's not the issue. The issue is that there is something in this town awaiting you. And you don't quite know what it is; or you do know what it is but don't dare to tell me; or you don't know anything about it at all."

"What's waiting for me here?"

Instead of answering me, don Juan briskly resumed his walking, and we kept going around the plaza in complete silence. We circled it quite a few times, looking for a place to sit. Then, a group of young women got up from a bench and left.

"For years now, I have been describing to you the aberrant practices of the sorcerers of ancient Mexico," don Juan said as he sat down on the bench and gestured for me to sit by him.

With the fervor of someone who has never said it before, he began to tell me again what he had told me many times; that those sorcerers, guided by extremely selfish interests, put all their efforts into perfecting practices that pushed them further and further away from sobriety or mental balance, and that they were finally exterminated when their complex edifices of beliefs and practices became so cumbersome that they could no longer support them.

"The sorcerers of antiquity, of course, lived and proliferated in this area," he said, watching my reaction. "Here in this town. This town was built on the actual foundations of one of their towns. Here in this area, the sorcerers of antiquity carried on all their dealings."

"Do you know this for a fact, don Juan?"

"I do, and so will you, very soon."

My mounting anxiety was forcing me to do something I detested; to focus on myself. Don Juan, sensing my frustration, egged me on.

"Very soon, we'll know whether or not you're really like the old sorcerers, or like the new ones," he said.

"You are driving me nuts with all this strange and ominous talk," I protested.

Being with don Juan for thirteen years had conditioned me, above everything else, to conceive of panic as something that was just around the corner at all times, ready to be released.

Don Juan seemed to vacillate. I noticed his furtive glances in the direction of the church. He was even distracted. When I talked to him, he was not listening. I had to repeat my question.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yes, I am," he said. "Most certainly I am. I was just sensing the surroundings. You caught me in the act of scanning the area with my energy body."

"What did you sense, don Juan?"

"My energy body senses that everything is in place. The play is on tonight. You are the main protagonist. I am a character actor with a small but meaningful role. I exit in the first act."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

He did not answer me. He smiled knowingly.

"I'm preparing the ground," he said. "Warming you up, so to speak, harping on the idea that modern-day sorcerers have learned a hard lesson. They have realized that only if they remain totally detached can they have the energy to be free. Theirs is a peculiar type of detachment which is born not out of fear or indolence, but out of conviction."

Don Juan paused and stood up, stretched his arms in front of him, to his sides, and then behind him.

"Do the same," he advised me. "It relaxes the body; and you have to be very relaxed to face what's coming to you tonight." He smiled broadly.

"Either total detachment or utter indulging is coming to you tonight. It is a choice that every nagual in my line has to make." He sat down again and took a deep breath. What he had said seemed to have taken all his energy.

"I think I can understand detachment and indulging," he went on, "because I had the privilege of knowing two naguals: my benefactor, the nagual Julian, and his benefactor, the nagual Elias. I witnessed the difference between the two. The nagual Elias was detached to the point that he could put aside a gift of power. The nagual Julian was also detached, but not enough to put aside such a gift."

"Judging by the way you're talking," I said, "I would say that you are going to spring some sort of test on me tonight. Is that true?"

"I don't have the power to spring tests of any sort on you, but the spirit does." He said this with a grin, then added, "I am merely its agent."

"What is the spirit going to do to me, don Juan?"

"All I can say is that tonight you're going to get a lesson in dreaming the way lessons in dreaming used to be; but you are not going to get that lesson from me. Someone else is going to be your teacher and guide you tonight."

"Who is going to be my teacher and guide?"

"A visitor who might be a horrendous surprise to you, or no surprise at all."

"And what's the lesson in dreaming I am going to get?"

"It's a lesson about the fourth gate of dreaming. And it is in two parts. The first part I'll explain to you presently. The second part nobody can explain to you because it is something that pertains only to you. All the naguals of my line got this two-part lesson, but no two of those lessons were alike: They were tailored to fit those naguals' personal bents of character."

"Your explanation doesn't help me at all, don Juan. I am getting more and more nervous."

We remained quiet for a long moment. I was shaken up and fidgety, and did not know what else to say without actually nagging.

"As you already know, for modern-day sorcerers to perceive energy directly is a matter of personal attainment," don Juan said. "We maneuver the assemblage point through self-discipline. For the old sorcerers, the displacement of the assemblage point was a consequence of their subjugation to others, their teachers, who accomplished those displacements through dark operations and gave them to their disciples as gifts of power.

"It's possible for someone with greater energy than ours to do anything to us," he went on. For example, the nagual Julian could have turned me into anything he wanted; a fiend or a saint. But he was an impeccable nagual and let me be myself. The old sorcerers were not that impeccable; and by means of their ceaseless efforts to gain control over others, they created a situation of darkness and terror that was passed on from teacher to disciple."

He stood up and swept his gaze all around us.

"As you can see, this town isn't much," he continued, "but it has a unique fascination for the warriors of my line. Here lies the source of what we are, and the source of what we don't want to be.

"Since I am at the end of my time, I must pass on to you certain ideas; recount to you certain stories; put you in touch with certain beings right here in this town, exactly as my benefactor did with me."

Don Juan said that he was reiterating something I already was familiar with, that whatever he was and everything he knew were a legacy from his teacher, the nagual Julian. He in turn inherited everything from his teacher, the nagual Elias. The nagual Elias from the nagual Rosendo; he from the nagual Lujan; the nagual Lujan from the nagual Santisteban; and the nagual Santisteban from the nagual Sebastian.

He told me again, in a very formal tone, something he had explained to me many times before; that there were eight naguals before the nagual Sebastian, but that they were quite different. They had a different attitude toward sorcery; a different concept of it, although they were still directly related to his sorcery lineage.

"You must recollect now, and repeat to me, everything I've told you about the nagual Sebastian," he demanded.

His request seemed odd to me, but I repeated everything I had been told by him or by any of his companions about the nagual Sebastian and the mythical old sorcerer, the death defier, known to them as the tenant.

"You know that the death defier makes us gifts of power every generation," don Juan said. "And the specific nature of those gifts of power is what changed the course of our lineage."

He explained that the tenant, being a sorcerer from the old school, had learned from his teachers all the intricacies of shifting his assemblage point. Since he had perhaps thousands of years of strange life and awareness- ample time to perfect anything- he knew now how to reach and hold hundreds, if not thousands of positions of the assemblage point. His gifts were like both maps for shifting the assemblage point to specific spots, and manuals on how to immobilize it on any of those positions and thus acquire cohesion.

Don Juan was at the peak of his raconteur's form. I had never seen him more dramatic. If I had not known him better, I would have sworn that his voice had the deep and worried inflection of someone gripped by fear or preoccupation. His gestures gave me the impression of a good actor portraying nervousness and concern to perfection.

Don Juan peered at me, and in the tone and manner of someone making a painful revelation, he said that, for instance, the nagual Lujan received from the tenant a gift of fifty positions. He shook his head rhythmically, as if he were silently asking me to consider what he had just said. I kept quiet.

"Fifty positions!" he exclaimed in wonder. "For a gift, one or, at the most, two positions of the assemblage point should be more than adequate."

He shrugged his shoulders, gesturing bewilderment.

"I was told that the tenant liked the nagual Lujan immensely," he continued. "They struck up such a close friendship that they were practically inseparable. I was told that the nagual Lujan and the tenant used to stroll into the church over there every morning for early mass."

"Right here, in this town?" I asked, in total surprise.

"Right here," he replied. "Possibly they sat down on this very spot, on another bench, over a hundred years ago."

"The nagual Lujan and the tenant really walked in this plaza?" I asked again, unable to overcome my surprise.

"You bet!" he exclaimed. "I brought you here tonight because the poem you were reading to me cued me that it was time for you to meet the tenant."

Panic overtook me with the speed of wildfire. I had to breathe through my mouth for a moment.

"We have been discussing the strange accomplishments of the sorcerers of ancient times," don Juan continued. "But it's always hard when one has to talk exclusively in idealities without any firsthand knowledge. I can repeat to you from now until doomsday something that is crystal clear to me but impossible for you to understand or believe because you don't have any practical knowledge of it."

He stood up and gazed at me from head to toe.

"Let's go to church," he said. "The tenant likes the church and its surroundings. I'm positive this is the moment to go there."

Very few times in the course of my association with don Juan had I felt such apprehension. I was numb. My entire body trembled when I stood up. My stomach was tied in knots, yet I followed him without a word when he headed for the church- my knees wobbling and sagging involuntarily every time I took a step. By the time we had walked the short block from the plaza to the limestone steps of the church portico, I was about to faint. Don Juan put his arm around my shoulders to prop me up.

"There's the tenant," he said as casually as if he had just spotted an old friend.

I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw a group of five women and three men at the far end of the portico. My fast and panicked glance did not register anything unusual about those people. I couldn't even tell whether they were going into the church or coming out of it. I noticed, though, that they seemed to be congregated there accidentally. They were not together. By the time don Juan and I reached the small door cut out in the church's massive wooden portals, three women had entered the church. The three men and the other two women were walking away. I experienced a moment of confusion and looked at don Juan for directions. He pointed with a movement of his chin to the holy water font.

"We must observe the rules and cross ourselves," he whispered.

"Where's the tenant?" I asked, also in a whisper. Don Juan dipped the tips of his fingers in the basin, and made the sign of the cross. With an imperative gesture of the chin, he urged me to do the same.

"Was the tenant one of the three men who left?" I whispered nearly in his ear.

"No," he whispered back. "The tenant is one of the three women who stayed. The one in the back row."

At that moment, a woman in the back row turned her head toward me, smiled, and nodded at me.

I reached the door in one jump and ran out.

Don Juan ran after me. With incredible agility, he overtook me and held me by the arm.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his face and body contorting with laughter.

He held me firmly by the arm as I took big gulps of air. I was veritably choking. Peals of laughter came out of him, like ocean waves. I forcefully pulled away and walked toward the plaza. He followed me.

"I never imagined you were going to get so upset," he said, as new waves of laughter shook his body.

"Why didn't you tell me that the tenant is a woman?"

"That sorcerer in there is the death defier," he said solemnly. "For such a sorcerer so versed in the shifts of the assemblage point, to be a man or a woman is a matter of choice or convenience. This is the first part of the lesson in dreaming I said you were going to get. And the death defier is the mysterious visitor who's going to guide you through it."

He held his sides as laughter made him cough. I was speechless. Then a sudden fury possessed me. I was not mad at don Juan or myself or anyone in particular. It was a cold fury which made me feel as if my chest and all my neck muscles were going to explode.

"Let's go back to the church," I shouted, and I didn't recognize my own voice.

"Now, now," he said softly. "You don't have to jump into the fire just like that. Think. Deliberate. Measure things up. Cool that mind of yours. Never in your life have you been put to such a test. You need calmness now.

"I can't tell you what to do," he continued. "I can only, like any other nagual, put you in front of your challenge, after telling you, in quite oblique terms, everything that is pertinent. This is another of the nagual's maneuvers: to say everything without saying it, or to ask without asking."

I wanted to get it over with quickly. But don Juan said that a moment's pause would restore whatever was left of my self-assurance. My knees were about to give in. Solicitously, don Juan made me sit down on the curb. He sat next to me.

"The first part of the dreaming lesson in question is that maleness and femaleness are not final states but are the result of a specific act of positioning the assemblage point," he said. "And this act is, naturally, a matter of volition and training. Since it was a subject close to the old sorcerers' hearts, they are the only ones who can shed light on it."

Perhaps because it was the only rational thing to do, I began to argue with don Juan. "I can't accept or believe what you are saying," I said. I felt heat rising to my face.

"But you saw the woman," don Juan retorted. "Do you think that all of this is a trick?"

"I don't know what to think."

"That being in the church is a real woman," he said forcefully. "Why should that be so disturbing to you? The fact that she was born a man attests only to the power of the old sorcerers' machinations. This shouldn't surprise you. You have already embodied all the principles of sorcery."

My insides were about to burst with tension. In an accusing tone, don Juan said that I was just being argumentative. With forced patience but real pomposity, I explained to him the biological foundation of maleness and femaleness.

"I understand all that," he said. "And you're right in what you're saying. Your flaw is to try to make your assessments universal."

"What we're talking about are basic principles," I shouted. "They'll be pertinent to man here or in any other place in the universe."

"True. True," he said in a quiet voice. "Everything you say is true as long as our assemblage point remains on its habitual position. But the moment it is displaced beyond certain boundaries and our daily world is no longer in function, none of the principles you cherish has the total value you're talking about.

"Your mistake is to forget that the death defier has transcended those boundaries thousands upon thousands of times. It doesn't take a genius to realize that the tenant is no longer bound by the same forces that bind you now."

I told him that my quarrel, if it could be called a quarrel, was not with him, but with accepting the practical side of sorcery, which up to that moment had been so farfetched that it had never posed a real problem to me. I reiterated that, as a dreamer, it was within my experience to attest that in dreaming anything is possible. I reminded him that he himself had sponsored and cultivated this conviction together with the ultimate necessity for soundness of mind. What he was proposing as the tenant's case was not sane. It was a subject only for dreaming; certainly not for the daily world. I let him know that to me it was an abhorrent and untenable proposition.

"Why this violent reaction?" he asked with a smile.

His question caught me off guard. I felt embarrassed. "I think it threatens me at the core," I admitted. And I meant it. To think that the woman in the church was a man was somehow nauseating to me.

A thought played in my mind: perhaps the tenant is a transvestite. I queried don Juan, in earnest, about this possibility. He laughed so hard he seemed about to get ill.

"That's too mundane a possibility," he said. "Maybe your old friends would do such a thing. Your new ones are more resourceful and less masturbatory. I repeat. That being in the church is a woman. It is a she. And she has all the organs and attributes of a female." He smiled maliciously "You've always been attracted to women, haven't you? It seems that this situation has been tailored just for you."

His mirth was so intense and childlike that it was contagious. We both laughed. He, with total abandon. I, with total apprehension.

I came to a decision then. I stood up and said out loud that I had no desire to deal with the tenant in any form or shape. My choice was to bypass all this business and go back to don Juan's house and then home.

Don Juan said that my decision was perfectly all right with him, and we started back to his house. My thoughts raced wildly. Am I doing the right thing? Am I running away out of fear? Of course, I immediately rationalized my decision as the right and unavoidable one. After all, I assured myself, I was not interested in acquisitions, and the tenant's gifts were like acquiring property. Then doubt and curiosity hit me. There were so many questions I could have asked the death defier.

My heart began to pound so intensely I felt it beating against my stomach. The pounding suddenly changed into the emissary's voice. It broke its promise not to interfere and said that an incredible force was accelerating my heart beat in order to drive me back to the church; to walk toward don Juan's house was to walk toward my death.

I stopped walking and hurriedly confronted don Juan with the emissary's words. "Is this true?" I asked.

"I am afraid it is," he admitted sheepishly.

"Why didn't you tell me yourself, don Juan? Were you going to let me die because you think I am a coward?" I asked in a furious mood.

"You were not going to die just like that. Your energy body has endless resources. And it had never occurred to me to think you're a coward. I respect your decisions, and I don't give a damn about what motivates them.

"You are at the end of the road, just like me. So be a true nagual. Don't be ashamed of what you are. If you were a coward, I think you would have died of fright years ago. But if you're too afraid to meet the death defier, then die rather than face him. There is no shame in that."

"Let's go back to the church," I said, as calmly as I could.

"Now we're getting to the crux of the matter!" don Juan exclaimed. "But first, let's go back to the park and sit down on a bench and carefully consider your options. We can spare the time: Besides, it's too early for the business at hand."

We walked back to the park and immediately found an unoccupied bench and sat down.

"You have to understand that only you, yourself, can make the decision to meet or not to meet the tenant, or to accept or reject his gifts of power," don Juan said. "But your decision has to be voiced to the woman in the church, face to face and alone; otherwise it won't be valid."

Don Juan said that the tenant's gifts were extraordinary but that the price for them was tremendous. And that he himself did not approve of either, the gifts or the price.

"Before you make your real decision," don Juan continued, "you have to know all the details of our transactions with that sorcerer."

"I'd rather not hear about this anymore, don Juan," I pleaded.

"It's your duty to know," he said. "How else are you going to make up your mind?"

"Don't you think that the less I know about the tenant the better off I'll be?"

"No. This is not a matter of hiding until the danger is over. This is the moment of truth. Everything you've done and experienced in the sorcerers' world has channeled you to this spot. I didn't want to say it because I knew your energy body was going to tell you, but there is no way to get out of this appointment. Not even by dying. Do you understand?" He shook me by the shoulders. "Do you understand?" he repeated.

I understood so well that I asked him if it would be possible for him to make me change levels of awareness in order to alleviate my fear and discomfort. He nearly made me jump with the explosion of his "no".

"You must face the death defier in coldness and with ultimate premeditation," he went on. "And you can't do this by proxy."

Don Juan calmly began to repeat everything he had already told me about the death defier. As he talked, I realized that part of my confusion was the result of his use of words. He rendered 'death defier' in Spanish as el desafiante de la muerte, and 'tenant' as el inquilino, both of which automatically denote a male. But in describing the relationship between the tenant and the naguals of his line, don Juan kept on mixing the Spanish-language male and female gender denotation, creating a great confusion in me.

He said that the tenant was supposed to pay for the energy he took from the naguals of our lineage, but that whatever he paid has bound those sorcerers for generations. As payment for the energy taken from all those naguals, the woman in the church taught them exactly what to do to displace their assemblage point to some specific positions, which she herself had chosen. In other words, she bound every one of those men with a gift of power consisting of a preselected, specific position of the assemblage point and all its implications."

"What do you mean by 'all its implications', don Juan?"

"I mean the negative results of those gifts. The woman in the church knows only of indulging. There is no frugality, no temperance in that woman. For instance, she taught the nagual Julian how to arrange his assemblage point to be, just like her, a woman. Teaching this to my benefactor, who was an incurable voluptuary, was like giving booze to a drunkard."

"But isn't it up to each one of us to be responsible for what we do?"

"Yes, indeed. However, some of us have more difficulty than others in being responsible. To augment that difficulty deliberately, as that woman does, is to put too much unnecessary pressure on us."

"How do you know the woman in the church does this deliberately?"

"She has done it to every one of the naguals of my line. If we look at ourselves fairly and squarely, we have to admit that the death defier has made us, with his gifts, into a line of very indulging, dependent sorcerers."

I could not overlook his inconsistency of language usage any longer, and I complained to him.

"You have to speak about that sorcerer as either a male or a female, but not as both," I said harshly. "I'm too stiff, and your arbitrary use of gender makes me all the more uneasy."

"I am very uneasy myself," he confessed. "But the truth is that the death defier is both: male and female. I've never been able to take that sorcerer's change with grace. I was sure you would feel the same way, having seen him as a man first."

Don Juan reminded me of a time, years before, when he took me to meet the death defier and I met a man, a strange Indian who was not old but not young either and was very slightly built. I remember mostly his strange accent and his use of one odd metaphor when describing things he allegedly had seen. He said, mis ojos se pasearon, "my eyes walked on". For instance, he said, "My eyes walked on the helmets of the Spanish conquerors."

The event was so fleeting in my mind that I had always thought the meeting had lasted only a few minutes. Don Juan later told me that I had been gone with the death defier for a whole day.

"The reason I was trying to find out from you earlier whether you knew what was going on," don Juan continued, "was because I thought that years ago you had made an appointment with the death defier yourself."

"You were giving me undue credit, don Juan. In this instance, I really don't know whether I am coming or going. But what gave you the idea that I knew?"

"The death defier seemed to have taken a liking to you. And that meant to me that he might have already given you a gift of power, although you didn't remember it. Or he might have set up your appointment with him, as a woman. I even suspected she had given you precise directions."

Don Juan remarked that the death defier, being definitely a creature of ritual habits, always met the naguals of his line first as a man, as it had happened with the nagual Sebastian, and subsequently as a woman.

"Why do you call the death defier's gifts, gifts of power? And why the mystery?" I asked. "You yourself can displace your assemblage point to whatever spot you want, isn't that so?"

"They are called gifts of power because they are products of the specialized knowledge of the sorcerers of antiquity," he said. "The mystery about the gifts is that no one on this earth, with the exception of the death defier, can give us a sample of that knowledge. And, of course, I can displace my assemblage point to whatever spot I want, inside or outside man's energy shape. But what I can't do, and only the death defier can, is to know what to do with my energy body in each one of those spots in order to get total perception, total cohesion."

He explained, then, that modern-day sorcerers do not know the details of the thousands upon thousands of possible positions of the assemblage point.

"What do you mean by details?" I asked.

"Particular ways of treating the energy body in order to maintain the assemblage point fixed on specific positions," he replied.

He took himself as an example. He said that the death defier's gift of power to him had been the position of the assemblage point of a crow and the procedures to manipulate his energy body to get the total perception of a crow. Don Juan explained that total perception- total cohesion was what the old sorcerers sought at any cost, and that, in the case of his own gift of power, total perception came to him by means of a deliberate process he had to learn, step by step, as one learns to work a very complex machine.

Don Juan further explained that most of the shifts modern-day sorcerers experience are mild shifts within a thin bundle of energetic luminous filaments inside the luminous egg, a bundle called the band of man; or the purely human aspect of the universe's energy. Beyond that band, but still within the luminous egg, lies the realm of the grand shifts; or movements. When the assemblage point shifts to any spot on that area, perception is still comprehensible to us, but extremely detailed procedures are required for perception to be total.

"The inorganic beings tricked you and Carol Tiggs in your last journey by helping you two to get total cohesion on a grand shift," don Juan said. "They displaced your assemblage points to the farthest possible spot, then helped you perceive there as if you were in your daily world: A nearly impossible thing. To do that type of perceiving a sorcerer needs pragmatic knowledge, or influential friends.

"Your friends would have betrayed you in the end and left you and Carol to fend for yourselves and learn pragmatic measures in order to survive in that world. You two would have ended filled to the brim with pragmatic procedures, just like those most knowledgeable old sorcerers.

"Every grand shift has different inner workings," he continued, "which modern sorcerers could learn if they knew how to fixate the assemblage point long enough at any grand shift. Only the sorcerers of ancient times had the specific knowledge required to do this."

Don Juan went on to say that the knowledge of the specific procedures involved in shifts was not available to the eight naguals who preceded the nagual Sebastian, and that the tenant showed the nagual Sebastian how to achieve total perception on ten new positions of the assemblage point. The nagual Santisteban received seven, the nagual Lujan fifty, the nagual Rosendo six, the nagual Elias four, the nagual Julian sixteen, and he was shown two: That made a total of ninety-five specific positions of the assemblage point that his lineage knew about. He said that if I asked him whether he considered this an advantage to his lineage, he would have to say no because the weight of those gifts put them closer to the old sorcerers' mood.

"Now it's your turn to meet the tenant," he continued. "Perhaps the gifts he will give you will offset our total balance and our lineage will plunge into the darkness that finished off the old sorcerers."

"This is so horribly serious, it's sickening," I said.

"I most sincerely sympathize with you," he retorted with a serious expression. "I know it's no consolation to you if I say that this is the toughest trial of a modern nagual. To face something so old and mysterious as the tenant is not awe-inspiring but revolting. At least it was to me, and still is."

"Why do I have to continue with it, don Juan?"

"Because, without knowing it, you accepted the death defier challenge. I drew an acceptance from you in the course of your apprenticeship, in the same manner my teacher drew one from me, surreptitiously.

"I went through the same horror, only a little more brutally than you." He began to chuckle. "The nagual Julian was given to playing horrendous jokes. He told me that there was a very beautiful and passionate widow who was madly in love with me. The nagual used to take me to church often, and I had seen the woman staring at me. I thought she was a good-looking woman, and I was a horny young man. When the nagual said that she liked me, I fell for it. My awakening was very rude."

I had to fight not to laugh at don Juan's gesture of lost innocence. Then the idea of his predicament hit me, as being not funny but ghastly.

"Are you sure, don Juan, that that woman is the tenant?" I asked, hoping that perhaps it was a mistake or a bad joke.

"I am very, very sure," he said. "Besides, even if I were so dumb as to forget the tenant, my seeing can't fail me."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that the tenant has a different type of energy?"

"No, not a different type of energy, but certainly different energy features than a normal person."

"Are you absolutely sure, don Juan, that that woman is the tenant?" I insisted, driven by a strange revulsion and fear.

"That woman is the tenant!" don Juan exclaimed in a voice that admitted no doubts.

We remained quiet. I waited for the next move in the midst of a panic beyond description.

"I have already said to you that to be a natural man or a natural woman is a matter of positioning the assemblage point," don Juan said. "By natural I mean someone who was born either male or female. To a seer, the shiniest part of the assemblage point faces outward, in the case of females; and inward, in the case of males. The tenant's assemblage point was originally facing inward, but he changed it by twisting it around and making his egglike energy shape look like a shell that has curled up on itself."





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 12. The Woman in the Church.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 12. The Woman in the Church.

Don Juan and I sat in silence. I had run out of questions, and he seemed to have said to me all that was pertinent. It could not have been more than seven o'clock, but the plaza was unusually deserted. It was a warm night. In the evenings, in that town, people usually meandered around the plaza until ten or eleven.

I took a moment to reconsider what was happening to me. My time with don Juan was coming to an end. He and his party were going to fulfill the sorcerers' dream of leaving this world and entering into inconceivable dimensions. On this basis of my limited success in dreaming, I believed that the claims were not illusory but extremely sober, although contrary to reason. They were seeking to perceive the unknown, and they had made it.

Don Juan was right in saying that, by inducing a systematic displacement of the assemblage point, dreaming liberates perception; enlarging the scope of what can be perceived. For the sorcerers of his party, dreaming had not only opened the doors of other perceivable worlds, but prepared them for entering into those realms in full awareness. Dreaming for them had become ineffable; unprecedented; something whose nature and scope could only be alluded to, as when don Juan said that it is the gateway to the light and to the darkness of the universe.

There was only one thing pending for them: my encounter with the death defier. I regretted that don Juan had not given me notice so that I could prepare myself better. But he was a nagual who did everything of importance on the spur of the moment, without any warning.

For a moment, I seemed to be doing fine, sitting with don Juan in that park, waiting for things to develop. But then my emotional stability suffered a downward swing and, in the twinkling of an eye, I was in the midst of a dark despair. I was assailed by petty considerations about: my safety, my goals, my hopes in the world, my worries. Upon examination, however, I had to admit that perhaps the only true worry I had was about my three cohorts in don Juan's world. Yet, if I thought it out, even that was no real worry to me. Don Juan had taught them to be the kind of sorceresses who always knew what to do, and, most important, he had prepared them always to know what to do with what they knew.

Having had all the possible worldly reasons for feeling anguish stripped off me a long time ago, all I had been left with was concern for myself. And I gave myself to it shamelessly. One last indulging for the road; the fear of dying at the hands of the death defier. I became so afraid that I got sick to my stomach. I tried to apologize, but don Juan laughed.

"You're not in any way unique at barfing out of fear," he said. "When I met the death defier, I wet my pants. Believe me."

I waited in silence for a long, unbearable moment.

"Are you ready?" he asked. I said yes. And he added, standing up, "Let's go then and find out how you are going to stand up in the firing line."

He led the way back to the church. To the best of my ability, all I remember of that walk, to this day, is that he had to drag me bodily the whole way. I do not remember arriving at the church or entering it. The next thing I knew, I was kneeling on a long, worn-out wooden pew next to the woman I had seen earlier. She was smiling at me. Desperately, I looked around, trying to spot don Juan, but he was nowhere in sight. I would have flown like a bat out of hell had the woman not restrained me by grabbing my arm.

"Why should you be so afraid of poor little me?" the woman asked me in English.

I stayed glued to the spot where I was kneeling. What had taken me entirely and instantaneously was her voice. I cannot describe what it was about its raspy sound that called out the most recondite memories in me. It was as if I had always known that voice.

I remained there immobile, mesmerized by that sound. She asked me something else in English, but I could not make out what she was saying. She smiled at me, knowingly.

"It's all right," she whispered in Spanish. She was kneeling to my right. "I understand real fear. I live with it."

I was about to talk to her when I heard the emissary's voice in my ear. "That is the voice of Hermelinda, your wet nurse," it said. The only thing I had ever known about Hermelinda was the story I was told of her being accidentally killed by a runaway truck. That the woman's voice next to me would stir such deep, old memories was shocking to me. I experienced a momentary agonizing anxiety.

"I am your wet nurse!" the woman exclaimed softly. "How extraordinary! Do you want my breast?" Laughter convulsed her body.

I made a supreme effort to remain calm, yet I knew that I was quickly losing ground and that in no time at all I was going to take leave of my senses.

"Don't mind my joking," the woman said in a low voice. "The truth is that I like you very much. You are bustling with energy. And we are going to get along fine."

Two older men knelt down right in front of us. One of them turned curiously to look at us. She paid no attention to him and kept on whispering in my ear.

"Let me hold your hand," she pleaded. But her plea was like a command. I surrendered my hand to her, unable to say no.

"Thank you. Thank you for your confidence and your trust in me," she whispered.

The sound of her voice was driving me mad. Its raspiness was so exotic, so utterly feminine. Not under any circumstances would I have taken it for a man's voice laboring to sound womanly. It was a raspy voice, but not a throaty or harsh-sounding one. It was more like the sound of bare feet softly walking on gravel.

I made a tremendous effort to break an invisible sheet of energy that seemed to have enveloped me. I thought I succeeded. I stood up, ready to leave, and I would have had not the woman also stood up and whispered in my ear, "Don't run away. There is so much I have to tell you."

I automatically sat down; stopped by curiosity. Strangely, my anxiety was suddenly gone, and so was my fear. I even had enough presence to ask the woman, "Are you really a woman?"

She chuckled softly, like a young girl. Then she voiced a convoluted sentence.

"If you dare to think that I would transform myself into a fearsome man and cause you harm, you are gravely mistaken," she said, accentuating even more that strange, mesmeric voice. "You are my benefactor. I am your servant, as I have been the servant of all the naguals who preceded you."

Gathering all the energy I could, I spoke my mind to her.

"You are welcome to my energy," I said. "It's a gift from me to you, but I don't want any gifts of power from you. And I really mean this."

"I can't take your energy for free," she whispered. "I pay for what I get, that's the deal. It's foolish to give your energy for free."

"I've been a fool all my life. Believe me," I said. "I can surely afford to make you a gift. I have no problem with it. You need the energy, take it. But I don't need to be saddled with unnecessaries. I have nothing and I love it."

"Perhaps," she said pensively.

Aggressively, I asked her whether she meant that 'perhaps' she would take my energy, or that she did not believe I had nothing and loved it.

She giggled with delight and said that she might take my energy since I was so generously offering it, but that she had to make a payment. She had to give me a thing of similar value.

As I heard her speak, I became aware that she spoke Spanish with a most extravagant foreign accent. She added an extra phoneme to the middle syllable of every word. Never in my life had I heard anyone speak like that.

"Your accent is quite extraordinary," I said. "Where is it from?"

"From nearly eternity," she said and sighed. We had begun to connect. I understood why she sighed. She was the closest thing to permanent, while I was temporary. That was my advantage. The death defier had worked herself into a corner, and I was free.

I examined her closely. She seemed to be between thirty-five and forty years old. She was a dark, thoroughly Indian woman, almost husky, but not fat or even hefty. I could see that the skin of her forearms and hands was smooth, the muscles, firm and youthful. I judged that she was five feet, six or seven inches tall. She wore a long dress, a black shawl, and guaraches. In her kneeling position, I could also see her smooth heels and part of her powerful calves. Her midsection was lean. She had big breasts that she could not or perhaps did not want to hide under her shawl. Her hair was jet black and tied in a long braid. She was not beautiful, but she was not homely either. Her features were in no way outstanding. I felt that she could not possibly have attracted anybody's attention; except for her eyes, which she kept low, hidden beneath downcast eyelids. Her eyes were magnificent, clear, peaceful. Apart from don Juan's, I had never seen eyes more brilliant, more alive.

Her eyes put me completely at ease. Eyes like that could not be malevolent. I had a surge of trust and optimism and the feeling that I had known her all my life. But I was also very conscious of something else; my emotional instability. It had always plagued me in don Juan's world, forcing me to be like a yo-yo. I had moments of total trust and insight only to be followed by abject doubts and distrust. This event was not going to be different. My suspicious mind suddenly came up with the warning thought that I was falling under the woman's spell.

"You learned Spanish late in life, didn't you?" I said, just to get out from under my thoughts and to avoid her reading them.

"Only yesterday," she retorted and broke into a crystalline laughter, her small, strangely white teeth, shining like a row of pearls.

People turned to look at us. I lowered my forehead as if in deep prayer. The woman moved closer to me.

"Is there a place where we could talk?" I asked.

"We are talking here," she said. "I have talked here with all the naguals of your line. If you whisper, no one will know we are talking."

I was dying to ask her about her age. But a sobering memory came to my rescue. I remembered a friend of mine who for years had been setting up all kinds of traps to make me confess my age to him. I detested his petty concern, and now I was about to engage in the same behavior. I dropped it instantly.

I wanted to tell her about it, just to keep the conversation going. She seemed to know what was going through my mind. She squeezed my arm in a friendly gesture, as if to say that we had shared a thought.

"Instead of giving me a gift, can you tell me something that would help me in my way?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "No," she whispered. "We are extremely different. More different than I believed possible."

She got up and slid sideways out of the pew. She deftly genuflected as she faced the main altar. She crossed herself and signaled me to follow her to a large side altar to our left.

We knelt in front of a life-size crucifix. Before I had time to say anything, she spoke.

"I've been alive for a very, very long time," she said. "The reason I have had this long life is that I control the shifts and movements of my assemblage point. Also, I don't stay here in your world too long. I have to save the energy I get from the naguals of your line."

"What is it like to exist in other worlds?" I asked.

"It's like in your dreaming, except that I have more mobility. And I can stay longer anywhere I want. Just like if you would stay as long as you wanted in any of your dreams."

"When you are in this world, are you pinned down to this area alone?"

"No. I go everywhere I want."

"Do you always go as a woman?"

"I've been a woman longer than a man. Definitely, I like it much better. I think I've nearly forgotten how to be a man. I am all female!"

She took my hand and made me touch her crotch. My heart was pounding in my throat. She was indeed a female.

"I can't just take your energy," she said, changing the subject. "We have to strike another kind of agreement."

Another wave of mundane reasoning hit me then. I wanted to ask her where she lived when she was in this world. I did not need to voice my question to get an answer.

"You're much, much younger than I," she said, "and you already have difficulty telling people where you live. And even if you take them to the house you own or pay rent on, that's not where you live."

"There are so many things I want to ask you, but all I do is think stupid thoughts," I said.

"You don't need to ask me anything," she went on. "You already know what I know. All you needed was a jolt in order to claim what you already know. I am giving you that jolt."

Not only did I think stupid thoughts but I was in a state of such suggestibility that no sooner had she finished saying that I knew what she knew than I felt I knew everything, and I no longer needed to ask any more questions. Laughingly, I told her about my gullibility.

"You're not gullible," she assured me with authority. "You know everything, because you're now totally in the second attention. Look around!"

For a moment, I could not focus my sight. It was exactly as if water had gotten into my eyes. When I arranged my view, I knew that something portentous had happened. The church was different, darker, more ominous, and somehow harder. I stood up and took a couple of steps toward the nave. What caught my eye were the pews: They were made not out of lumber but out of thin, twisted poles. These were homemade pews, set inside a magnificent stone building. Also, the light in the church was different. It was yellowish, and its dim glow cast the blackest shadows I had ever seen. It came from the candles of the many altars. I had an insight about how well candlelight mixed with the massive stone walls and ornaments of a colonial church.

The woman was staring at me. The brightness of her eyes was most remarkable. I knew then that I was dreaming and she was directing the dream. But I was not afraid of her or of the dream. I moved away from the side altar and looked again at the nave of the church. There were people kneeling in prayer there.

Lots of them, strangely small, dark, hard people. I could see their bowed heads all the way to the foot of the main altar. The ones who were close to me stared at me, obviously, in disapproval. I was gaping at them and at everything else. I could not hear any noise, though. People moved, but there was no sound.

"I can't hear anything," I said to the woman, and my voice boomed, echoing as if the church were a hollow shell.

Nearly all the heads turned to look at me. The woman pulled me back into the darkness of the side altar.

"You will hear if you don't listen with your ears," she said. "Listen with your dreaming attention."

It appeared that all I needed was her insinuation. I was suddenly flooded by the droning sound of a multitude in prayer. I was instantly swept up by it. I found it the most exquisite sound I had ever heard. I wanted to rave about it to the woman, but she was not by my side. I looked for her. She had nearly reached the door. She turned there to signal me to follow her. I caught up with her at the portico The streetlights were gone. The only illumination was moonlight. The facade of the church was also different; it was unfinished. Square blocks of limestone lay everywhere. There were no houses or buildings around the church. In the moonlight the scene was eerie.

"Where are we going?" I asked her.

"Nowhere," she replied. "We simply came out here to have more space, more privacy. Here we can talk our little heads off."

She urged me to sit down on a quarried, half-chiseled piece of limestone.

"The second attention has endless treasures to be discovered," she began. "The initial position in which the dreamer places his body is of key importance. And right there is the secret of the ancient sorcerers, who were already ancient in my time. Think about it."

She sat so close to me that I felt the heat of her body. She put an arm around my shoulder and pressed me against her bosom. Her body had a most peculiar fragrance: It reminded me of trees or sage. It was not that she was wearing perfume: Her whole being seemed to exude that characteristic odor of pine forests. Also the heat of her body was not like mine or like that of anyone else I knew. Hers was a cool, mentholated heat; even; balanced. The thought that came to my mind was that her heat would press on relentlessly but knew no hurry.

She began then to whisper in my left ear. She said that the gifts she had given to the naguals of my line had to do with what the old sorcerers used to call the twin positions. That is to say, the initial position in which a dreamer holds his physical body to begin dreaming is mirrored by the position in which he holds his energy body, in dreams, to fixate his assemblage point on any spot of his choosing. The two positions make a unit, she said, and it took the old sorcerers thousands of years to find out the perfect relationship between any two positions. She commented, with a giggle, that the sorcerers of today will never have the time or the disposition to do all that work, and that the men and women of my line were indeed lucky to have her to give them such gifts. Her laughter had a most remarkable, crystalline sound.

I had not quite understood her explanation of the twin positions. Boldly, I told her that I did not want to practice those things but only know about them as intellectual possibilities.

"What exactly do you want to know?" she asked softly.

"Explain to me what you mean by the twin positions, or the initial position in which a dreamer holds his body to start dreaming." I said.

"How do you lie down to start your dreaming?" she asked.

"Any which way. I don't have a pattern. Don Juan never stressed this point."

"Well, I do stress it," she said and stood up. She changed positions. She sat down to my right and whispered in my other ear that, in accordance with what she knew, the position in which one places the body is of utmost importance. She proposed a way of testing this by performing an extremely delicate but simple exercise.

"Start your dreaming by lying on your right side, with your knees a bit bent," she said. "The discipline is to maintain that position and fall asleep in it. In dreaming, then, the exercise is to dream that you lie down in exactly the same position and fall asleep again."

"What does that do?" I asked.

"It makes the assemblage point stay put, and I mean really stay put, in whatever position it is at the instant of that second falling asleep."

"What are the results of this exercise?"

"Total perception. I am sure your teachers have already told you that my gifts are gifts of total perception."

"Yes. But I think I am not clear about what total perception means," I lied.

She ignored me and went on to tell me that the four variations of the exercise were to fall asleep lying on the right side, the left, the back, and the stomach. Then in dreaming the exercise was to dream of falling asleep a second time in the same position as the dreaming had been started. She promised me extraordinary results, which she said, were not possible to foretell.

She abruptly changed the subject and asked me, "What's the gift you want for yourself?"

"No gift for me. I've told you that already."

"I insist. I must offer you a gift, and you must accept it. That is our agreement."

"Our agreement is that we give you energy. So take it from me. This one is on me. My gift to you."

The woman seemed dumbfounded. And I persisted in telling her it was all right with me that she took my energy. I even told her that I liked her immensely. Naturally, I meant it. There was something supremely sad, and at the same time something supremely appealing about her.

"Let's go back inside the church," she muttered.

"If you really want to make me a gift," I said, "take me for a stroll in this town, in the moonlight."

She shook her head affirmatively. "Provided that you don't say a word," she said.

"Why not?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.

"Because we are dreaming," she said. "I'll be taking you deeper into my dream."

She explained that as long as we stayed in the church, I had enough energy to think and converse, but that beyond the boundaries of that church it was a different situation.

"Why is that?" I asked daringly.

In a most serious tone, which not only increased her eeriness but terrified me, the woman said, "Because there is no out there. This is a dream. You are at the fourth gate of dreaming, dreaming my dream."

She told me that her art was to be capable of projecting her intent, and that everything I saw around me was her intent. She said in a whisper that the church and the town were the results of her intent: They did not exist, and yet they did. She added, looking into my eyes, that this is one of the mysteries of intending in the second attention the twin positions of dreaming. It can be done, but it cannot be explained or comprehended.

She told me then that she came from a line of sorcerers who knew how to move about in the second attention by projecting their intent. Her story was that the sorcerers of her line practiced the art of projecting their thoughts in dreaming in order to accomplish the truthful reproduction of any object or structure or landmark or scenery of their choice.

She said that the sorcerers of her line used to start by gazing at a simple object and memorizing every detail of it. They would then close their eyes and visualize the object and correct their visualization against the true object until they could see it, in its completeness, with their eyes shut. The next thing in their developing scheme was to dream with the object and create in the dream, from the point of view of their own perception, a total materialization of the object. This act, the woman said, was called the first step to total perception.

From a simple object, those sorcerers went on to take more and more complex items. Their final aim was for all of them together to visualize a total world, then dream that world; and thus re-create a totally veritable realm where they could exist.

"When any of the sorcerers of my line were able to do that," the woman went on, "they could easily pull anyone into their intent; into their dream. This is what I am doing to you now, and what I did to all the naguals of your line."

The woman giggled. "You better believe it," she said, as if I did not.

"Whole populations disappeared in dreaming like that. This is the reason I said to you that this church and this town are one of the mysteries of intending in the second attention."

"You say that whole populations disappeared that way. How was it possible?" I asked.

"They visualized and then re-created in dreaming the same scenery," she replied. "You've never visualized anything, so it's very dangerous for you to go into my dream."

She warned me, then, that to cross the fourth gate and travel to places that exist only in someone else's intent was perilous, since every item in such a dream had to be an ultimately personal item.

"Do you still want to go?" she asked.

I said yes. Then she told me more about the twin positions. The essence of her explanation was that if I were, for instance, dreaming of my hometown, and my dream had started when I lay down on my right side, I could very easily stay in the town of my dream if I would lie on my right side in the dream, and dream that I had fallen asleep. The second dream not only would necessarily be a dream of my hometown, but would be the most concrete dream one can imagine.

She was confident that in my dreaming training I had gotten countless dreams of great concreteness, but she assured me that every one of them had to be a fluke. For the only way to have absolute control of dreams was to use the technique of the twin positions.

"And don't ask me why," she added. "It just happens. Like everything else."

She made me stand up and admonished me again not to talk or stray from her. She took my hand gently, as if I were a child; and headed toward a clump of dark silhouettes of houses. We were on a cobbled street. Hard river rocks had been pounded edgewise into the dirt. Uneven pressure had created uneven surfaces. It seemed that the cobblers had followed the contours of the ground without bothering to level it.

The houses were big, whitewashed, one-story, dusty buildings with tiled roofs. There were people meandering quietly. Dark shadows inside the houses gave me the feeling of curious but frightened neighbors gossiping behind doors. I could also see the flat mountains around the town.

Contrary to what had happened to me all along in my dreaming, my mental processes were unimpaired. My thoughts were not pushed away by the force of the events in the dream. My mental calculations told me I was in the dream version of the town where don Juan lived, but at a different time. My curiosity was at its peak. I was actually with the death defier in her dream. But was it a dream? She herself had said it was a dream. I wanted to watch everything, to be superalert. I wanted to test everything by seeing energy. I felt embarrassed, but the woman tightened her grip on my hand as if to signal me that she agreed with me.

Still feeling absurdly bashful, I automatically stated out loud my intent to see. In my dreaming practices, I had been using all along the phrase "I want to see energy." Sometimes, I had to say it over and over until I got results. This time, in the woman's dream town, as I began to repeat it in my usual manner, the woman began to laugh. Her laughter was like don Juan's: a deep, abandoned belly laugh.

"What's so funny?" I asked, somehow contaminated by her mirth.

"Juan Matus doesn't like the old sorcerers in general and me in particular," the woman said between fits of laughter. "All we have to do, in order to see in our dreams, is to point with our little finger at the item we want to see. To make you yell in my dream is his way to send me his message. You have to admit that he's really clever." She paused for a moment, then said in the tone of a revelation, "Of course, to yell like an asshole works too."

The sorcerers' sense of humor bewildered me beyond measure. She laughed so hard she seemed to be unable to proceed with our walk. I felt stupid. When she calmed down and was perfectly poised again, she politely told me that I could point at anything I wanted in her dream, including herself.

I pointed at a house with the little finger of my left hand. There was no energy in that house. The house was like any other item of a regular dream. I pointed at everything around me with the same result.

"Point at me," she urged me. "You must corroborate that this is the method dreamers follow in order to see."

She was thoroughly right. That was the method. The instant I pointed my finger at her, she was a blob of energy. A very peculiar blob of energy, I may add. Her energetic shape was exactly as don Juan had described it: It looked like an enormous seashell, curled inwardly along a cleavage that ran its length.

"I am the only energy-generating being in this dream," she said. "So the proper thing for you to do is just watch everything."

At that moment I was struck, for the first time, by the immensity of don Juan's joke. He had actually contrived to have me learn to yell in my dreaming so that I could yell in the privacy of the death defier's dream. I found that touch so funny that laughter spilled out of me in suffocating waves.

"Let's continue our walk," the woman said softly when I had no more laughter in me.

There were only two streets that intersected: Each had three blocks of houses. We walked the length of both streets, not once but four times. I looked at everything and listened with my dreaming attention for any noises. There were very few, only dogs barking in the distance, or people speaking in whispers as we went by.

The dogs barking brought me an unknown and profound longing. I had to stop walking. I sought relief by leaning my shoulder against a wall. The contact with the wall was shocking to me, not because the wall was unusual but because what I had leaned on was a solid wall, like any other wall I had ever touched. I felt it with my free hand. I ran my fingers on its rough surface. It was indeed a wall!

Its stunning realness put an immediate end to my longing and renewed my interest in watching everything. I was looking, specifically, for features that could be correlated with the town of my day. However, no matter how intently I observed, I had no success. There was a plaza in that town, but it was in front of the church, facing the portico.

In the moonlight the mountains around the town were clearly visible and almost recognizable. I tried to orient myself, observing the moon and the stars, as if I were in the consensual reality of everyday life. It was a waning moon, perhaps a day after full. It was high over the horizon. It must have been between eight and nine in the evening. I could see Orion to the right of the moon: Its two main stars, Betelgeuse and Rigel, were on a horizontal straight line with the moon. I estimated it to be early December. My time was May. In May, Orion is nowhere in sight at that time. The disparity in time got me very excited.

I gazed at the moon as long as I could. Nothing shifted. It was the moon as far as I could tell.

As I reexamined the southern horizon, I thought I could distinguish the bell-like peak visible from don Juan's patio. I tried next to figure out where his house might have been. For one instant I thought I found it. I became so enthralled that I pulled my hand out of the woman's grip. Instantly, a tremendous anxiety possessed me. I knew that I had to go back to the church, because if I did not I would simply drop dead on the spot. I turned around and bolted for the church. The woman quickly grabbed my hand and followed me.

As we approached the church at a running pace, I became aware that the town in that dreaming was behind the church. Had I taken this into consideration, orientation might have been possible. As it was, I had no more dreaming attention. I focused all of it on the architectural and ornamental details on the back of the church. I had never seen that part of the building in the world of everyday life, and I thought that if I could record its features in my memory, I could check them later against the details of the real church.

That was the plan I concocted on the spur of the moment. Something inside me, however, scorned my efforts at validation. During all my apprenticeship, I had been plagued by the need for objectivity, which had forced me to check and recheck everything about don Juan's world. Yet it was not validation per se that was always at stake, but rather the need to use this drive for objectivity as a crutch to give me protection at the moments of most intense cognitive disruption: When it was time to check what I had validated, I never went through with it.

Inside the church, the woman and I knelt in front of the small altar on the left side, where we had been, and the next instant, I woke up in the well-illuminated church of my day.

The woman crossed herself and stood up. I did the same automatically. She took my arm and began to walk toward the door.

"Wait, wait," I said and was surprised that I could talk. I could not think clearly, yet I wanted to ask her a convoluted question. What I wanted to know was how anyone could have the energy to visualize every detail of a whole town.

Smiling, the woman answered my unvoiced question: She said that she was very good at visualizing because after a lifetime of doing it, she had many, many lifetimes to perfect it. She added that the town I had visited and the church where we had talked were examples of her recent visualizations. The church was the same church where Sebastian had been a sexton. She had given herself the task of memorizing every detail of every corner of that church and that town, for that matter, out of a need to survive.

She ended her talk with a most disturbing afterthought.

"Since you know quite a bit about this town, even though you've never tried to visualize it," she said, "you are now helping me to intend it. I bet you won't believe me if I tell you that this town you are looking at now doesn't really exist, outside your intent and mine."

She peered at me and laughed at my sense of horror, for I had just fully realized what she was saying.

"Are we still dreaming?" I asked, astonished.

"We are," she said. "But this dreaming is more real than the other, because you're helping me. It is not possible to explain it beyond saying that it is happening. Like everything else." She pointed all around her. "There is no way to tell how it happens, but it does. Remember always what I've told you: This is the mystery of intending in the second attention."

She gently pulled me closer to her. "Let's stroll to the plaza of this dream," she said. "But perhaps I should fix myself a little bit so you'll be more at ease."

I looked at her uncomprehendingly as she expertly changed her appearance. She did this with very simple, mundane maneuvers. She undid her long skirt, revealing the very average midcalf skirt she was wearing underneath. She then twisted her long braid into a chignon and changed from her guaraches into inch-heel shoes she had in a small cloth sack.

She turned over her reversible black shawl to reveal a beige stole. She looked like a typical middle-class Mexican woman from the city, perhaps on a visit to that town.

She took my arm with a woman's aplomb class="definition">[* - ] and led the way to the plaza.

"What happened to your tongue?" she said in English. "Did the cat eat it?"

I was totally engrossed in the unthinkable possibility that I was still in a dream; what is more, I was beginning to believe that if it were true, I ran the risk of never waking up.

In a nonchalant tone that I could not recognize as mine, I said, "I didn't realize until now that you spoke in English to me before. Where did you learn it?"

"In the world out there. I speak many languages." She paused and scrutinized me. "I've had plenty of time to learn them. Since we're going to spend a lot of time together, I'll teach you my own language sometime."

She giggled, no doubt at my look of despair.

I stopped walking. "Are we going to spend a lot of time together?" I asked, betraying my feelings.

She replied in a joyful tone, "Of course. You are- and I should say very generously- going to give me your energy, for free. You said that yourself, didn't you?"

I was aghast.

"What's the problem?" the woman asked, shifting back into Spanish. "Don't tell me that you regret your decision. We are sorcerers. It's too late to change your mind. You are not afraid, are you?"

I was again more than terrified, but if I had been put on the spot to describe what terrified me, I would not have known. I was certainly not afraid of being with the death defier in another dream, or of losing my mind, or even my life.

Was I afraid of evil? I asked myself. But the thought of evil could not withstand examination. As a result of all those years on the sorcerers' path, I knew without the shadow of a doubt that in the universe only energy exists: Evil is merely a concatenation of the human mind, overwhelmed by the fixation of the assemblage point on its habitual position.

Logically, there was really nothing for me to be afraid of. I knew that, but I also knew that my real weakness was to lack the fluidity to fix my assemblage point instantly on any new position to which it was displaced. The contact with the death defier was displacing my assemblage point at a tremendous rate, and I did not have the prowess to keep up with the push. The end result was a vague pseudo-sensation of fearing that I might not be able to wake up.

"There is no problem," I said. "Let's continue our dream walk."

She linked her arm with mine, and we reached the park in silence. It was not at all a forced silence. But my mind was running in circles. How strange, I thought: Only a while ago I had walked with don Juan from the park to the church in the midst of the most terrifying normal fear. Now I was walking back from the church to the park with the object of my fear; and I was more terrified than ever, but in a different, more mature, more deadly manner.

To fend off my worries, I began to look around. If this was a dream, as I believed it was, there was a way to prove or disprove it. I pointed my finger at the houses, at the church, at the pavement in the street. I pointed at people. I pointed at everything. Daringly, I even grabbed a couple of people, whom I seemed to scare considerably. I felt their mass. They were as real as anything I consider real, except that they did not generate energy. Nothing in that town generated energy. Everything seemed real and normal, yet it was a dream.

I turned to the woman, who was holding on to my arm, and questioned her about it.

"We are dreaming," she said in her raspy voice and giggled.

"But how can people and things around us to be so real, so three-dimensional?"

"The mystery of intending in the second attention!" she exclaimed reverently. "Those people out there are so real that they even have thoughts."

That was the last stroke. I did not want to question anything else. I wanted to abandon myself to that dream. A considerable jolt on my arm brought me back to the moment. We had reached the plaza. The woman had stopped walking and was pulling me to sit down on a bench. I knew I was in trouble when I did not feel the bench underneath me as I sat down. I began to spin. I thought I was ascending. I caught a most fleeting glimpse of the park, as if I were looking at it from above.

"This is it!" I yelled. I thought I was dying. The spinning ascension turned into a twirling descent into blackness.





The Art of Dreaming: Chapter 13. Flying on the Wings of Intent.

Version 2006.05.17


The Art of Dreaming ©1993 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 13. Flying on the Wings of Intent.

"Make an effort, nagual," a woman's voice urged me. "Don't sink. Surface, surface. Use your dream techniques!"

My mind began to work. I thought it was the voice of an English speaker, and I also thought that if I were to use dreaming techniques, I had to find a point of departure to energize myself.

"Open your eyes," the voice said. "Open them now. Use the first thing you see as a point of departure."

I made a supreme effort and opened my eyes. I saw trees and blue sky. It was daytime! A blurry face was peering at me. But I could not focus my eyes. I thought that it was the woman in the church looking at me.

"Use my face," the voice said. It was a familiar voice, but I could not identify it. "Make my face your home base; then look at everything," the voice went on.

My ears were clearing up, and so were my eyes. I gazed at the woman's face, then at the trees in the park, at the wrought-iron bench, at people walking by, and back again at her face.

In spite of the fact that her face changed every time I gazed at her, I began to experience a minimum of control. When I was more in possession of my faculties, I realized that a woman was sitting on the bench, holding my head on her lap. And she was not the woman in the church: She was Carol Tiggs.

"What are you doing here?" I gasped.

My fright and surprise were so intense that I wanted to jump up and run, but my body was not ruled at all by my mental awareness. Anguishing moments followed in which I tried desperately but uselessly to get up. The world around me was too clear for me to believe I was still dreaming, yet my impaired motor control made me suspect that this was really a dream. Besides, Carol's presence was too abrupt: There were no antecedents to justify it.

Cautiously, I attempted to will myself to get up, as I had done hundreds of times in dreaming, but nothing happened. If I ever needed to be objective, this was the time. As carefully as I could, I began to look at everything within my field of vision with one eye first. I repeated the process with the other eye. I took the consistency between the images of my two eyes as an indication that I was in the consensual reality of everyday life.

Next, I examined Carol. I noticed at that moment that I could move my arms. It was only my lower body that was veritably paralyzed. I touched Carol's face and hands: I embraced her. She was solid and, I believed, the real Carol Tiggs. My relief was enormous because for a moment, I had had the dark suspicion that she was the death defier masquerading as Carol.

With utmost care, Carol helped me to sit up on the bench. I had been sprawled on my back, half on the bench and half on the ground. I noticed then something totally out of the norm. I was wearing faded blue Levi's, and worn brown leather boots. I also had on a Levi's jacket and a denim shirt.

"Wait a minute," I said to Carol. "Look at me! Are these my clothes? Am I myself?"

Carol laughed and shook me by the shoulders, the way she always did to denote camaraderie; manliness; that she was one of the boys.

"I'm looking at your beautiful self," she said in her funny forced falsetto. "Oh massa, who else could it possibly be?"

"How in the hell can I be wearing Levi's and boots?" I insisted. "I don't own any."

"Those are my clothes you are wearing. I found you naked!"

"Where? When?"

"Around the church, about an hour ago. I came to the plaza here to look for you. The nagual sent me to see if I could find you. I brought the clothes, just in case."

I told her that I felt terribly vulnerable and embarrassed to have wandered around without my clothes.

"Strangely enough, there was no one around," she assured me, but I felt she was saying it just to ease my discomfort. Her playful smile told me so.

"I must have been with the death defier all last night, maybe even longer," I said. "What day is it today?"

"Don't worry about dates," she said, laughing. "When you are more centered, you'll count the days yourself."

"Don't humor me, Carol Tiggs. What day is it today?" My voice was a gruff, no-nonsense voice that did not seem to belong to me.

"It's the day after the big fiesta," she said and slapped me gently on my shoulder. "We all have been looking for you since last night."

"But what am I doing here?"

"I took you to the hotel across the plaza. I couldn't carry you all the way to the nagual's house: You ran out of the room a few minutes ago, and we ended up here."

"Why didn't you ask the nagual for help?"

"Because this is an affair that concerns only you and me. We must solve it together."

That shut me up. She made perfect sense to me. I asked her one more nagging question.

"What did I say when you found me?"

"You said that you had been so deeply into the second attention and for such a long time that you were not quite rational yet. All you wanted to do was to fall asleep."

"When did I lose my motor control?"

"Only a moment ago. You'll get it back. You yourself know that it is quite normal, when you enter into the second attention and receive a considerable energy jolt, to lose control of your speech or of your limbs."

"And when did you lose your lisping, Carol?" I caught her totally by surprise. She peered at me and broke into a hearty laugh.

"I've been working on it for a long time," she confessed. "I think that it's terribly annoying to hear a grown woman lisping. Besides, you hate it."

Admitting that I detested her lisping was not difficult. Don Juan and I had tried to cure her, but we had concluded she was not interested in getting cured. Her lisping made her extremely cute to everyone, and don Juan's feelings were that she loved it and was not going to give it up. Hearing her speak without lisping was tremendously rewarding and exciting to me. It proved to me that she was capable of radical changes on her own; a thing neither don Juan nor I was ever sure about.

"What else did the nagual say to you when he sent you to look for me?" I asked.

"He said you were having a bout with the death defier."

In a confidential tone, I revealed to Carol that the death defier was a woman. Nonchalantly, she said that she knew it.

"How can you know it?" I shouted. "No one has ever known this, apart from don Juan. Did he tell you that himself?"

"Of course he did," she replied, unperturbed by my shouting. "What you have overlooked is that I also met the woman in the church. I met her before you did. We amiably chatted in the church for quite a while."

I believed Carol was telling me the truth. What she was describing was very much what don Juan would do. He would in all likelihood send Carol as a scout in order to draw conclusions.

"When did you see the death defier?" I asked.

"A couple of weeks ago," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "It was no great event for me. I had no energy to give her, or at least not the energy that woman wants."

"Why did you see her then? Is dealing with the nagual woman also part of the death defier's and sorcerers' agreement?"

"I saw her because the nagual said that you and I are interchangeable, and for no other reason. Our energy bodies have merged many times. Don't you remember?

"The woman and I talked about the ease with which we merge. I stayed with her maybe three or four hours, until the nagual came in and got me out."

"Did you stay in the church all that time?" I asked, because I could hardly believe that they had knelt in there for three or four hours only talking about the merging of our energy bodies.

"She took me into another facet of her intent," Carol conceded after a moment's thought. "She made me see how she actually escaped her captors."

Carol related then a most intriguing story. She said that according to what the woman in the church had made her see, every sorcerer of antiquity fell, inescapably, prey to the inorganic beings. The inorganic beings, after capturing them, gave them power to be the intermediaries between our world and their realm, which people called the netherworld.

The death defier was unavoidably caught in the nets of the inorganic beings. Carol estimated that he spent perhaps thousands of years as a captive, until the moment he was capable of transforming himself into a woman. He had clearly seen this as his way out of that world the day he found out that the inorganic beings regard the female principle as imperishable. They believe that the female principle has such a pliability and its scope is so vast that its members are impervious to traps and setups and can hardly be held captive. The death defier's transformation was so complete and so detailed that she was instantly spewed out of the inorganic beings' realm.

"Did she tell you that the inorganic beings are still after her?" I asked.

"Naturally they are after her," Carol assured me. "The woman told me she has to fend off her pursuers every moment of her life."

"What can they do to her?"

"Realize she was a man and pull her back to captivity, I suppose. I think she fears them more than you can think it's possible to fear anything."

Nonchalantly, Carol told me that the woman in the church was thoroughly aware of my run-in with the inorganic beings and that she also knew about the blue scout.

"She knows everything about you and me," Carol continued. "And not because I told her anything, but because she is part of our lives and our lineage. She mentioned that she had always followed all of us, you and me in particular."

Carol related to me the instances that the woman knew in which Carol and I had acted together. As she spoke, I began to experience a unique nostalgia for the very person who was in front of me: Carol Tiggs. I wished desperately to embrace her. I reached out to her, but I lost my balance and fell off the bench.

Carol helped me up from the pavement and anxiously examined my legs and the pupils of my eyes, my neck and my lower back. She said that I was still suffering from an energetic jolt.

She propped my head on her bosom and caressed me as if I were a malingering child she was humoring.

After a while I did feel better: I even began to regain my motor control.

"How do you like the clothes I am wearing?" Carol asked me all of a sudden. "Am I overdressed for the occasion? Do I look all right to you?"

Carol was always exquisitely dressed. If there was anything certain about her, it was her impeccable taste in clothes. In fact, as long as I had known her, it had been a running joke between don Juan and the rest of us that her only virtue was her expertise at buying beautiful clothes and wearing them with grace and style.

I found her question very odd and made a comment.

"Why would you be insecure about your appearance? It has never bothered you before. Are you trying to impress someone?"

"I'm trying to impress you, of course," she said.

"But this is not the time," I protested. "What's going on with the death defier is the important matter, not your appearance."

"You'd be surprised how important my appearance is." She laughed. "My appearance is a matter of life or death for both of us."

"What are you talking about? You remind me of the nagual setting up my meeting with the death defier. He nearly drove me nuts with his mysterious talk."

"Was his mysterious talk justified?" Carol asked with a deadly serious expression.

"It most certainly was," I admitted.

"So is my appearance. Humor me. How do you find me? Appealing, unappealing, attractive, average, disgusting, overpowering, bossy?"

I thought for a moment and made my assessment. I found Carol very appealing. This was quite strange to me. I had never consciously thought about her appeal.

"I find you divinely beautiful," I said. "In fact, you're downright stunning."

"Then this must be the right appearance." She sighed.

I was trying to figure out her meanings, when she spoke again. She asked, "What was your time with the death defier like?"

I succinctly told her about my experience, mainly about the first dream. I said that I believed the death defier had made me see that town, but at another time in the past.

"But that's not possible," she blurted out. "There is no past or future in the universe. There is only the moment."

"I know that it was the past," I said. "It was the same church, but a different town."

"Think for a moment," she insisted. "In the universe there is only energy, and energy has only a here and now, an endless and ever-present here and now."

"So what do you think happened to me, Carol?"

"With the death defier's help, you crossed the fourth gate of dreaming," she said. "The woman in the church took you into her dream, into her intent. She took you into her visualization of this town. Obviously, she visualized it in the past, and that visualization is still intact in her- as her present visualization of this town must be there too."

After a long silence she asked me another question.

"What else did the woman do with you?"

I told Carol about the second dream. The dream of the town as it stands today.

"There you are," she said. "Not only did the woman take you into her past intent but she further helped you cross the fourth gate by making your energy body journey to another place that exists today, only in her intent."

Carol paused and asked me whether the woman in the church had explained to me what intending in the second attention meant.

I did remember her mentioning but not really explaining what it meant to intend in the second attention. Carol was dealing with concepts don Juan had never spoken about.

"Where did you get all these novel ideas?" I asked, truly marveling at how lucid she was.

In a noncommittal tone, Carol assured me that the woman in the church had explained to her a great deal about those intricacies.

"We are intending in the second attention now," she continued. "The woman in the church made us fall asleep; you here, and I in Tucson. And then we fell asleep again in our dream. But you don't remember that part, while I do. The secret of the twin positions. Remember what the woman told you; the second dream is intending in the second attention: the only way to cross the fourth gate of dreaming."

After a long pause, during which I could not articulate one word, she said, "I think the woman in the church really made you a gift, although you didn't want to receive one. Her gift was to add her energy to ours in order to move backward and forward on the here-and-now energy of the universe."

I got extremely excited. Carol's words were precise, apropos. She had defined for me something I considered undefinable, although I did not know what it was that she had defined. If I could have moved, I would have leapt to hug her. She smiled beatifically as I kept on ranting nervously about the sense her words made to me. I commented rhetorically that don Juan had never told me anything similar.

"Maybe he doesn't know," Carol said, not offensively but conciliatorily.

I did not argue with her. I remained quiet for a while, strangely void of thoughts. Then my thoughts and words erupted out of me like a volcano. People went around the plaza, staring at us every so often or stopping in front of us to watch us. And we must have been a sight; Carol Tiggs kissing and caressing my face while I ranted on and on about her lucidity and my encounter with the death defier.

When I was able to walk, she guided me across the plaza to the only hotel in town. She assured me that I did not yet have the energy to go to don Juan's house, but that everybody there knew our whereabouts.

"How would they know our whereabouts?" I asked.

"The nagual is a very crafty old sorcerer," she replied, laughing. "He's the one who told me that if I found you energetically mangled, I should put you in the hotel rather than risk crossing the town with you in tow."

Her words and especially her smile made me feel so relieved that I kept on walking in a state of bliss. We went around the corner to the hotel's entrance, half a block down the street, right in front of the church. We went through the bleak lobby, up the cement stairway to the second floor, directly to an unfriendly room I had never seen before. Carol said that I had been there: However, I had no recollection of the hotel or the room. I was so tired, though, that I could not think about it. I just sank into the bed, face down. All I wanted to do was sleep, yet I was too keyed up. There were too many loose ends, although everything seemed so orderly. I had a sudden surge of nervous excitation and sat up.

"I never told you that I hadn't accepted the death defier's gift," I said, facing Carol. "How did you know I didn't?"

"Oh, but you told me that yourself," she protested as she sat down next to me. "You were so proud of it. That was the first thing you blurted out when I found you."

This was the only answer, so far, that did not quite satisfy me. What she was reporting did not sound like my statement.

"I think you read me wrong," I said. "I just didn't want to get anything that would deviate me from my goal."

"Do you mean you didn't feel proud of refusing?"

"No. I didn't feel anything. I am no longer capable of feeling anything, except fear."

I stretched my legs and put my head on the pillow. I felt that if I closed my eyes or did not keep on talking I would be asleep in an instant. I told Carol how I had argued with don Juan at the beginning of my association with him about his confessed motive for staying on the warrior's path. He had said that fear kept him going in a straight line, and that what he feared the most was to lose the nagual; the abstract; the spirit.

"Compared with losing the nagual, death is nothing," he had said with a note of true passion in his voice. "My fear of losing the nagual is the only real thing I have; because without it, I would be worse than dead."

I said to Carol that I had immediately contradicted don Juan and bragged that since I was impervious to fear, if I had to stay within the confines of one path, the moving force for me had to be love.

Don Juan had retorted that when the real pull comes, fear is the only worthwhile condition for a warrior. I secretly resented him for what I thought was his covert narrow-mindedness.

"The wheel has done a full turn," I said to Carol, "and look at me now. I can swear to you that the only thing that keeps me going is the fear of losing the nagual."

Carol stared at me with a strange look I had never seen in her.

"I dare to disagree," she said softly. "Fear is nothing compared with affection. Fear makes you run wildly: Love makes you move intelligently."

"What are you saying, Carol Tiggs? Are sorcerers people in love now?"

She did not answer. She lay next to me and put her head on my shoulder. We stayed there in that strange unfriendly room for a long time; in total silence.

"I feel what you feel," Carol said abruptly. "Now, try to feel what I feel. You can do it. But let's do it in the dark."

Carol stretched her arm up and turned off the light above the bed. I sat up straight in one single motion. A jolt of fright had gone through me like electricity. As soon as Carol had turned off the light, it was nighttime inside that room. In the middle of great agitation, I asked Carol about it.

"You're not all together yet," she said reassuringly. "You had a bout of monumental proportions. Going so deeply into the second attention has left you a little mangled, so to speak. Of course, it's daytime, but your eyes can't yet adjust properly to the dim light inside this room."

More or less convinced, I lay down again. Carol kept on talking, but I was not listening. I felt the sheets. They were real sheets. I ran my hands on the bed. It was a bed! I leaned over and ran the palms of my hands on the cold tiles of the floor. I got out of bed and checked every item in the room and in the bathroom. Everything was perfectly normal, perfectly real. I told Carol that when she turned off the light, I had the clear sensation I was dreaming.

"Give yourself a break," she said. "Cut this investigatory nonsense, and come to bed and rest."

I opened the curtains of the window to the street. It was day-time outside, but the moment I closed them it was nighttime inside. Carol begged me to come back to bed. She feared that I might run away and end up in the street, as I had done before. She made sense. I went back to bed without noticing that not even for a second had it entered my mind to point at things. It was as if that knowledge had been erased from my memory.

The darkness in that hotel room was most extraordinary. It brought me a delicious sense of peace and harmony. It brought me also a profound sadness; a longing for human warmth; for companionship. I felt more than bewildered. Never had anything like this happened to me. I lay in bed, trying to remember if that longing was something I knew. It was not. The longings I knew were not for human companionship: They were abstract: They were rather a sort of sadness for not reaching something undefined.

"I am coming apart," I said to Carol. "I am about to weep for people."

I thought she would understand my statement as being funny. I intended it as a joke. But she did not say anything: She seemed to agree with me. She sighed. Being in an unstable state of mind, I became instantly swayed toward emotionality. I faced her in the darkness and muttered something that in a more lucid moment would have been quite irrational to me.

"I absolutely adore you," I said.

Talk like that among the sorcerers of don Juan's line was unthinkable. Carol Tiggs was the nagual woman. Between the two of us, there was no need for demonstrations of affection. In fact, we did not even know what we felt for each other. We had been taught by don Juan that among sorcerers there was no need or time for such feelings.

Carol smiled at me and embraced me. And I was filled with such a consuming affection for her that I began to weep involuntarily.

"Your energy body is moving forward on the universe's luminous filaments of energy," she whispered in my ear. "We are being carried by the death defier's gift of intent."

I had enough energy to understand what she was saying. I even questioned her about whether she, herself, understood what it all meant. She hushed me and whispered in my ear.

"I do understand: The death defier's gift to you was the wings of intent. And with them, you and I are dreaming ourselves in another time. In a time yet to come."

I pushed her away and sat up. The way Carol was voicing those complex sorcerers' thoughts was unsettling to me. She was not given to take conceptual thinking seriously. We had always joked among ourselves that she did not have a philosopher's mind.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked. "Yours is a new development for me: Carol the sorceress philosopher. You are talking like don Juan."

"Not yet." She laughed. "But it's coming. It's rolling, and when it finally hits me, it'll be the easiest thing in the world for me to be a sorceress philosopher. You'll see. And no one will be able to explain it because it will just happen."

An alarm bell rang in my mind.

"You're not Carol!" I shouted. "You're the death defier masquerading as Carol. I knew it."

Carol laughed, undisturbed by my accusation.

"Don't be absurd," she said. "You're going to miss the lesson. I knew that, sooner or later, you were going to give in to your indulging. Believe me, I am Carol. But we're doing something we've never done: We are intending in the second attention as the sorcerers of antiquity used to do."

I was not convinced, but I had no more energy to pursue my argument because something like the great vortexes of my dreaming was beginning to pull me in. I heard Carol's voice faintly, saying in my ear, "We are dreaming ourselves. Dream your intent of me. Intend me forward! Intend me forward!"

With great effort, I voiced my innermost thought. "Stay here with me forever," I said with the slowness of a tape recorder on the blink. She responded with something incomprehensible. I wanted to laugh at my voice, but then the vortex swallowed me.


When I woke up, I was alone in the hotel room. I had no idea how long I had slept. I felt extremely disappointed at not finding Carol by my side. I hurriedly dressed and went down to the lobby to look for her. Besides, I wanted to shake off some strange sleepiness that had clung to me.

At the desk, the manager told me that the American woman who had rented the room had just left a moment ago. I ran out to the street, hoping to catch her, but there was no sign of her. It was midday: The sun was shining in a cloudless sky. It was a bit warm.

I walked to the church. My surprise was genuine but dull at finding out that I had indeed seen the detail of its architectural structure in that dream. Uninterestedly, I played my own devil's advocate and gave myself the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps don Juan and I had examined the back of the church and I did not remember it. I thought about it. It did not matter. My validation scheme had no meaning for me anyway. I was too sleepy to care.

From there I slowly walked to don Juan's house, still looking for Carol. I was sure I was going to find her there waiting for me. Don Juan received me as if I had come back from the dead.

He and his companions were in the throes of agitation as they examined me with undisguised curiosity.

"Where have you been?" don Juan demanded. I could not comprehend the reason for all the fuss. I told him that I had spent the night with Carol in the hotel by the plaza because I had no energy to walk back from the church to their house, but that they already knew this.

"We knew nothing of the sort," he snapped.

"Didn't Carol tell you she was with me?" I asked in the midst of a dull suspicion, which, if I had not been so exhausted, would have been alarming.

No one answered. They looked at one another, searchingly. I faced don Juan and told him I was under the impression he had sent Carol to find me. Don Juan paced the room up and down without saying a word.

"Carol Tiggs hasn't been with us at all," he said. "And you've been gone for nine days."

My fatigue prevented me from being blasted by those statements. His tone of voice and the concern the others showed were ample proof that they were serious. But I was so numb that there was nothing for me to say.

Don Juan asked me to tell them, in all possible detail, what had transpired between the death defier and me. I was shocked at being able to remember so much, and at being able to convey all of it in spite of my fatigue. A moment of levity broke the tension when I told them how hard the woman had laughed at my inane yelling my intent to see in her dream.

"Pointing the little finger works better," I said to don Juan, but without any feeling of recrimination.

Don Juan asked if the woman had any other reaction to my yelling besides laughing. I had no memory of one, except her mirth and the fact that she had commented how intensely he disliked her.

"I don't dislike her," don Juan protested. "I just don't like the old sorcerers' coerciveness."

Addressing everybody, I said that I personally had liked that woman immensely and unbiasedly. And that I had loved Carol Tiggs as I never thought I could love anyone. They did not seem to appreciate what I was saying. They looked at one another as if I had suddenly gone crazy.

I wanted to say more to explain myself. But don Juan, I believed just to stop me from babbling idiocies, practically dragged me out of the house and back to the hotel; accompanied by two of his companions.

The same manager I had spoken to earlier obligingly listened to our description of Carol Tiggs, but he flatly denied ever having seen her or me before. He even called the hotel maids: They corroborated his statements.

"What can the meaning of all this be?" don Juan asked out loud. It seemed to be a question addressed to himself. He gently ushered me out of the hotel. "Let's get out of this confounded place," he said.

When we were outside, he ordered me not to turn around to look at the hotel or at the church across the street, but to keep my head down. I looked at my shoes and instantly realized I was no longer wearing Carol's clothes but my own. I could not remember, however, no matter how hard I tried, when I had changed clothes. I figured that it must have been when I woke up in the hotel room. I must have put on my own clothes then, although my memory was blank.

By then we had reached the plaza. Before we crossed it to head off to don Juan's house, I explained to him about my clothes. He shook his head rhythmically, listening to every word. Then he sat down on a bench, and, in a voice that conveyed genuine concern, he warned me that, at the moment, I had no way of knowing what had transpired in the second attention between the woman in the church and my energy body. My interaction with the Carol Tiggs of the hotel had been just the tip of the iceberg.

"It's horrendous to think that you were in the second attention for nine days," don Juan went on. "Nine days is just a second for the death defier, but an eternity for us."

Before I could protest or explain or say anything, he stopped me with a comment.

"Consider this," he said. "If you still can't remember all the things I taught you and did with you in the second attention, imagine how much more difficult it must be to remember what the death defier taught you and did with you. I only made you change levels of awareness; the death defier made you change universes."

I felt meek and defeated. Don Juan and his two companions urged me to make a titanic effort and try to remember when I changed my clothes. I could not. There was nothing in my mind: no feelings, no memories. Somehow, I was not totally there with them.

The nervous agitation of don Juan and his two companions reached a peak. Never had I seen him so discombobulated. There had always been a touch of fun, of not quite taking himself seriously in everything he did or said to me. Not this time, though.

Again, I tried to think, bring forth some memory that would shed light on all this; and again I failed, but I did not feel defeated; an improbable surge of optimism overtook me. I felt that everything was coming along as it should.

Don Juan's expressed concern was that he knew nothing about the dreaming I had done with the woman in the church. To create a dream hotel, a dream town, a dream Carol Tiggs was to him only a sample of the old sorcerers' dreaming prowess; the total scope of which defied human imagination.

Don Juan opened his arms expansively and finally smiled with his usual delight.

"We can only deduce that the woman in the church showed you how to do it," he said in a slow, deliberate tone. "It's going to be a giant task for you to make comprehensible an incomprehensible maneuver. It has been a masterful movement on the chessboard, performed by the death defier as the woman in the church. She has used Carol's energy body and yours to lift off, to break away from her moorings. She took you up on your offer of free energy."

What he was saying had no meaning to me: Apparently, it meant a great deal to his two companions. They became immensely agitated. Addressing them, don Juan explained that the death defier and the woman in the church were different expressions of the same energy; the woman in the church was the more powerful and complex of the two. Upon taking control, she made use of Carol Tiggs's energy body, in some obscure, ominous fashion congruous with the old sorcerers' machinations, and created the Carol Tiggs of the hotel, a Carol Tiggs of sheer intent. Don Juan added that Carol and the woman may have arrived at some sort of energetic agreement during their meeting.

At that instant, a thought seemed to find its way to don Juan. He stared at his two companions, unbelievingly. Their eyes darted around, going from one to the other. I was sure they were not merely looking for agreement, for they seemed to have realized something in unison.

"All our speculations are useless," don Juan said in a quiet, even tone. "I believe there is no longer any Carol Tiggs. There isn't any woman in the church either: Both have merged and flown away on the wings of intent, I believe, forward.

"The reason the Carol Tiggs of the hotel was so worried about her appearance was because she was the woman in the church, making you dream a Carol Tiggs of another kind; an infinitely more powerful Carol Tiggs. Don't you remember what she said? "Dream your intent of me. Intend me forward."

"What does this mean, don Juan?" I asked stunned.

"It means that the death defier has seen her total way out. She has caught a ride with you. Your fate is her fate."

"Meaning what, don Juan?"

"Meaning that if you reach freedom so will she."

"How is she going to do that?"

"Through Carol Tiggs. But don't worry about Carol." He said this before I voiced my apprehension. "She's capable of that maneuver and much more."

Immensities were piling up on me. I already felt their crushing weight. I had a moment of lucidity and asked don Juan, "What is going to be the outcome of all this?"

He did not answer. He gazed at me, scanning me from head to toe. Then he slowly and deliberately said, "The death defier's gift consists of endless dreaming possibilities. One of them was your dream of Carol Tiggs in another time, in another world; a more vast world; open-ended; a world where the impossible might even be feasible. The implication was not only that you will live those possibilities but that one day you will comprehend them."

He stood up, and we started to walk in silence toward his house. My thoughts began to race wildly. They were not thoughts, actually, but images; a mixture of memories of the woman in the church and of Carol Tiggs talking to me in the darkness in the dream hotel room. A couple of times I was near to condensing those images into a feeling of my usual self, but I had to give it up: I had no energy for such a task.

Before we arrived at the house, don Juan stopped walking and faced me. He again scrutinized me carefully, as if he were looking for signs in my body. I then felt obliged to set him straight on a subject I believed he was deadly wrong about.

"I was with the real Carol Tiggs at the hotel," I said. "For a moment, I myself believed she was the death defier, but after careful evaluation, I can't hold on to that belief. She was Carol. In some obscure, awesome way she was at the hotel, as I was there at the hotel myself."

"Of course she was Carol," don Juan agreed. "But not the Carol you and I know. This one was a dream Carol, I've told you, a Carol made out of pure intent. You helped the woman in the church spin that dream. Her art was to make that dream an all-inclusive reality; the art of the old sorcerers; the most frightening thing there is. I told you that you were going to get the crowning lesson in dreaming, didn't I?"

"What do you think happened to Carol Tiggs?" I asked.

"Carol Tiggs is gone," he replied. "But someday you will find the new Carol Tiggs, the one in the dream hotel room."

"What do you mean she's gone?"

"She's gone from the world," he said.

I felt a surge of nervousness cut through my solar plexus. I was awakening. The awareness of myself had started to become familiar to me, but I was not yet fully in control of it. It had begun, though, to break through the fog of the dream: It had begun as a mixture of not knowing what was going on and the foreboding sensation that the incommensurable was just around the corner.

I must have had an expression of disbelief because don Juan added in a forceful tone, "This is dreaming. You should know by now that its transactions are final. Carol Tiggs is gone."

"But where do you think she went, don Juan?"

"Wherever the sorcerers of antiquity went. I told you that the death defier's gift was endless dreaming possibilities. You didn't want anything concrete, so the woman in the church gave you an abstract gift: the possibility of flying on the wings of intent."




### "The Art of Dreaming" - Copyright 1993 by Carlos Castaneda ###



The Sorcerers' Crossing. ©1992 By Taisha Abelar.

Version 2010.08.09


Sorcerer's Crossing: Book Cover Front. Sorcerer's Crossing - Book Cover - Back.

The Sorcerers' Crossing: A Woman's Journey. ©1992 by Taisha Abelar.

.. with a foreword by Carlos Castaneda.


Publisher: Arkana.

THE SORCERERS' CROSSING


Taisha Abelar is a member of the same informal
society of sorcerers that includes Carlos Castaneda.

Woman swings child around by wrists.

With affection for all
who journey into the unknown.
- Taisha Abelar


Contents

  • Foreword - by Carlos Castaneda.
  • Preface - by Taisha Abelar.

  • Chapter 1.
  • Chapter 2.
  • Chapter 3.
  • Chapter 4.
  • Chapter 5.
  • Chapter 6.
  • Chapter 7.
  • Chapter 8.
  • Chapter 9.
  • Chapter 10.
  • Chapter 11.
  • Chapter 12.
  • Chapter 13.
  • Chapter 14.
  • Chapter 15.
  • Chapter 16.
  • Chapter 17.
  • Chapter 18.
  • Chapter 19.
  • Chapter 20.
  • Chapter 21.




The Sorcerers' Crossing: Foreword - By Carlos Castaneda.


It is a sorcerer's idea that the parameters of our normal perception have been imposed upon us as part of our socialization; not quite arbitrarily, but nonetheless, laid down mandatorily.

Version 2009.09.01


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Foreword by Carlos Castaneda.

Taisha Abelar is one of a group of three women that were deliberately trained by some sorcerers from Mexico; under the guidance of Don Juan Matus.

I have written at length about my own training under him, but I have never written anything about this specific group, of which Taisha Abelar is a member.

It was a tacit agreement among all of those who were under don Juan's tutelage that nothing should be said about this group.

For over twenty years we have upheld this agreement.

Even though we have worked and lived in close proximity, we had never talked with one another about our personal experiences.

In fact, there had never been an opportunity even to exchange our views about what specifically don Juan or the sorcerers of his group did to each one of us.

And such a condition was not contingent upon don Juan's presence.

Even after he and his group had left the world, we continued to adhere to a policy of not talking about this group.

We simply had no desire to use our energy to review any previous agreements.

All our available time and energy was employed in validating for ourselves what don Juan had so painstakingly taught us.

Don Juan had taught us sorcery as a pragmatic endeavor by means of which any of us can directly perceive energy.

He had maintained that in order to perceive energy in such a fashion, we need freedom from our normal capacity to perceive.

To free ourselves and directly perceive energy was a task that took all we had.

It is a sorcerer's idea that the parameters of our normal perception have been imposed upon us as part of our socialization; not quite arbitrarily, but nonetheless, laid down mandatorily.

One aspect of the parameters imposed on us is an interpretation system.

This system processes sensory data into meaningful units; and renders the social order as a structure of that system.

Our normal functioning within the social order requires a blind and faithful adherence to all its precepts; none of which call for the possibility of directly perceiving energy.

For example, don Juan maintained that it is possible to perceive human beings as fields of energy; like huge, oblong, whitish luminous eggs.

In order to accomplish the feat of heightening our perception, we need internal energy.

Thus, the problem of making internal energy available to fulfill such a task becomes the key issue for students of sorcery.

Circumstances proper to our time and place have made it possible now for Taisha Abelar to write about her training, which was the same as mine, and yet thoroughly different.

The writing took her a long time, because, first, she had to avail herself of the sorcery means to write.

Don Juan Matus himself gave me the task of writing about his sorcery knowledge; and he himself set the mood of this by saying, "Don't write like a writer, but like a sorcerer."

He meant that I had to do it in a state of enhanced awareness which sorcerers call 'dreaming.'

It took Taisha Abelar many years to perfect her dreaming to the point, of making dreaming, the sorcery means to write.

In don Juan's world, sorcerers, depending on their basic temperaments, were divided into two complementary factions.

'Dreamers' and 'stalkers'.

Dreamers are those sorcerers who have the inherent facility to enter into states of heightened awareness by controlling their dreams.

This facility is developed through training into an art.

The art of dreaming.

Stalkers, on the other hand, are those sorcerers who have the innate facility to deal with facts.

Stalkers are capable of entering states of heightened awareness by manipulating and controlling their own behavior.

Through sorcery training, this natural capability is turned into the art of stalking.

Although everybody in don Juan's party of sorcerers had a complete knowledge of both arts, they were arranged in one faction or the other.

Taisha Abelar was grouped with the stalkers and trained by them.

Her book bears the mark of her stupendous training as a stalker.

- Carlos Castaneda





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Preface - By Taisha Abelar.


Reading this makes you a sorcerer.

Version 2009.09.02


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Preface.

I devote my life to the practice of a rigorous discipline.

For lack of a more suitable name, I call my personal quest sorcery.

In the late sixties, while I was living in Tucson, Arizona, I met a Mexican woman named Clara Grau.

Clara invited me to stay at her house in the state of Sonora, Mexico.

There, she did her utmost to usher me into her world.

Clara was a sorcerer, and she was part of a cohesive group of sixteen sorcerers.

Some of the sorcerers were Yaqui Indians; others were Mexicans of various origins, backgrounds, ages, and sexes; and most of the sorcerers were women.

All of them pursued, single-heartedly, the same goal of, breaking the normal perceptual biases, that imprison us.

We, as average human beings, are imprisoned within the boundaries of the normal everyday world.

This prevents us from entering the other perceivable worlds.

Sorcerers break free from our common perceptual disposition.

As we break our perceptual barrier, we leap, into, the unimaginable.

Sorcerers call this leap, "the sorcerers' crossing."

Or, sometimes they refer to crossing this barrier as 'the abstract flight'; because it entails soaring from the side of the concrete-- our physical side-- to the side of expanded perceptions; the side of impersonal forms.

These sorcerers were interested in helping me accomplish this abstract flight, so that I could join them in their basic endeavors.

Carlos Castaneda was the leader of my sorcerers' group, or 'nagual', as he is called, was a person with a keen interest in formal academic erudition.

Therefore, all of us in his group were encouraged to develop our capacity for clear thinking and abstraction by our attending a modern university.

So, academic training became an integral part of my preparation for the sorcerers' crossing.

Now, in addition to being a sorcerer, I have a Doctor of Philosophy degree in anthropology.

I mention my two areas of expertise in this order because my involvement with sorcery came first.

Usually a person becomes an anthropologist, and then does fieldwork on some aspect of culture; for example, the study of sorcery practices.

With me, it happened the other way around.

While I had been a student of sorcery, I went to study anthropology.

As a woman, I felt an even greater obligation to fulfill this requirement.

Normally women, in general, are conditioned from early childhood, to depend on the male members of society to conceptualize and initiate changes.

The sorcerers that trained me, expressed very strong opinions, in this regard.

The sorcerers said that it is indispensable, that women develop and enhance their intellects; and their capacity for analysis, and abstraction.

Women would then have a better grasp of the male world around them.

However, training the intellect turns out to be a bona-fide sorcerers' subterfuge.

In opposition to our rational sides, we have an energetic non-rational side that sorcerers, for lack of a better word, call their 'double'.

By deliberately keeping our minds occupied in analysis and reasoning, our double is freed to explore other areas of perception beyond those the intellect can classify.

While our rational side is busy with the formality of academic pursuits, the double is free to fulfill sorcery tasks.

In this way, the suspicious and analytic mind is less likely to interfere or even notice what is going on at a nonrational level.

So, in fact, the counterpart of my academic development was the enhancement of my capacity for awareness and perception.

Together the two developed my total being.

Working together as a unit, my intect and my double took me away from the taken-for-granted life that I had been both born into and raised within.

I now have greater perceptual possibilities than what the normal world had in store for me.

That is not to say that solely my commitment to the world of sorcery was enough to assure my success.

The pull of the daily world is so strong and sustained that in spite of my most assiduous training, I find myself again and again in the midst of the most abject terror; and find myself at times as stupid and indulging as if I had learned nothing.

My teachers assured me that I was no exception, and that only a minute to minute relentless struggle can balance an individual's natural but stupefying insistence to remain unchanged.

After a careful consideration of my final aims, I, in conjunction with my cohorts, arrived at the conclusion that I have to describe my training to you in order to emphasize-- if you seek the unknown-- the importance of developing your ability to perceive more than we do with normal perception.

Such enhanced perception has to be a sober and pragmatic new way of perceiving.

It cannot be, under any condition, merely the continuation of perceiving the world of everyday life.

The events I narrate here depict the initial stages of sorcery training for a stalker.

This phase involved the cleansing of my habitual ways of thinking, behaving and feeling.

This cleansing is accomplished by means of a traditional sorcery undertaking, which all neophytes need to perform, called 'the recapitulation'.

And to complement the recapitulation, I was taught a series of practices involving movement and breathing called, the 'sorcery passes'.

I was instructed with accompanying philosophical rationales and explanations to give all my practices an adequate coherence.

Quite simply, the goal of everything I was taught was the redistribution of my normal energy-- and the enhancement of it-- so that my awareness could be used for the extraordinary feats of perception that were a normal course in sorcery training.

The idea behind the training is that, as soon as our compulsive pattern of old habits, thoughts, expectations and feelings is broken by means of the recapitulation and the magical passes, you are indisputably in the position to accumulate enough energy to live by the new rationales provided by the sorcery tradition.

I substantiate those rationales by directly perceiving a non-ordinary reality.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 01.


Perhaps my life was going to change after all.

Version 2009.09.08

The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 1.

I walked to an isolated spot away from the highway and people in order to sketch the early morning shadows on the unique lava mountains that fringe the Gran Desierto, in southern Arizona.

The dark brown jagged rocks sparkled as bursts of sunlight illuminated their peaks.

Strewn on the ground around me were huge chunks of porous rocks

The rocks were the remnants of a lava flow from a gigantic volcanic eruption.

I made myself comfortable on a large clump of rock.

Oblivious to anything else, I sank into my work; as I often did, in that rugged, beautiful place.

I had finished outlining the heights and depressions of the distant mountains, when I noticed a woman watching me.

It annoyed me no end that someone would disturb my solitude.

I tried my utmost to ignore her; but when she moved nearer to look at my work, I turned around in anger to face her.

I noticed her eyes which were green and sparkling.

It was that friendly gleam that made my anger vanish.

Her high cheekbones and shoulder-length black hair made her look Eurasian.

She had a smooth, creamy complexion, so it was difficult to judge her age; she could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.

She was perhaps two inches taller than I, which would have made her five nine, but with her powerful frame, she looked twice my size.

Yet, in her black silk pants and Oriental jacket, she seemed extremely fit.

I found myself asking the woman the inane question, "Do you live around here?"

"No," she said, taking a few steps toward me. "I'm on my way to the U.S. border checkpoint at Sonoyta.

"I stopped to stretch my legs and ended up in this isolated spot.

"I was so surprised to see someone out here, so far away from everything, that I couldn't help intruding the way I have.

"Let me introduce myself. My name is Clara Grau."

She extended her hand and I shook it.

Then I told her, without the slightest hesitation, that I was given the name Taisha when I was born.

I told her that, later, my parents didn't think the name Taisha was American enough, so they began calling me Martha; my mother's name.

I detested that name, so I had choosen Mary as an alternative to Martha.

"How interesting!" Clara mused.

"You have three names that are so different.

"I will call you Taisha since it is your birth name."

I was glad she had selected that name. Taisha was the name I had secretly kept for myself.

While at first I had agreed with my parents about the name Taisha being too foreign, I disliked the name Martha so much that I ended up making Taisha my secret name.

In a harsh tone that Clara immediately concealed behind a benign smile, she bombarded me with a series of statements in the guise of questions.

I responded to her truthfully, and that was an unusual thing for me to do. I was accustomed to being cautious with people; especially strangers.

Clara began by saying, "You are not from Arizona."

I said, "I came to Arizona a year ago to work."

"You can not be more than twenty."

"I'll be twenty-one in a couple of months."

"You have a slight accent. You don't seem to be an American, but I can't pinpoint your exact nationality."

I said, "I am an American, but as a child I lived in Germany. My father is American and my mother Hungarian.

"I left home when I went to college and I never went back because I didn't want to have anything more to do with my family."

"I take it you didn't get along with them?"

"No. I was miserable. I couldn't wait to leave home."

Clara smiled and nodded as if she was familiar with the feeling of wanting to escape.

"Are you married?" Clara asked.

"No. I don't have anyone in the world." I said that with the touch of self-pity I always had whenever I talked about myself.

At first, Clara did not make any comment, but then she spoke calmly and precisely as if she wanted to put me at ease and at the same time convey as much information about herself as she could with each of her sentences.

I did not want to give Clara the impression I was not listening to her, and I did not take my eyes away from her; but as she talked, I put my drawing pencils into my case.

Clara was saying, "I was an only child and both my parents are dead now.

"My father's family are Mexican from Oaxaca, but my mother's family are Americans of German descent.

"They are from back east, but now live in Phoenix. I just returned from the wedding of one of my cousins."

I asked, "Do you also live in Phoenix?"

Clara replied, "I have lived half my life in Arizona, and the other half in Mexico. "But for the past years, my home has been in the state of Sonora, Mexico."

I began to zip up my portfolio. Meeting and talking to this woman had so unsettled me that I knew I wouldn't be able to do any more work that day.

Clara regained my attention as she said, "I have also traveled to the Orient where I learned acupuncture, healing, and the martial arts. I have even lived for a number of years in a Buddhist temple."

"Really?" I said as I glanced at her eyes.

Clara's eyes had the look of a person who meditated a great deal. They were fiery, and yet tranquil.

I said, "I'm very interested in the Orient, especially in Japan. I also have studied Buddhism and the martial arts."

Echoing me, Clara said, "Really?"

Then she said, "I wish I could tell you my Buddhist name, but secret names should not be revealed except under the proper circumstances."

I replied, "I told you my secret name," and I tightened the straps of my portfolio.

Clara replied with undue seriousness, saying, "Yes, Taisha, you did; and that is very significant to me. But still, right now it is time only for introductions."

"Did you drive here?" I asked, scanning the area for her car.

Clara replied, "I was just going to ask you the same question."

"I left my car about a quarter of a mile back, on a dirt road south of here. Where is yours?"

Clara cheerfully asked me, "Is your car a white Chevrolet?"

"Yes."

"Well, mine is parked next to it." Clara giggled, as if she had said something funny.

I was surprised to find her laughter so irritating.

I said, "I've got to go now. It's been very pleasant meeting you. Good-bye!"

I started to walk to my car; thinking that Clara would remain behind admiring the scenery.

Clara protested, saying, "Let's not say good-bye yet. I am coming with you."

We walked together.

Next to my one hundred and ten pound body, Clara was like a huge boulder.

Her midsection was round and powerful, and she projected the feeling that she could easily have been obese; but she was not.

I wanted to break the awkward, and I said, "May I ask you a personal question, Mrs. Grau?"

Clara stopped walking, and faced me.

Clara snapped back, "I'm not anybody's Mrs."

Then she said, "I am Clara Grau. You can call me Clara; and yes, go right ahead and ask me anything you wish."

I reacted to her tone, and commented, "I take it you are not partial to love and marriage."

For a second, she gave me a fearsome look, but she softened it instantly, and said, "I'm definitely not partial to slavery; but not only for women.

"Now, what was it that you were going to ask me?"

Clara's reaction was so unexpected that I lost track of what I had been going to ask her, and I embarrassed myself by staring at her.

I asked hurriedly, "What made you walk all the way to this place in particular?"

"I came here because this is a place of energy."

Clara pointed at the lava formations in the distance, and said, "Those mountains were once spewed forth from the heart of the earth; like blood.

"Whenever I am in Arizona, I always make a detour to come here. This place oozes a peculiar earthly energy.

"Now, let me ask you the same question. What made you pick this spot?"

"I often come here. It's my favorite place to sketch."

Although I had not meant that as a joke, Clara burst out laughing.

She exclaimed, "This detail settles it!".

But then Clara continued in a quieter tone, saying, "I am going to ask you to do something you may consider outlandish or even foolish; but hear me out.

"I would like you to come to my house, and spend a few days as my guest."

I raised my hand to thank her and say no, but Clara urged me to reconsider.

Clara assured me that our common interest in the Orient and the martial arts warranted a serious exchange of ideas.

I asked, "Where exactly do you live?"

"Near the city of Navojoa."

"But that is more than four hundred miles from here."

"Yes, it is quite a distance. But, it is so beautiful and peaceful there that I am certain you would like it."

Clara kept silent for a moment as if waiting for my reply, and then she continued, saying, "Besides, I have the feeling that there is nothing definite you are involved in at the moment, and you have been at a loss to find something to do.

"Well, this could be just the thing you have been waiting for."

She was right about my being completely at a loss as to what to do with my life.

I had just taken some time off from a secretarial job in order to catch up with my artwork, but I certainly didn't have the slightest desire to be anyone's house guest.

I looked around; searching the terrain for something that would give me an inkling of what to do next.

I had never been able to explain where I had gotten the idea that I could get help or clues from the surroundings; but I usually did get help that way.

I had a technique which seemed to have come to me out of nowhere; by means of which I often found options previously unknown to me.

I would fix my eyes on the southern horizon, and let my thoughts wander away; although I had no idea why I always picked the south.

And then, after a few minutes of silence, insights usually came to me to help me decide what to do; or how to proceed in a particular situation.

While Clara and I walked, I fixed my gaze on the southern horizon; and suddenly I saw the mood of my life stretched out before me like the barren desert.

I can truthfully say that although I had known that the whole area of southern Arizona, a bit of California, and half of the state of Sonora, Mexico, is the Sonoran Desert, I had never before noticed how lonely and desolate that wasteland was.

I realized that my life was as empty and barren as that desert; but it took a moment for the impact of my feelings to register in my mind.

I had lived off a small inheritance left to me by my aunt Taisha whom I was named after; but this income had run out.

I had no job, and I did not have any prospects for the future.

I had broken off with my family, and I had no family of my own.

I was utterly alone in the world.

The harsh and indifferent vastness that stretched all around, summoned up in me an overwhelming sense of self-pity.

I felt in need of a friend; someone to break the solitude of my life.

I knew it would be foolish to accept Clara's invitation, and jump into an unknown situation over which I had no control.

But my curiosity and a feeling of respect arose in me because of the directness of her manner, and her physical vitality.

I found myself admiring and even envying her beauty and strength.

I thought that she was a most striking and powerful woman; independent, self-reliant, indifferent. And yet, Clara was not hard or humorless.

She possessed the exact qualities I had always wanted for myself.

Above all, Clara's presence seemed to dispel my barrenness.

She made the space around her energetic, vibrant, and full of endless possibilities.

Yet still, it was my unbending policy never to accept invitations to people's houses; and certainly not from someone whom I had just met in the wilderness.

I had a small apartment in Tucson; and to accept invitations meant, to me, that I had to reciprocate-- a thing that I was not prepared to do.

So, for a moment I stood motionless; not knowing which way to turn.

Clara urged me, saying, "Please say that you will come. It would mean a great deal to me."

"All right, I suppose I could visit with you," I said lamely, although I wanted to say the exact opposite.

She looked at me elated.

I immediately disguised my panic with a conviviality I was far from feeling.

I said, "It will be good for me to change scenery. It will be an adventure!"

Clara nodded approvingly.

Clara, with an air of confidence that helped to dispel my doubts, said, "You will not regret it. We can practice martial arts together."

She delivered a few brisk movements with her hand that were at once graceful and powerful. It seemed incongruous to me that this robust woman could be so agile.

Noticing that she easily adopted the stance of a long-pole fighter, I asked, "What specific style of martial arts did you study in the Orient?"

"In the Orient, I studied all the styles, and yet none of them in particular," she replied, with just a hint of a smile. "When we are at my house, I will be happy to demonstrate them."

We walked the rest of the way in silence.

When we reached the place where the cars were parked, I locked my gear in the trunk, and waited for Clara to say something.

"Well, let's get started," she said. "I'll lead the way. Do you drive fast or slow, Taisha?"

"At a crawl."

"Me too. Living in China cured me from hurrying."

"May I ask you a question about China, Clara?"

"Of course. I've already said that you may ask anything you want without asking permission first."

"You must have been in China before the Second World War. Isn't that so?"

"Oh, yes. I was there a lifetime ago. I gather that you've never been to mainland China, yourself."

"No. I've only been to Taiwan and Japan."

"Of course things were different before the war," Clara mused. "The line to the past was still intact then. Now everything is severed."

I did not know why, but I was afraid to ask her what she meant by her remark; so I asked her instead how long the drive to her house would be.

Clara was disturbingly vague as she only warned me to be prepared for an arduous trip.

Then she softened her tone as she added that she found my courage extremely rewarding.

She said, "To go so nonchalantly with a stranger is either utterly foolish; or tremendously daring."

I explained, "Usually I'm very cautious, but this time I am not myself at all."

This was the truth; and the more I thought about my inexplicable behavior, the greater my discomfort became.

Pleasantly Clara asked, "Please tell me a little more about yourself."

And, as if to put me at ease, she came and stood by the door of my car.

Again I found myself conveying true information about myself.

I said, "My mother is Hungarian, but from an old Austrian family."

"She met my father in England during the Second World War when they worked together in a field hospital.

After the war, they moved to the United States; and then they went to South Africa."

"Why did they go to South Africa?"

"My mother wanted to be with her relatives that lived there."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"I have two brothers; a year apart in age. The oldest is twenty-six now."

Clara eyes were focused on me.

With an unprecedented ease, I unburdened painful feelings I had kept bottled up all my life.

I told her that I grew up lonely since my brothers never paid attention to me; because I was a girl.

When I was little, they used to tie a rope around me, and hook me to a post like a dog while they ran around the yard and played soccer.

All I could do was tug at my rope and watch them having a good time.

When I was older, I would run after them; but by that time they both had bicycles and I could never keep up with them.

When I complained to my mother, her usual reply was that boys will be boys, and that I should play with dolls and help around the house.

Clara said, "Your mother raised you in the traditional European way."

"I know it; but that is no consolation."

Once I had started talking, it seemed that I could not stop telling this woman more about my life.

I said that whereas my brothers went on trips and then away to school, I had to stay at home.

I wanted to have adventures like the boys, but according to my mother, girls had to learn to make beds and to iron clothes.

I told Clara, "My mother used to say, 'It's adventure enough to take care of a family. Women are born to obey.'"

I was on the verge of tears as I told Clara that I had three male masters to serve for as far back as I could remember; my father and my two brothers.

Clara remarked, "That sounds like an armful."

I said, "It was terrible. I left home to get as far away from them as I could, and to have adventures, too.

"But so far, I have not had all that much fun and excitement. I suppose I just wasn't brought up to be happy and light-hearted."

Describing my life to Clara, a total stranger, made me extremely anxious.

I stopped talking and looked at her.

I waited for a reaction that would either alleviate my anxiety, or would increase it to the point of making me change my mind about going with her; after all.

Clara said, "Well, it seems that there is only one thing you know how to do well, so you may as well make the most of it."

I thought she was next going to say that I should draw or paint, but to my utter chagrin she instead added, "All you know how to do is to feel sorry for yourself."

I tightened my fingers on the handle of the car door, and I protested, saying, "That's not true. Who are you to say that?"

Clara burst out laughing, and shook her head, saying, "You and I are very alike."

"We have been taught to be passive, subservient, and to adapt to situations; but inside, we are seething.

We are like a volcano ready to erupt; and what makes us even more frustrated, is that we have no dreams or expectations except the one of someday finding the right man who will take us out of our misery."

Clara had rendered me speechless.

She continued, saying, "Well? Am I right? Am I right? Be honest, am I right?"

I clenched my hands and I prepared to tell her off, but Clara was smiling warmly.

She exuded vigor and a sense of well-being that made me feel that I did not need to lie, or hide my feelings from her.

I agreed with her, saying, "Yes, you have me pegged."

I admitted that the only thing that gave meaning to my dreary existence-- besides my artwork-- was the vague hope that someday I would meet a man who would understand me, and appreciate me for the special person I was.

Clara, in a promissory tone, said, "Maybe your life will change for the better."

She got into her car and signaled me with her hand to follow her.

I became aware then that she had never asked me if I had my passport, or enough clothes or money; or whether I had other obligations.

But that did not frighten or discourage me.

I did not know why, but as I released the handbrake and began moving, I was certain I had made the right decision.

Perhaps my life was going to change after all.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 02.


I know that you are trained to let men get the best of you; just because they are men.

Version 2009.09.08


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 2.

After more than three hours of continuous driving, Clara and I stopped for lunch in the city of Guaymas.

As we waited for our food to arrive, I glanced out the window at the narrow street flanking the bay.

A group of shirtless boys were kicking a ball. Elsewhere, some workers were laying bricks at a construction site while others were taking their noon break; leaning against piles of unopened sacks of cement, and sipping sodas from bottles.

I could not help but think that in Mexico, everything seemed extra loud and dusty.

Clara regained my attention, saying, "In this restaurant, they serve the most delicious turtle soup."

Just then a smiling waitress with a silver front tooth placed two bowls of soup on the table.

Clara politely exchanged a few words with her in Spanish before the waitress hurried off to serve other customers.

I picked up a spoon and was examining it to see if it was clean as I said, "I have never had turtle soup before."

"You are in for a real treat," Clara said, watching me wipe my spoon with a paper napkin.

Reluctantly, I tasted a spoonful. However, the bits of white meat floating in a creamy tomato base were indeed delicious.

I took several more spoonfuls of soup, and then I asked Clara, "Where do they get the turtles?"

She pointed out the window, and said, "Right from the bay."

A handsome, middle-aged man sitting at the table next to ours turned to me and winked.

His gesture, I thought, was more an attempt at being humorous than a sexual innuendo.

He leaned toward me as if we had been addressing him, and with accented English he said, "The turtle you are eating now was a big one."

Clara looked at me, and raised an eyebrow as if she could not believe the audacity of the stranger.

The man continued, saying, "This turtle was big enough to feed a dozen hungry people. They catch the turtles in the sea. It takes several men to haul one in."

I remarked, "I suppose they harpoon them like whales."

The man deftly moved his chair to our table, and said, "No, I believe they use large nets. Then they club them to render them unconscious before slitting open their bellies. That way, the meat does not get too tough."

My appetite flew out the window. The last thing I wanted was for an insensitive assertive stranger to join us at our table, yet I did not know how to handle the situation.

The man continued with a disarming smile, saying, "Since we are on the subject of food, Guaymas is famous for its jumbo shrimp. Let me order some for the two of you."

Cuttingly, Clara said, "I've already done that."

Just then our waitress returned bringing a plate of the largest shrimp I had ever seen. It was enough for a banquet and was certainly much more than Clara and I could possibly eat; no matter how hungry we were.

Our unwanted companion looked at me waiting to be invited to join our meal.

If I had been alone, he would have succeeded in attaching himself to me against my will.

But Clara had other plans, and she reacted in a decisive manner.

She jumped up with feline agility, loomed over the man, and looked straight down into his eyes.

Clare yelled in Spanish, "Buzz off, you creep! How dare you sit at our table. My niece is no frigging whore!"

Her stance was so powerful and her tone of voice was so shocking that everything in the room came to a halt.

All eyes were focused on our table.

The man cowered so pitifully that I felt sorry for him. He just slid out of the chair, and half crawled out of the restaurant.

Clara sat down again, and said to me, "I know that you are trained to let men get the best of you; just because they are men.

"You have always been nice to men, and they have milked you for everything you had. Do you not know that men feed off women's energy!"

I felt that every eye in the room was on me, and so, I was too embarrassed to argue with her.

Clara continued, saying, "You let them push you around because you feel sorry for them.

"In your heart of hearts you are desperate to take care of a man; any man.

"If that idiot had been a woman, you yourself would never have let her sit at our table."

My appetite was spoiled beyond repair. I became moody and pensive.

Clara said with a smirk, "I see I have hit a sore spot."

Reproachfully, I said, "You made a scene. You were rude."

Clare replied, "Definitely," and she laughed. "But I also scared him half to death."

Her face was so open and she seemed to be so happy that I finally had to laugh; remembering how shocked the man had been.

I grumbled, "I am just like my mother. She succeeded in making me a mouse when it comes to men."

The moment I voiced that thought, my depression vanished and I felt hungry again. I polished off almost the whole plate of shrimp.

Clara declared, "There is no feeling comparable to starting a new turn with a full stomach."

Because of all the excitement, it had not occurred to me to ask Clara about her house. Maybe it was a shack like the ones I had seen earlier while driving through the Mexican towns.

A pang of fear made the shrimp sit heavy in my stomach.

What kind of food would I be eating? Perhaps this was going to be my last good meal.

Would I be able to drink the water? I envisioned myself coming down with acute intestinal problems.

I did not know how to ask Clara about my accommodations without sounding insulting or ungrateful.

Clara looked at me critically. She seemed to sense my turmoil.

Clara said, "Mexico is a harsh place. You can not let your guard down for an instant; but you will get used to it.

"The northern part of the country is even more rugged than the rest. People flock to the north in search of work; or as a stopping place before crossing the U.S. border.

"They come by trainloads. Some stay, while others travel inland in boxcars to work in the huge agricultural enterprises owned by private corporations.

"But there just is not enough food or work for everyone, so the majority go as 'braceros' to the United States."

I finished every drop of the soup; feeling guilty about leaving anything behind.

I said, "Tell me more about this area, Clara."

"All the Indians here are Yaquis who were relocated to Sonora by the Mexican government."

"Do you mean they have not always been here?"

Clara explained, "This is their ancestral homeland, but in the twenties and thirties, they were uprooted and sent by the tens of thousands to central Mexico. Then in the late forties, they were brought back to the Sonoran Desert."

Clara poured some mineral water into her glass, and then filled mine.

She said, "It is hard to live in the Sonoran Desert. As you saw while driving, the land here is rugged and inhospitable.

"Yet the Indians had no choice but to settle around the shambles of what was once the Yaqui River. There, in ancient times, the original Yaquis built their sacred towns and lived in them for hundreds of years until the Spaniards came."

I asked, "Will we drive by those towns?"

"No. We do not have time. I want to get to Navojoa before dark. Maybe someday we can take a trip to visit these sacred towns."

"Why are those towns sacred?"

"Because for the Indians the location of each town along the river symbolically corresponds to a spot in their mythical world. These sites, like the lava mountains in Arizona, are places of power.

"The Indians have a very rich mythology. They believe they can step in and out of a dream world at a moment's notice. You see, their concept of reality is not like ours.

Clara continued, saying, "According to the Yaqui myths, those towns also exist in the other world, and it is from that ethereal realm that they receive their power.

They call themselves the people without reason to differentiate themselves from us; the people with reason."

I asked, "What sort of power do they get?"

"Their magic, their sorcery, their knowledge; all of that comes down to them directly from the dream world.

"That world is described in their legends and stories. The Yaqui Indians have a rich, extensive oral history."

I looked around the crowded restaurant. I wondered which of the people sitting at the tables, if any, were Indians, and which were Mexican.

Some of the men were tall and wiry, while others were short and stocky. All the people looked foreign to me, and I felt secretly superior and distinctly out of place.

Clara finished the shrimp along with the beans and rice.

I felt bloated myself, but in spite of my protests, she insisted on ordering caramel custard for dessert.

"You'd better fill up," she said with a wink. "You never know when you will have your next meal; or what it will consist of. Here in Mexico we always eat the kill of the day."

I knew she was teasing me, and yet I sensed truth in her words.

Earlier I had seen a dead donkey hit by a car on the highway. I knew that the rural areas lack refrigeration and therefore people eat whatever meat is available.

I could not help wondering what my next meal would be. Silently, I decided to limit my stay with Clara to only a couple of days.

In a more serious tone, Clara continued her discussion, saying, "Things went from bad to worse for the Indians here, When the government built a dam as part of a hydroelectric project, it changed the course of the Yaqui River so drastically that the people had to pack up and settle elsewhere."

The harshness of this kind of life clashed with my own upbringing where there was always enough food and comfort. I wondered if my coming to Mexico was the expression of my deep desire for a complete change.

All my life I had been searching for adventure. Yet now that I was in its clutches, a dread of the unknown filled me.

I took a bite of the caramel custard, and put out of my mind the dread which had sprouted since meeting Clara in the Arizona desert.

I was glad to be in her company.

At the moment, I was well-fed on jumbo shrimp and turtle soup. And even though, as Clara herself had intimated, this might be my last good meal, I decided I would have to trust her and allow the adventure to unfold.

Clara insisted on paying the bill.

We filled up the cars with gasoline, and were on the road again.

After driving for several more hours, we arrived at Navojoa. We did not stop but went through it; leaving the Pan American Highway to turn onto a gravel road heading east, then south.

It was midafternoon but I was not tired at all. In fact, I enjoyed the remainder of the trip.

The further south we drove, the more a sense of happiness and well-being replaced my habitual neurotic and depressed state.

After more than one hour of a bumpy ride, Clara veered off the road and signaled for me to follow.

We coasted on hard ground along a high wall topped by a flowering bougainvillaea.

We parked in a clearing of well-packed earth at the end of the wall.

"This is where I live," she called to me as she eased herself out of the driver's seat.

I walked to her car. She looked tired and seemed to have grown bigger.

Clara commented, "You look as fresh as when we started. Ah, the marvels of youth!"

On the other side of the wall, completely hidden by trees and dense shrubs, loomed a huge house with a tile roof, barred windows and several balconies.

In a daze, I followed Clara through a wrought-iron gate, past a brick patio, and through a heavy wooden door into the back of the house.

The terra-cotta tile floor of the cool, empty hall enhanced the starkness of the whitewashed walls and the dark natural wood beams of the ceiling.

We walked through the hall into a spacious living room.

The white walls were bordered with exquisitely painted tiles.

Two immaculate beige couches and four armchairs were arranged in a cluster around a heavy wooden coffee table.

On top of the table were some open magazines in English and Spanish.

I had the impression that someone had just been reading them, sitting in one of the armchairs, but had left in a hurry when we entered through the back door.

Beaming proudly, Clara asked, "What do you think of my house?"

"It is fantastic," I said. "Who would have thought there would be such a house way out here in the wilderness?"

Then my envious self reared its head and I became utterly ill at ease. The house was the kind of house I had always dreamed of owning, yet knew I would never be able to afford.

Clara said, "You can not imagine how accurate you are in describing this place as fantastic.

"All I can tell you about the house is that, like those lava mountains we saw this morning, it is imbued with power. A silent exquisite power runs through the house like an electric current runs through wires."

Upon hearing this, an inexplicable thing happened. My envy disappeared. It vanished totally with the last word she said.

Clara announced, "Now I will show you to your bedroom. And I will also set up some ground rules you must observe while you are here as my guest.

"Any part of the house which is to the right and to the back of this living room is yours to use and explore, and that includes the grounds.

"But you must not enter any of the bedrooms, except of course, yours.

"There you can use anything you want. You can even break things in fits of anger; or love them in outbursts of affection.

"The left side of the house, however, is not accessible to you at any time; in any way, shape or form. So stay out of it."

I was shocked by her bizarre request. My feeling was that her request was rude and arbitrary.

Yet I assured Clara that I understood perfectly, and that I would acquiesce to her wishes.

Clara seemed to think of something else, and added, "Of course, you can use this living room. You can even sleep here on the sofa if you are too tired or lazy to go to your bedroom.

"However, another part you can not use is the grounds in front of the house, and also, not the main door. It is locked for the time being, so always enter the house through the back door."

The more Clara warned me to stay away from certain parts of the house, the more curious I became to see them.

Clara did not give me time to respond.

She ushered me down a long corridor past several closed doors which she said were bedrooms and therefore forbidden to me.

We came to a large bedroom. The first thing I noticed upon entering it was the ornate wooden double bed. It was covered with a beautiful crocheted off-white bedspread.

Next to a window on the wall facing the back of the house stood a hand-carved, mahogany etagere filled to capacity with antique objects, porcelain vases and figurines, cloisonne boxes, and tiny bowls.

On the other wall was a matching armoire, which Clara opened. Hanging inside were women's vintage dresses, coats, hats, shoes, parasols, and canes. All of them seemed to be exquisite hand-picked items.

Before I could ask Clara where she had gotten those beautiful things, she closed the doors.

"Feel free to use anything you wish," she said. "These are your clothes, and this is your room for as long as you stay in this house."

She then glanced over her shoulder as if someone else were in the room, and added, "And who can tell how long that will be!"

It appeared that she was talking about an extended visit.

I felt my palms sweat as I awkwardly told her that I could, at best, stay for only a few days.

Clara assured me that I would be perfectly safe with her there; much safer, in fact, than anywhere else.

She added that it would be foolish for me to pass up this opportunity to broaden my knowledge.

As an excuse, I said, "But I have got to look for a job. I do not have any money."

"Do not worry about money," she said. "I'll lend you whatever you need; or give it to you. It's no problem."

I thanked her for her offer, but informed her that I had been brought up to believe that to accept money from a stranger was highly improper no matter how well-meaning the offer was.

She rebuffed me, saying, "I think what is the matter with you, Taisha, is that you got angry when I requested that you do not use the left side of the house or the main door.

"I know that you felt I was being arbitrary and excessively secretive. Now you do not want to stay more than a polite day or two. Maybe you even think I am an eccentric old woman with a few bats in the belfry?"

"No, no, Clara, it is not that. I have got to pay my rent. If I do not find a job soon I will not have any money; and to accept money from anyone is out of the question for me."

"Do you mean that you did not get offended by my request to avoid certain parts of the house?"

"Of course not."

"Did you not get curious to know why I made the request?"

"Yes, I was curious."

"Well, the reason is that other people live on that side of the house."

"Your relatives, Clara?"

"Yes. We are a large family. There are, in fact, two families living here."

"Are they both large families?"

"They are. Each has eight members, making sixteen people all together."

In all my life I had never heard of such an odd arrangement. I asked, "And they all live on the left side of the house, Clara?"

"No. Only eight live there. The other eight are my immediate family and they live with me on the right side of the house.

"You are my guest, so you must stay on the right side. It is very important that you understand this. It may be unusual, but it is not incomprehensible."

I marveled at her power over me. Her words put my emotions at ease, but they did not calm my mind.

I understood then that in order to react intelligently in any situation, I needed a conjunction of both an alarmed mind and unsettled emotions.

Otherwise, I remained passive, waiting for the next external impulse to sway me.

Being with Clara had made me understand that in spite of my protest to the contrary, and in spite of my struggle to be different and independent, I was incapable of thinking clearly, or of making my own decisions.

Clara gave me a most peculiar look, as if she were following my unvoiced thoughts. I tried to mask my confusion by hurriedly saying, "Your house is beautiful, Clara. Is it very old?"

"Of course," she said, but did not explain whether she meant that it was a beautiful house or that it was very old.

With a smile she added, "Now that you have seen the house-- that is, half of it-- we have a little business to take care of."

She removed a flashlight from one of the cabinets, and from the armoire she took out a padded Chinese jacket and a pair of hiking boots. She told me that I had to put them on, after we had a snack, because we would be going for a walk.

"But we just got here," I protested. "Will it not be dark soon?"

"Yes. But I want to take you to a look-out point in the hills from where you can see the entire house and grounds.

"It will be best for you to first see the house at this time of the day. We all had our first glimpse of this house in the twilight."

"Who do you mean when you say 'we'?" I asked.

"The sixteen people that live here; naturally. All of us do exactly the same things."

"All of you have the same professions?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.

"Good gracious, no," she said, bringing her hand to her face as she laughed:

"I mean that whatever any one of us has to obligatorily do, the rest of us also have to do. Each one of us had to first see the house and grounds in the twilight; so that is the time you must view it, too."

"Why are you including me in this, Clara?"

"Let us just say for now it is because you are my guest."

"Am I going to meet your relatives later on?"

"You wil get to know all of them," she assured me. "At the moment, there is no one in the house except the two of us, and a guard dog."

"Are they away on a trip?"

"Exactly. All of them have left for an extended journey, and here I am guarding the house with the dog."

"When are you expecting them back?"

"It will be a matter of weeks yet, maybe even months."

"Where did they go?"

"We are always on the move. Sometimes I leave for months at a time, and someone else stays behind to look after the property."

I was about to ask again where they went, but she answered my question, saying, "They all went to India."

"All fifteen of them?" I asked incredulously.

In a tone of voice that was a caricature of me and my inner feelings of envy, Clara said, "Isn't that remarkable? It will cost a fortune!"

I had to laugh in spite of myself.

Then the thought struck me that it would not be safe to be alone in such a remote, empty house with only Clara for company.

Clara, with a curious finality, said, "We are alone, but there is nothing to fear in this house.

"...except maybe the dog. When we return from our walk, I will introduce you to him.

"You have got to be very calm to meet him. He will see right through you, and attack if he senses any hostility; or that you are afraid."

"But I am afraid," I blurted out. I was already starting to shake.

I had hated dogs ever since I was a child, when one of my father's Doberman pinschers jumped on me and pushed me to the ground.

The dog didn't actually bite me, she just growled and showed me her pointed teeth.

I had screamed for help, for I was too terrified to move. I was so frightened that I wet my pants. I still remember how my brothers made fun of me when they saw me; calling me a baby that should be wearing diapers.

"I do not like dogs one bit, myself," Clara said, "but the dog we have is not really a dog. He is something else."

She had sparked my interest, but that did not dispel my sense of foreboding.

Cara said, "If you want to freshen up first, I will accompany you to the outhouse-- just in case the dog is prowling around."

I nodded; tired and irritable. The impact of the long drive had finally caught up with me.

I wanted to wash the dust of the road from my face and comb the tangles out of my stringy hair.

Clara led me through a different corridor, then out to the back. There were two small buildings at a distance from the main house.

Clara, pointing at one of them, said, "That is my gymnasium. It is off limits to you, too; unless I care to invite you in someday."

"Is that where you practice martial arts?"

"It is," Clara said dryly. "The other building is the outhouse.

"I will wait for you in the living room where we can have some sandwiches.

"But do not bother about fixing your hair," she said, as if noticing my preoccupation. "There are no mirrors here.

"Mirrors are like clocks. They record the passage of time; and what is important is to reverse it."

I wanted to ask her what she meant by reversing time, but she prodded me toward the outhouse.

Inside, I found several doors. Since Clara had not made any stipulations about the left and right sides of this building, and since I did not know where the toilet was, I explored all of it.

On one side of the central hall, there were six small water closets; each with a low wooden toilet the height for squatting.

What made them unusual was that I did not notice the distinct odor of a septic tank, nor the overpowering stench of lime-filled dirt holes.

I could hear water running underneath the wooden toilets, but I could not tell how or from where it was led in.

On the other side of the hall, there were three identical beautifully tiled rooms.

Each contained a free-standing antique tub and a long chest on top of which sat a pitcher filled with water and a matching porcelain basin.

There were no mirrors in those rooms, or any stainless-steel fixtures on which I could have caught my reflection. In fact, there was no plumbing at all.

I poured water into a basin, splashed my face with it, then ran my wet fingers through my tangled hair.

Instead of using one of the soft white Turkish towels for fear I would dirty it, I wiped my hands with some tissues that were in a box on the chest.

I took several deep breaths and rubbed my tense neck before going out to face Clara again.

I found her in the living room arranging flowers in a blue and white Chinese vase. The magazines that had been open earlier were neatly stacked, and next to them was a plate of food.

Clara smiled when she saw me, and said, "You look as fresh as a daisy. Have a sandwich.

"Soon it will be twilight. We have no time to lose."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 03.


What you saw is not a trick. Manfred is mysterious; an unknown being.

Version 2009.09.08


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 3.

After I had gobbled down half of a ham sandwich, I hurriedly put on the jacket and boots Clara had given me.

We left the house; each carrying a heavy-duty flashlight.

The boots were too tight and the left one rubbed against my heel. I was certain I was going to get a blister.

But I was glad I had the jacket because the evening was cold. I pulled up the collar and fastened the toggle at the neck.

"We are going to walk around the grounds," Clara said. "I want you to see this house from a distance and in the twilight.

"I will be pointing out things for you to remember, so pay close attention."

We followed a narrow trail.

In the distance, I could see the dark, jagged silhouette of the eastern mountains against the purple sky.

When I commented on how sinister they looked, Clara replied that the reason those mountains seemed so ominous was because their ethereal essence was ancient.

She told me that everything in the realms of the visible and invisible has an ethereal essence; and that one must be receptive to it in order to know how to proceed.

What she said reminded me of my tactic of looking at the southern horizon to gain insights and direction.

Before I could ask her about it, she continued talking about the mountains and trees and the ethereal essence of rocks.

It seemed to me that Clara had internalized Chinese culture to the point that she spoke in riddles the way enlightened men were depicted in Oriental literature.

I became aware, then, that at an underlying level I had been humoring her all day.

This was an odd feeling, for Clara was the last person I would want to treat in a condescending manner. I was used to humoring weak or overbearing people at my job or in school, but Clara was neither weak nor overbearing.

"That is the place," Clara said, pointing to a level clearing on higher ground. "You will be able to see the house from there."

We left the trail and walked to the flat area she had pointed out.

From there we had a breath-taking view of the valley below. I could see a large clump of tall green trees surrounded by darker brown areas, but not the house itself, for it was completely camouflaged by the trees and shrubs.

"The house is perfectly oriented according to the four directions," Clara said, pointing to a mass of greenery.

"Your bedroom is on the north side, and the forbidden part of the house is on the south side. The main entrance is to the east. The back door and the patio area are to the west."

Clara pointed with her hand where all those sections were, but for the life of me, I could not see them. All I was able to make out was the dark green patch.

I grumbled, "You would need x-ray vision to see the house. It is totally hidden by trees."

Ignoring my disagreeable mood, Clara said amiably, "And very important trees, too. Every one of those trees is an individual being with a definite purpose in life."

"Doesn't it go without saying that every living being on this earth has a definite purpose?" I said, peeved.

Something in the enthusiastic way that Clara was showing off her property annoyed me. The fact that I could not see what she was pointing at made me even more irritable.

A strong gust of wind made my jacket balloon at my waist, and then the thought occurred to me that my irritation might be born out of sheer envy.

Clara apologized, "I did not mean it to sound trivial."

"What I wanted to say was that everything and everyone in my house is there for a specific reason. That includes the trees, myself, and of course also you."

I wanted to change the subject, so for lack of anything better to say, I asked, "Did you buy this house, Clara?"

"No. We inherited it. It has been in the family for generations, although given the turmoils Mexico has been through, the house has been destroyed and rebuilt many times."

I realized that I felt most at ease when I asked simple, direct questions, and Clara gave me direct answers.

Her discussion about ethereal essences had been so abstract that I needed the respite of talking about something mundane. But to my chagrin, Clara cut our commonplace exchange short, and lapsed into her mysterious insinuations again.

Almost reverently,she said, "That house is the blueprint of all the actions of the people who live there.

"Its best feature is that it is concealed. It is there for anyone to see, but no one sees it. Keep that in mind. It is very important!"

How could I not remember it, I thought. For the past twenty minutes I had been straining my eyes in the semidarkness trying to see the house.

I wished I had a pair of binoculars so that I could have satisfied my curiosity.

Before I could comment, Clara began walking down the hill.

I would have liked to stay there a while longer by myself-- to breathe in the fresh night air-- but I was afraid I would not be able to find my way back in the dark.

I made a mental note to return to that spot during the day, and determine for myself whether it was really possible to see the house the way Clara had said.

On our return trek, we were at the back entrance of her property in no time at all.

It was pitch black. I could see only the small area illuminated by our flashlights.

She beamed hers onto a wooden bench, and told me sit and take off my boots and jacket, and then hang them on the rack next to the door.

I was famished. Never in my life could I remember being so hungry, yet I thought it would be rude to ask Clara outright whether or not we were going to eat dinner.

Perhaps she expected that the sumptuous meal we had in Guaymas would last us for the day.

Yet judging from Clara's size, she was not one that would skimp on food.

She volunteered, "Let's go to the kitchen and see what we can find to eat.

"But first, I'm going to show you where the dynamo is kept and how to turn it on."

She guided me with her flashlight along a path leading around a wall to a brick shed, roofed with corrugated steel.

The shed housed a small diesel generator.

I knew how to turn it on because I had lived in a house in the country that had a similar generator in case of electrical failure.

When I pulled the lever, I noticed from the shed window that only one side of the main house and part of the hall seemed to be wired for electric lights. There lights were lit, while everything else remained in darkness.

"Why did you not wire the whole house?" I asked Clara. "It does not make sense to leave most of the house dark."

On an impulse, I added, "If you like, I can wire it for you."

She looked at me, surprised, "Is that right? Are you sure you would not burn the place down?"

"Positive. They used to tell me at home that I'm a wizard with wires.

"I worked as an electrician's apprentice for a while, until the electrician started getting fresh with me."

"Then what did you do?" Clara asked.

"I told him where he could shove his wires, and quit."

Clara let out a guttural laugh.

I did not know what she found humorous; that I worked as an electrician, or that one had made passes at me.

"Thanks for the offer," Clara said after regaining her voice. "But the house is wired exactly the way we want it. We use electricity only where it is needed."

I surmised that it was needed mostly in the kitchen and that this must be the part of the house that had light.

Automatically I started toward the area that was lit. Clara tugged at my sleeve to stop me.

Clara asked, "Where are you going?"

"To the kitchen."

"You are heading the wrong way," she said. "This is rural Mexico. Neither the kitchen nor the bathroom is inside the main house. What do you think we have? Electric refrigerators and gas stoves?"

She led me along the side of the house past her gymnasium to another small building I had not seen before.

It was almost totally hidden by pungent flowering trees.

The kitchen was actually one enormous room with a terra-cotta tile floor, freshly whitewashed walls, and a bright row of track lights overhead.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble installing modern fixtures. But the appliances were old-- in fact, they looked like antiques.

On one side of the room stood a gigantic iron wood-burning stove that, surprisingly, seemed to be lit.

The stove had a foot bellow and an exhaust pipe that vented through a hole in the ceiling.

On the other side of the room, there were two long picnic-style tables with benches placed on either side.

Next to the tables was a work table with a three-inch-thick butcher-block top. The surface of the wood looked used, as if it had seen a lot of chopping.

Hanging from strategically placed hooks along the walls were baskets, iron pots and pans, and a variety of cooking utensils.

The whole place had the look of a rustic but comfortable, well-stocked kitchen that I had seen featured in certain magazines.

On the stove were three earthen pots with lids. Clara told me to sit down at one of the tables. She went to the stove, and with her back toward me busied herself; stirring and ladling.

In a few minutes, she had placed a meal of meat stew, rice, and beans in front of me.

"When did you prepare all this food?" I asked, genuinely curious, for she had had no time in which to do it.

"I just whipped all this up, and put it on the stove before we left," she said lightly.

'How gullible does she think I am?' I thought. 'This food must have taken hours to prepare.'

She laughed self-consciously at my stare of disbelief.

"You are right," she said as if she wanted to give up the pretense. "There is a caretaker that prepares food for us sometimes."

"Is the caretaker here now?"

"No, no. The caretaker must have been here in the morning, but is gone now.

"Eat your food and do not worry about such unimportant details as where it came from."

'Clara and her house are full of surprises,' was the thought that crossed my mind, but I was too tired and hungry to ask any more questions; or to ponder about anything that was not immediate.

I ate voraciously. The jumbo shrimp I had stuffed myself with at lunch was totally gone and forgotten.

For someone who was a finicky eater, I was wolfing down my food.

As a child, I had always been too nervous to relax and enjoy our meals. I was always anticipating all the dishes I would have to wash afterward.

Every time one of my brothers had used an extra plate or a needless spoon, I would'd cringe. I was certain that they deliberately used as many dishes as they could just so I would have more to wash.

On top of that, at every meal, my father would take the opportunity to argue with my mother.

He knew her manners prevented her from leaving the table until everyone had finished eating, so he poured out to her all his complaints and grievances.

Although I offered my help, Clara said that it would not be necessary for me to wash dishes.

We went to the living room and it was pitch black. Apparantly it was one of the rooms she felt needed no electricity.

Clara lit a gasoline lantern.

I had never in my life seen the light of such a lamp. It was bright and eerie, yet at the same time soft and mellow.

Shimmering shadows were everywhere. I felt I was in a dream world, far from the reality lit up by electric lights.

Clara, the house, and the room all seemed to belong to another time; to a different world.

Clara sat on the couch, and said, "I promised you that I would introduce you to our dog.

"The dog is an authentic member of the household. You must be very careful with what you feel or say around him."

I sat down next to Clara. Dreading the encounter, I asked, "Is it a sensitive, neurotic dog?"

"Sensitive, yes. Neurotic, no.

"I seriously think this dog is a highly evolved creature. But being a dog makes it difficult, if not impossible, for that poor soul to transcend the idea of the self."

I laughed out loud at the preposterous notion of a dog having an idea of itself.

I confronted Clara with the absurdity of her statement.

Clara conceded, "You are right. I should not use the word 'self.' Rather, I should say 'he is lost in feeling important'."

I knew that she was poking fun at me. My laughter became more guarded.

Clara, in a low tone, said, "You may laugh, but I am actually quite serious. I will let you be the judge."

She leaned closer, and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Behind his back, we call him 'sapo', which means 'toad' in Spanish; because he looks like a huge toad.

"But do not you dare call him that to his face. He will attack you and rip you to shreds.

"Now, if you do not believe me, or if you are daring or stupid enough to try it and the dog gets mad, there is only one thing you can do."

"What's that?" I asked, humoring her again, although this time with a genuine touch of fear.

"You say very quickly that 'I' am the one who looks like a white toad. He loves to hear that."

I was not about to fall for Clara's tricks. I thought I was too sophisticated to believe such nonsense.

I argued, saying, "You have probably trained your dog to react negatively to the word 'sapo'.

"I have had experience with dog training and I am certain dogs are not intelligent enough to know what people are saying about them, let alone get offended by it."

"Then let us do the following," Clara proposed. "Let me introduce you to him. Then we will look in a zoology book for pictures of toads and comment on them.

"Then at one point you say to me, very quietly, 'He certainly looks like a toad,' and we will see what happens."

Before I could accept or reject her proposition, Clara went out through a side door and left me alone.

I assured myself that I had the situation well under control and that I would not let this woman talk me into believing absurdities such as dogs in possession of a highly evolved consciousness.

I was giving myself a mental pep talk to be more assertive, when Clara came back with the hugest dog I had ever seen.

It was a male dog, massive, with fat paws the size of coffee saucers. His hair was lustrous, black. He had yellow eyes with the look of someone bored to death with life. His ears were rounded and his face bulged and wrinkled on the sides.

Clara was right: He had a definite resemblance to a giant toad.

The dog came right up to me and stopped, then looked at Clara as if waiting for her to say something.

"Taisha, may I introduce you to my friend Manfred.

"Manfred, this is Taisha."

I felt like extending my hand and shaking its paw, but Clara gave me a don't-do-it signal with a movement of her head.

"Very pleased to meet you, Manfred," I said trying not to laugh or sound afraid.

The dog moved closer and began to sniff my crotch.

Disgusted, I jumped back; but at that instant, he turned around and hit me with his hindquarters directly behind my knee joint so that I lost my balance.

The next thing I knew, I was on my knees; then on all fours on the floor, and the beast was licking the side of my face.

Then before I could get up or even roll over, the dog farted right in my nose.

I jumped up screaming.

Clara was laughing so hard she could not talk.

I could have sworn that Manfred was laughing too.

He was so elated that he had propped himself behind Clara, and was looking at me askance, scratching the floor with his huge front paws.

I was so outraged that I yelled, "Damn you, stinking toad-dog!"

In one instant, the dog jumped and rammed me with his head.

I fell backward onto the floor with the dog on top of me.

His jaw was only inches from my face. I saw a look of fury in his yellow eyes.

The smell of his foul breath was enough to make anyone vomit, and I was definitely close to it.

The louder I screamed for Clara to get that damn dog off me, the more ferocious became his snarls.

I was about to faint from fright, when I heard Clara yell above the dog's growls and my screams, "Tell him what I told you. Tell him quickly."

I was too terrified to speak.

Exasperated, Clara tried to move the dog off me by pulling him by his ears, but this only enraged the beast more.

"Tell him! Tell him what I said!" Clara yelled.

In my terror, I could not remember what I was supposed to say. Then as I was about to pass out, I heard my voice screeching, "I'm sorry. Clara is the one who looks like a toad."

Instantly the dog stopped his snarling and moved off my chest.

Clara helped me up and guided me to the couch.

The dog followed beside us as if he were giving her a hand.

Clara had me drink some warm water, which made me even more nauseous.

I barely reached the outhouse before I became violently ill.

Later, when I was resting in the living room, Clara suggested that we look at the book about toads with Manfred to give me a chance to reiterate that it was Clara who looked like a white toad.

She said that I had to erase any confusion from Manfred's mind.

"Being a dog makes him very petty," she explained. "Poor soul.

"He does not want to be that way, but he just can not help it. He flares up whenever he feels someone is making fun of him."

I told her that in my state, I was a poor subject for further experiments in dog psychology.

But Clara insisted that I play it out to the end.

As soon as she opened the book, Manfred came over to look at the pictures.

Clara teased and joked about how strange toads looked, that some of them were even downright ugly.

I held up my end and played along.

I said the word 'toad,' and the Spanish word 'sapo,' as often and as loudly as I could in the context of our absurd conversation.

But there was no reaction from Manfred. He seemed as bored as he was the first time I laid eyes on him.

When, as we had agreed upon, in a loud voice I said that Clara certainly looked like a white toad, Manfred immediately began wagging his tail and showed signs of true animation.

I repeated the key phrase several times, and the more I repeated it, the more excited the dog became.

I had then a flash of insight, and said that I was a skinny toad working her way to being just like Clara.

At that, the dog jumped up as if prodded by an electric shock.

Then when Clara said, "You are carrying this a bit too far, Taisha," I truly thought Manfred was so elated that he could not take it any longer. He ran out of the room.

I leaned back against the couch dazed.

Down in the depth of me, and in spite of all the circumstantial evidence supporting it, I still could not believe that a dog could react to a derogatory nickname the way Manfred had.

"Tell me, Clara," I said, "what is the trick? How did you train your dog to react that way?"

She replied, "What you saw is not a trick. Manfred is mysterious; an unknown being.

"There is only one man in the world who can call him sapo or 'sapito', little toad, to his face without inciting his wrath.

"You will meet that man one of these days.

"He is the one who is responsible for Manfred's mystery, so he is the only person who can explain it to you."

Clara stood up abruptly, and handed me the gasoline lantern as she said, "You have had a long day. I think it is time for you to go to bed."

She took me to the room she had assigned to me, and said, "You will find everything you need inside."

"The chamber pot is under the bed, in case you are afraid to go to the outhouse.

"I hope you will be comfortable."

Clara gave my arm a pat, and she disappeared down the dark corridor.

I had no idea where her bedroom was. I wondered if it could perhaps be in the wing of the house I was not allowed to set foot in.

She had said good night in such a strange fashion that for a moment I just stood there holding on to the doorknob, inferring all sorts of things.

I entered my room.

The gasoline lantern splashed shadows everywhere.

On the floor was a pattern of swirls cast from the vase of flowers that had been in the living room, which Clara must have brought in and set on the table.

The carved wood chest was a mass of shimmering grays.

The posts of the bed were lines that curved up the wall like snakes.

Instantly I grasped the reason for the presence of the mahogany etagere filled with figurines and cloisonne objects.

The light of the lantern had completely transformed them creating a fantasy world. Cloisonne and porcelain are not suited for electric lights, was the thought that came to mind.

I wanted to explore the room, but I was bone tired.

I set the lantern on a small table next to the bed and undressed.

Laid over the back of a chair was a white muslin nightgown which I put on. It seemed to fit; at least it did not drag on the floor.

I climbed into the soft bed and lay with my back propped against the pillows.

I did not douse the lantern immediately: I became intrigued watching the surreal shadows.

I remembered that as a child I used to play a game at bedtime. I would count how many shadow objects I could recognize on the walls of my room.

The breeze from the half-open window made the shadows on the walls flutter.

In my exhausted state, I imagined I could see shapes of animals, trees and flying birds.

Then in a mass of gray light I saw the faint outline of a dog's face. It had rounded ears and a flat, wrinkled snout.

It seemed to be winking at me. I knew it was Manfred.

Strange feelings and questions began to flood my mind.

How could I ever arrange the events of the day? I could not explain any of them to my satisfaction.

The one thing that was most remarkable was that I knew for certain that my last remark-- that I was a skinny toad on my way to being like Clara-- had established a bond of empathy between Manfred and myself.

I also knew for certain that I could not think of him as an ordinary dog; and I was no longer afraid of him.

In spite of my disbelief, he seemed to possess a special intelligence that made him aware of what Clara and I were saying.

The wind suddenly made the curtains open; dissolving the shadows in an array of shimmering fluff.

The dog's face began to merge with the other markings on the wall that I fancied to be charms that would give me the power to meet the night.

How remarkable, I thought, that the mind can project its experiences onto a blank wall, as if it were a camera that had stored endless footage of film.

The shadows flickered as I lowered the wick of the lantern and the last bit of light faded from the room leaving me in pitch blackness.

I was not afraid of the darkness. The fact that I was in a strange bed and in a strange house did not distress me.

Earlier, Clara had said this was my room, and after being in it for only a short while, I felt completely at home. I had a strong feeling that I was protected.

As I stared at the blackness in front of me, I noticed the air in the room become effervescent.

I remembered what Clara had said about the house being charged with an imperceptible energy, like an electric current flowing through wires.

I had not been aware of it earlier because of all the activity, but now in absolute silence, I distinctly heard a mild humming sound.

Then I saw the minutest bubbles jumping all around the room at a tremendous speed.

They were frantically bumping into one another giving off a buzzing sound like the drone of thousands of bees.

The room and the entire house seemed to be charged with a subtle electric current that filled my very being.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 04.


There is really no way to talk about this, except metaphorically.

Version 2009.09.09


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 4.

As I entered the kitchen, Clara asked me, "Did you sleep well?"

She was about to sit down at the table to eat.

I noticed there was a place set for me, although she had not told me the night before at what time breakfast would be.

Truthfully, I said, "I slept like a bear."

She asked me to join her and she dished some spicy shredded meat onto my plate.

I told her that waking up in an unknown bed had always been a difficult moment for me.

My father had changed jobs often and the family would have to move to wherever there was a position available.

I dreaded the morning jolt of awakening disoriented in a new house, but that dread had not materialized this time.

The feeling I had upon awakening was that the room and the bed had always been mine.

Clara listened intently and nodded. She said, "That is because you are in harmony with the person to whom the room belongs."

"Whose room is it?" I asked, curious.

"You will find out some day," she said, placing a hefty portion of rice next to the meat on my plate.

She handed me a fork, and said, "Eat up. You will need all your strength today."

She did not let me talk until I had finished everything on my plate.

As Clara put the dishes away, I asked, "What are we going to do?"

"Not we," she corrected me. "You will be going to a cave to begin your recapitulation."

"My what, Clara?"

"I told you last night that everything and everyone in this house has a reason for being here; including you."

"Why am I here, Clara?"

"Your reason for being here," she said, "has to be explained to you in stages.

"On the simplest level, you are here because you like it here regardless of what you may think.

"A second, and more complex reason, is that you are here to learn and to practice a fascinating exercise called the recapitulation."

"What is this exercise? What does it consist of?"

"I am going to tell you about it when we get to the cave."

"Why can you not tell me now?"

"Bear with me, Taisha. I can not answer all your questions at this point, because you do not have enough energy yet to handle the answers.

"Later on, you yourself will realize why it is so difficult to explain certain things.

"Put on your hiking boots, and we will go now."

We left the house and climbed the low hills toward the east; following the same trail we had taken the previous night.

After a short hike, I spotted the flat clearing on high ground that I had intended to revisit.

Without waiting for Clara to take the initiative, I headed toward it because I was eager to find out if I could see the house during the daytime.

I peered down into a bowl-like depression squeezed between hills and covered with green foliage, but although it was clear and sunny, I could not see any signs of the buildings.

One thing was evident. There were more huge trees than I remembered seeing at night.

"Surely you can recognize the outhouse," Clara said. "It's that reddish spot by that clump of mesquite trees."

I jumped inadvertently because I had been so absorbed gazing into the valley that I had not heard Clara come up behind me.

To help direct my attention, she pointed to a particular section of the greenness below.

I thought of telling her out of politeness that I was seeing it-- the way I always agreed with people-- but I did not want to start my day by humoring her.

I kept silent. Besides, there was something so exquisite in that hidden valley that it took my breath away.

I stared at the valley so totally absorbed that I became drowsy. I leaned against a boulder, and let whatever was in the valley carry me away.

And it did transport me. I felt that I was at a picnic ground where a party was going full force. I heard the laughter of people...

My reverie ended when Clara lifted me to my feet by my armpits.

She exclaimed, "My goodness, Taisha! You are stranger than I thought. For a moment there, I thought I had lost you."

I wanted to tell her what I dreamt because I was certain that I had dozed off for an instant. But she did not seem interested, and she started walking away.

Clara had a firm and purposeful stride as if she knew exactly where she was going.

I, on the other hand, walked aimlessly behind her trying to keep up without stumbling.

We walked in total silence.

After a good half hour, we were by a particular formation of rocks I was certain we had passed earlier.

"Were we not here before?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Clara nodded, and admitted, "We are going in circles. Something is stalking you and if we do not lose it, it will follow us to the cave."

I turned around to see if someone was behind us.

I could distinguish only the shrubs and the twisted branches of trees.

I hurried to catch up with Clara and tripped over a stump.

Startled, I shrieked as I fell forward.

With incredible speed, Clara caught me by the arm and broke my fall by placing her leg in front of me.

"You are not very good at walking, are you," she commented.

I told her I had never been a good outdoor person, and that I grew up believing hiking and camping were for country folks-- unsophisticated backwoods people-- but not for educated urbanites.

I told Clara that walking in the foothills of the mountains was not an experience I found enjoyable. And except for the view of her property, scenery that others might find breathtaking, left me indifferent.

Clara responded, saying, "Just as well. You are not here to look at the scenery. You have to keep your mind on the trail. And watch out for snakes."

Whether there were snakes in the area or not, her admonition certainly kept my attention on the ground.

As we continued walking, I became increasingly out of breath. The boots Clara had equipped me with were like lead weights on my feet. I had a hard time lifting my thighs to put one foot in front of the other.

"Is this nature walk really necessary?" I finally asked.

Clara stopped in her tracks and faced me. She said, "Before we can talk about anything meaningful, you will at least have to be aware of your elaborate entourage. I am doing my best to help you do just that."

"What are you talking about?" I demanded. "What entourage?"

My habitual moodiness had gotten hold of me again.

Clara explained, "I'm referring to your barrage of habitual feelings and thoughts; your personal history everything that makes you into what you think you are; a unique and special person."

"What's wrong with my habitual feelings and thoughts?" I asked. Her incomprehensible assertions were definitely annoying me.

Clara declared, "Those habitual feelings and thoughts are the source of all our troubles."

The more she spoke in riddles, the greater became my frustration.

At that moment, I could have kicked myself for succumbing to this woman's invitation to spend some time with her.

This was a delayed reaction. Fears that had been kindling inside me now flared up full force.

I imagined that she might be a psychopath who at any moment might pull out a knife and kill me.

On second thought, having been trained in martial arts as she obviously had been, she would not need a knife. One kick from her muscular leg could have been the end of me. I was no match for her. Clara was older than I, but infinitely more powerful.

I saw myself ending up as just another statistic; a missing person never heard from again. I deliberately slowed down my pace to increase the distance between us.

Clara definitely intruded into my thoughts as she said, "Do not get into such a morbid frame of mind.

"By bringing you here, all I wanted to do was to help prepare you to face life with a little more grace.

"But it seems that all I succeeded in doing is to start a landslide of ugly suspicions and fears."

I felt genuinely embarrassed for having had such morbid thoughts.

It was bewildering how she had been so absolutely right about my suspicions and fears, and how she had with one stroke soothed my internal turmoil.

I wished it would have been possible for me to apologize and reveal to her what was going through my mind, but I was not prepared to do that. I felt that apologizing would have put me at even more of a disadvantage.

So instead I said, "You have a strange power to soothe the mind, Clara. Did you learn to do this in the Orient?"

"It is no great feat," she admitted, "not because your mind is easy to soothe, but because all of us are alike.

"To know you in detail, all I have to do is to know myself. And this, I promise you, I do.

"Now, let us keep on walking. I want to reach the cave before you collapse completely."

Unwilling to start walking again. I asked, "Tell me again, Clara, what are we going to do in that cave?"

"I am going to teach you unimaginable things."

"What unimaginable things?"

"You will know soon," she said, looking at me with wide eyes.

I craved more information, but before I could engage her in conversation, she was already halfway up the next slope.

I dragged my feet and followed her for another quarter of a mile or so until we finally sat down by a stream.

The foliage of the trees was so dense that I could no longer see the sky.

I took off the boots. I had a blister on my heel.

Clara picked up a hard-pointed stick and poked my feet in between the big and the second toe.

Something like a mild current of electricity shot up my calves and ran along my inner thighs.

Then she made me kneel on all fours and, taking each foot one at a time, she turned my soles up and poked me at the point just below the protuberance of my big toe. I yelled with pain.

Clara, in the tone of someone accustomed to treating sick people, said, "That was not so bad."

"Classical Chinese doctors used to apply that technique to jolt and revive the weak; or to create a state of unique attention.

"But today such classical knowledge is dying out."

"Why is that, Clara?"

"Because the emphasis on materialism has led man to move away from esoteric pursuits."

"Is that what you meant when you told me in the desert that the line to the past was severed?"

"Yes. A great upheaval always brings about deep changes in the energy formation of things; changes that are not always for the better."

She ordered me to place my feet into the stream and feel the smooth rocks along the bottom.

The water was ice cold and made me shiver involuntarily.

Clara suggested, "Move your feet at the ankles in a clockwise circle. Let the running water draw away your fatigue."

After a few minutes of circling my ankles, I felt refreshed but my feet were nearly frozen.

Clara continued, saying, "Now try to feel all your tension flow down to your feet, and then throw it out with a sideward snap of your ankles. This way you will also get rid of the coldness."

I continued flicking the water with my feet until they were numb. Pulling my feet out, I said, "I do not think this is working."

clara responded, saying, "That is because you are not directing the tension away from you. Flowing water takes away tiredness, coldness, illness and every other unwanted thing.

"But in order for this to happen, you must intend it; otherwise, you can flick your feet until the stream runs dry with no results."

She added that if I did the exercise in bed, I would have to use my imagination to visualize a running stream.

As I was drying my feet with the sleeves of my jacket, I asked, "What exactly do you mean by 'intend it'?"

After a vigorous rubbing, my feet were finally warming up.

Clara replied, "'Intent' is the power that upholds the universe. It is the force that gives focus to everything. It makes the world happen."

I could not believe that I was listening to her every word.

Some major change had definitely taken place; transforming my habitual bored indifference into a most unusual alertness.

It was not that I understood what Clara was saying, because I did not. What struck me was the fact that I could listen to her without fretting or becoming distracted.

I asked, "Can you describe this force more clearly?"

"There is really no way to talk about this, except metaphorically," Clara said.

She brushed the ground with the sole of her shoe, sweeping dry leaves aside. "Underneath the dry leaves is the ground; the enormous earth. Intent is the principle underneath everything."

Clara put her cupped hands in the water, and splashed her face.

I again marveled that her skin had no wrinkles. This time I commented on her youthful appearance.

Clara, shaking the water off her hands, replied, "The way I look is a matter of keeping my inner being in balance with the surroundings. Everything we do hinges on that balance.

"We can be young and vibrant like this stream, or old and ominous like the lava mountains in Arizona. That is up to us to decide."

As if I believed what she was saying, I surprised myself by asking her if there was a way I could gain that balance.

Clara nodded and said, "You most certainly can, and you will by practicing the unique exercise I am going to teach you; the recapitulation."

"I can not wait to practice it," I said excitedly, putting on my boots.

Then for no explicable reason, I became so agitated that I jumped up and said, "Should we not be on our way again?"

"We have already arrived," Clara announced, and pointed to a small cave on the side of a hill.

As I gazed at it, excitement drained out of me.

There was something ominous and foreboding about the gaping hole; but inviting, also. I had a definite urge to explore it, yet at the same time I was afraid of what I might find inside.

I suspected we were somewhere in the proximity of her house; a thought I found comforting.

Clara informed me that this was a place of power; a spot the ancient geomancers from China-- the practitioners of 'feng-shui'-- would have undoubtedly picked as a temple site.

She continued by saying, "Here, the elements of water, wood, and air are in perfect harmony. Here, energy circulates in abundance.

"You will see what I mean when you get inside the cave. You must use the energy of this unique spot to purify yourself."

"Are you saying that I have to stay here?"

"Did you not know that in the ancient Orient, monks and scholars used to retreat to caves?" she asked. "Being surrounded by the earth helped them to meditate."

Clara urged me to crawl inside the cave.

Daringly, I eased myself in, putting all thoughts of bats and spiders out of my mind.

It was dark and cool, and there was room for only one person.

Clara told me to sit cross-legged, and lean my back against the wall.

I hesitated, not wanting to dirty my jacket, but once I leaned back, I was relieved to be able to rest.

Even though the ceiling was close to my head and the ground pressed hard against my tailbone, the cave was not claustrophobic.

A mild, almost imperceptible current of air circulated in the cave.

I felt invigorated, just as Clara had said I would. I was about to take off my jacket and sit on it when Clara, squatting at the mouth of the cave, spoke.

She said, "The apex of the special art I want to teach you, is called the abstract flight; and the means to achieve the abstract flight we call the recapitulation."

Clara reached inside the cave and touched the right and left sides of my forehead. She said, "Awareness must shift from here to here.

"As children, we could easily do this, but once the seal of the body has been broken through wasteful excesses, only a special manipulation of awareness, right living, and celibacy can restore the energy that has drained out; energy needed to make the shift."

I definitely understood everything she said. I even felt that awareness was like a current of energy that could go from one side of the forehead to the other, and I visualized the gap in between the two points as a vast space; a void that impedes the crossing.

I listened intently as Clara continued talking.

She said, "The body must be tremendously strong so that awareness can be keen and fluid in order to jump from one side of the abyss to the other in the blink of an eye."

As she voiced her statements, something extraordinary happened.

I became absolutely certain that I would be staying with Clara in Mexico.

What I wanted to feel was that I would be returning to Arizona in a few days. But what I actually felt was that I would not be going back.

I also knew that my realization was not merely the acceptance of what Clara had had in mind from the start, but that I was powerless to resist her intentions because the force that was maneuvering me was not hers alone.

Clara, as if she knew I had made the tacit commitment of remaining with her, said, "From now on, you have to lead a life in which awareness has top priority.

"You must avoid anything that is weakening and harmful to your body or your mind.

"Also, it is essential, for the time being, to break all physical and emotional ties with the world."

"Why is that so important?"

"Because before anything else, you must acquire unity."

Clara explained that we are convinced that a dualism exists in us; that the mind is the insubstantial part of ourselves, and the body is the concrete part. This division keeps our energy in a state of chaotic separation, and prevents it from coalescing.

Clara admitted, "Being divided is our human condition. Yet our division is not between the mind and the body, but rather between the body, which houses the mind or the self, and between our double, which is the receptacle of our basic energy."

She said that before birth, this duality does not exist. But from birth on, the two integral parts are of ourselves are separated by the pull of mankind's imposed intent.

As a result, one part of us turns outward and becomes ourawarenes of our physical body. The other part of us turns inward and becomes our double.

At death the heavier part, the body, returns to the earth to be absorbed by it, and the light part, the double, becomes free.

But unfortunately, since the double was never perfected, it experiences freedom for only an instant, before it is scattered into the universe.

Clara explained, "If we die without erasing our false dualism of body and mind, we die an ordinary death."

"How else can we die?"

Clara peered at me with one eyebrow raised.

Rather than answer my question, she revealed in a confiding tone that we die because the possibility that we could be transformed has not entered our conception.

She stressed that this transformation must be accomplished during our lifetime, and that to succeed in this task is the only true purpose a human being can have.

All other attainments are transient since death dissolves them into nothingness.

I asked, "What does this transformation entail?"

"It entails a total change," she said. "And that is accomplished by the recapitulation; the cornerstone of the art of freedom.

"The art I am going to teach you is called the art of freedom; an art infinitely difficult to practice, but even more difficult to explain."

Clara said that every procedure she was going to teach me, and every task she might ask me to perform, no matter how ordinary it might seem to me, was a step toward fulfilling the ultimate goal of the art of freedom; the abstract flight.

"What I am going to show you first are simple movements that you must do daily," she continued. "Always regard them as an indispensable part of your life.

"First, I will show you a breath that has been a secret for generations. This breath mirrors the dual forces of creation and destruction; of light and darkness; of being and not-being."

She told me to move outside of the cave, then directed me, by gentle manipulation, to sit with my spine curved forward and to bring my knees to my chest as high as I could.

While keeping my feet on the ground, I was to wrap my arms around my calves and firmly clasp my hands in front of my knees, or if I wished I could clasp each elbow. She gently eased my head down until my chin touched my chest.

I had to strain the muscles of my arms to keep my knees from pushing out sideways. My chest was constricted and so was my abdomen. My neck made a cracking sound as I tucked my chin in.

"This is a powerful breath," she said. "It may knock you out or put you to sleep. If it does, return to the house when you wake up.

"By the way, this cave is just behind the house. Follow the path and you will be there in two minutes."

Clara instructed me to take short, shallow breaths.

I told her that her request was redundant since that was the only way I could breathe in that position.

She said that even if I only partially released the arm pressure I was creating with my hands, my breath would return to normal.

But this was not what she was after. She wanted me to continue the shallow breaths for at least ten minutes.

I stayed in that position for perhaps half an hour, all the while taking shallow breaths as she had instructed.

After the initial cramping in my stomach and legs subsided, the breaths seemed to soften my insides and dissolve them.

Then after an excruciatingly long time, Clara gave me a push that made me roll backward so I was lying on the ground, but she would not permit me to release the pressure of my arms.

I felt a moment of relief when my back touched the ground, but it was only when she instructed me to unclasp my hands and stretch out my legs that I felt complete release in my abdomen and chest.

The only way of describing what I felt is to say that something inside me had been unlocked by that manner of breathing, and whatever was unlocked had been dissolved or released.

As Clara had predicted, I became so drowsy that I crawled back inside the cave and fell asleep.

I must have slept for at least a couple of hours in the cave. Judging from the position I was lying in when I woke up, I had not moved a muscle.

I believed that that was probably because there was not any room in the cave for me to toss and turn in my sleep, but it could also have been because I was so totally relaxed, I did not need to move.

Following Clara's directions, I walked back to the house.

She was on the patio, sitting in a rattan armchair.

I had the impression that another woman had been sitting there with Clara, and when she heard me coming, she had quickly gotten up and left.

Clara said, "Ah, you look much more relaxed now. That breath and posture does wonders for us."

Clara then explained that if this breath is performed regularly, with calmness and deliberation, it gradually balances our internal energy.

Before I could tell her how invigorated I felt, she asked me to sit down because she wanted to show me one other bodily maneuver crucial for erasing our false dualism.

She asked me to sit with my back straight and my eyes slightly lowered so that I would be gazing at the tip of my nose.

"This breath should be done without the constraints of clothing," she began. "But rather than having you strip naked in the patio in broad daylight, we will make an exception.

"First, you inhale deeply, bringing in the air as if you were breathing through your vagina. Pull in your stomach and draw the air up along your spine, past the kidneys, to a point between the shoulder blades. Hold the air there for a moment, then raise it even further up to the back of the head, then over the top of your head to the point between your eyebrows."

She said that after holding it there for a moment, I was to exhale through the nose as I mentally guided the air down the front of my body, first to the point just below the navel, and then to my vagina, where the cycle had begun.

I began to practice the breathing exercise.

Clara brought her hand to the base of my spine, then traced a line up my back, over my head, and gently pressed the spot between my eyebrows.

"Try to bring the breath here," she said. "The reason you keep your eyes halfway open is so that you can concentrate on the bridge of your nose as you circulate the air up your back and over your head to this point; and also so you can use your gaze to guide the air down the front of your body, returning it to your sexual organs."

Clara said that circulating the breath in such a fashion creates an impenetrable shield that prevents outside disruptive influences from piercing the body's field of energy. It also keeps vital inner energy from dispersing outwardly.

She stressed that the inhalation and exhalation should be inaudible, and that the breathing exercise could be done while one is standing, sitting or lying down; although in the beginning it is easier to do it while sitting on a cushion or on a chair.

"Now," Clara said, pulling her chair closer to mine, "let us talk about what we began discussing this morning; the recapitulation."

A shiver went through me.

I told her that although I had no conception of what she was talking about, I knew it was going to be something monumental and I was not sure I was prepared to hear it.

She insisted that I was nervous because some part of me sensed that she was about to disclose perhaps the most important technique of self-renewal.

Patiently Clara explained that the recapitulation is the act of calling back the energy we have already spent in past actions.

To recapitulate entails recalling all the people we have met, all the places we have seen, and all the feelings we have had in our entire lives; starting from the present and going back to the earliest memories; then sweeping them clean, one by one, with the sweeping breath.

I listened, intrigued, although I could not help feeling that what she said was more than nonsensical to me.

Before I could make any comments at all, she firmly took my chin in her hands and instructed me to inhale through the nose as she turned my head to the left, and then exhale as she turned it to the right.

Next, I was to turn my head to the left and right in a single movement without breathing. She said that this is a mysterious way of breathing and the key to the recapitulation, because inhaling allows us to pull back energy that we lost; while exhaling permits us to expel foreign, undesirable energy that has accumulated in us through interacting with our fellow men.

"In order to live and interact, we need energy," Clara went on. "Normally, the energy spent in living is gone forever from us.

"Were it not for the recapitulation, we would never have the chance to renew ourselves. Recapitulating our lives and sweeping our past with the sweeping breath work as a unit."

Recalling everyone I had ever known and everything I had ever felt in my life seemed to me an absurd and impossible task.

I said, "That can take forever." I was hoping that a practical remark might block Clara's unreasonable line of thought.

Clara replied, "It certainly can. But I assure you, Talsha, you have everything to gain by doing it, and nothing to lose."

I took a few deep breaths, moving my head from left to right imitating the way she had shown me to breathe in order to placate her, and let her know I had been paying attention.

With a wry smile, she warned me that recapitulating is not an arbitrary or capricious exercise.

Clara explained, "When you recapitulate, try to feel some long stretchy fibers that extend out from your midsection.

"Then align the turning motion of your head with the movement of these elusive fibers. Those fibers are the conduits that will bring back the energy that you have left behind.

"In order to recuperate our strength and unity, we have to release our energy trapped in the world and pull it back to us."

She assured me that while recapitulating, we extend those stretchy fibers of energy across space and time to the persons, places and events we are examining.

The result is that we can return to every moment of our lives and act as if we were actually there.

This possibility sent shivers through me.

Although intellectually I was intrigued by what Clara was saying, I had no intention of returning to my disagreeable past, even if it was only in my mind.

If nothing else, I took pride in having escaped an unbearable life situation. I was not about to go back and mentally relive all the moments I had tried so hard to forget.

Yet Clara seemed to be so utterly serious and sincere in explaining the recapitulation technique to me, that for a moment, I put my objections aside, and concentrated on what she was saying.

I asked her if the order in which one recollects the past matters. She said that the important point is to re-experience the events and feelings in as much detail as possible, and to touch them with the sweeping breath, thereby releasing one's trapped energy.

I asked, "Is this exercise part of the Buddhist tradition?"

"No, it is not," Clara replied solemnly. "This is part of another tradition. Someday soon you will find out what that tradition is."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 05.


These are some of the facts of life a girl's mother never tells her.

Version 2009.09.09


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 5.

In the middle of our conversation on the patio, Clara suddenly had a vacant, far-away look as if she had caught sight of something or someone at the side of the house.

She hurriedly got up and excused herself, leaving me to ponder the importance of all the things she had said.

I did not see Clara again until the following morning at breakfast.

As we sat to eat our morning meal of shredded meat and rice, I told Clara that on my return trip from the cave yesterday, I had confirmed her statement that it was only a short distance from the house.

"Why did we really meander so much to get there, Clara?" I asked.

Clara burst out laughing, and she replied. "I was trying to get you to take off your boots, so we passed by the stream."

"Why did I have to take off my boots? Was it because of my blister?"

"It was not your blister," Clara said emphatically. "I needed to poke very crucial points on the soles of your feet to awaken you from your lifelong lethargy. Otherwise, you would have never listened to me."

"Are you not exaggerating, Clara? I would have listened to you even if you did not poke my feet."

Clara shook her head and gave me a knowing smile. She said, "All of us were brought up to live in a sort of limbo where nothing counts except petty, immediate gratifications; and women are the masters of that state.

"Not until we recapitulate can we overcome our upbringing. And talking of recapitulating, ..."

Clara noticed my pained expression and laughed.

I was anticipating what I thought Clara was going to tell me as I interrupted her, saying, "Do I have to go back to the cave, Clara? I would much rather stay here with you. If you pose for me, I can make a few sketches of you, and then paint your portrait."

Clara was not intereseted in my suggestion, and she said, "No, thank you. What I am going to do is give you some preliminary instructions on how to proceed with the recapitulation."

When we had finished eating, Clara handed me a writing pad and pencil.

I thought she had changed her mind about my sketching her portrait, but as she pushed the writing materials toward me, she said that I should begin making a list of all the people I had met; starting from the present and going back to my earliest memories.

I gasped and said, "That is impossible! How on earth am I going to remember everyone I have ever come into contact with from day one?"

Clara moved the plates aside to give me room to write.

She said, "Difficult, true, but not impossible. It is a necessary part of the recapitulation. The list forms a matrix for the mind to hook on to."

Clara said that the initial stage of the recapitulation consists of two things.

The first is the list, and the second is setting up the scene.

Setting up the scene consists of visualizing all the details pertinent to the events that one is going to recall.

Clara said, "Once you have all the elements in place, use the sweeping breath. The movement of your head is like a fan that stirs everything in that scene.

"If you are remembering a room, for example, breathe in the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, and the people you see.

"And do not stop until you have absorbed every last bit of energy you left behind."

"How will I know when I have done that?" I asked.

Clara assured me, "Your body will tell you when you have had enough.

"Remember, intend to inhale the energy that you left in the scene you're recapitulating, and intend to exhale the extraneous energy thrust into you by others."

Overwhelmed by the task of making the list and beginning to recapitulate, I could not think at all. A perverse and involuntary reaction of my mind was to go absolutely blank.

Then a deluge of thoughts flooded in, making it impossible for me to know where to start.

Clara explained that we must start the recapitulation by first focusing our attention on our past sexual activity.

I asked suspiciously, "Why do you have to begin there?"

"That is where the bulk of our energy is caught," Clara explained. "That is why we must free those memories first!"

"I do not think my sexual encounters were all that important."

"It does not matter. You could have been staring up at the ceiling bored to death, or seeing shooting stars or fireworks. Regardless, someone left his energy inside you and walked off with a ton of yours."

I was totally put off by her statement. To go back to my sexual experiences now seemed repugnant.

I said, "It is bad enough to relive my childhood memories, but I will not hash up what happened with men."

Clara looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

I argued, saying, "Besides, you will probably expect me to confide in you. But really, Clara, I do not think what I did with men is anyone's business."

I thought I had made my point.

Clara resolutely shook her head and said, "Do you want those men you had to continue feeding from your energy? Do you want those men to get stronger as you get stronger? Do you want to be their source of energy for the rest of your life?

"No. I do not think you understand the importance of the sexual act or the scope of the recapitulation."

"You are right, Clara. I do not understand the reason for your bizarre request.

"And what is this business of men getting stronger because I am their source of energy? I am nobody's source or provider. I promise you that."

Clara smiled and said that she had made a mistake in forcing a confrontation of ideologies at this time.

"Bear with me," Clara begged. "This is a belief I have chosen to uphold. As you progress with your recapitulation, I will tell you about the origin of this belief.

"Suffice it to say that it is a critical part of the art I am teaching you."

I said, "If it is as important as you claim, Clara, perhaps you had better tell me about it now. Before we go any further with the recapitulation, I would like to know what I am getting into."

"All right, if you insist," she said, nodding.

She poured some camomile tea into our mugs and added a spoonful of honey to hers.

In the authoritative voice of a teacher enlightening a neophyte, Clara explained that women, more so than men, are the true supporters of the social order. And that to fulfill this role, women have been reared uniformly the world over to be at the service of men.

Clara stressed, "It makes no difference whether women are bought right off the slave block, or they are courted and loved. Their fundamental purpose and fate is still the same; to nourish, shelter and serve men."

Clara looked at me, I believed, to assess if I was following her argument.

I thought I was, but my gut reaction was that her entire premise seemed wrong.

I said, "That may be true in some cases, but I do not think you can make such sweeping generalizations to include all women."

Clara disagreed vehemently, saying, "The diabolical part of women's servile position is that it does not appear to be merely a social prescription, but a fundamental biological imperative."

I protested, saying, "Wait a minute, Clara. How did you arrive at that?"

Clara explained that every species has a biological imperative to perpetuate itself; and that nature has provided tools in order to ensure that the merging of female and male energies takes place in the most efficient way.

She said that in the human realm, although the primary function of sexual intercourse is procreation, sex also has a secondary and covert function; which is to ensure a continual flow of energy from women to men.

Clara put such a stress on the word 'men' that I had to ask, "Why do you say it as if it were a one-way street? Is the sexual act not an even exchange of energy between male and female?"

"No," Clara said emphatically. "Men leave specific energy lines inside the body of women. They are like luminous tapeworms that move inside the womb, sipping up energy."

"That sounds positively sinister," I said, humoring her.

Ignoring my nervous laughter, Clara continued her exposition in utter seriousness, saying, "The energy lines are put there for an even more sinister reason, which is to ensure that a steady supply of energy reaches the man who deposited them.

"Those lines of energy established through sexual intercourse, collect and steal energy from the female body to benefit the male who left them there."

Clara was so adamant in what she was saying that I could not joke about it and I had to take her seriously.

As I listened, I felt my nervous smile turn into a snarl.

I said, "Not that I accept for a minute what you are saying, Clara, but just out of curiosity, how in the world did you arrive at such a preposterous notion? Did someone tell you about this?"

"Yes, my teacher told me about it. "At first, I did not believe him either," she admitted. "But he also taught me the art of freedom, and that means that I learned to 'see' the flow of energy.

"Now I know he was accurate in his assessments, because I can see the worm-like filaments in women's bodies for myself. You, for example, have a number of them, all of them still active."

I said uneasily, "Let us say that is true, Clara. Just for the sake of argument, let me ask you why should this be possible? Is this one-way energy flow not unfair to women?"

"The whole world is unfair to women!" she exclaimed. "But that is not the point."

"What is the point, Clara? I know I am missing it."

"Nature's imperative is to perpetuate our species," she explained. "In order to ensure that this continues to take place, women have to carry an excessive burden at their basic energy level, and that means a flow of energy that taxes women."

"But you still have not explained why this should be so," I said, as I was already becoming swayed by the force of her convictions.

Clara replied, "Women are the foundation for perpetuating the human species. The bulk of the energy comes from women, not only to gestate, give birth, and nourish their offspring, but also for ensuring that the male plays his part in this whole process."

Clara explained that ideally this process ensures that a woman feeds her man energetically through the filaments he left inside her body, so that the man becomes mysteriously dependent on her at an ethereal level.

This is expressed in the overt behavior of the man returning to the same woman again and again to maintain his source of sustenance.

That way, Clara said, nature ensures that men, in addition to their immediate drive for sexual gratification, set up more permanent bonds with women.

Clara elaborated, saying, "These energy fibers left in women's wombs also become merged with the energy makeup of the offspring, when conception take place.

"These are the rudiments of our family ties, because the energy from the father merges with that of the fetus, and enables the man to sense that the child is his own.

"These are some of the facts of life a girl's mother never tells her.

"Women are reared to be easily seduced by men, without the slightest idea of the consequences of sexual intercourse in terms of the energy drainage it produces in them.

"This is my point and this is what is not fair."

As I listened to Clara talk, I had to agree that some of what she said made sense to me at a deep bodily level.

She urged me not just to agree or disagree with her, but to think this through and evaluate what she had said in a courageous, unprejudiced, and intelligent manner.

Clara went on, "It is bad enough that one man leaves energy lines inside a woman's body, although that is necessary for having offspring and ensuring their survival.

"But to have the energy lines of ten or twenty men inside her, feeding off her luminosity, is more than anyone can bear. No wonder women can never lift up their heads."

I was becoming more and more convinced that there was some truth to what Clara was saying, and I asked, "Can a woman get rid of those lines?"

Clara said, "A woman carries those luminous worms for seven years, after which time they disappear or fade out.

"But the wretched part is that when the seven years are about to be up, the whole army of worms, from the very first man a woman had to the very last one, all become agitated at once so that the woman is driven to have sexual intercourse again.

Then all the worms spring to life stronger than ever to feed off the woman's luminous energy for another seven years. It really is a never-ending cycle."

"What if the woman is celibate?" I asked. "Do the worms just die out?"

"Yes, if she can resist having sex for seven years. But it is nearly impossible for a woman to remain celibate like that in our day and age, unless she becomes a nun, or has money to support herself.

"And even then, she would still need a totally different rationale."

"Why is that, Clara?"

"Because not only is it a biological imperative that women have sexual intercourse, but it is also a social mandate."

Clara gave me then a most confusing and distressing example.

She said that since we are unable to see the flow of energy, we may be needlessly perpetuating patterns of behavior or emotional interpretations associated with this unseen flow of energy.

For instance, for society to demand that women marry, or at least offer themselves to men, is wrong; just as it is wrong for women to feel unfulfilled unless they have a man's semen inside them.

It is true that a man's energy lines give women purpose by making women fulfill their biological destinies of feeding men and their offspring.

But human beings are intelligent enough to demand of themselves more than merely the fulfillment of the reproduction imperative.

She said that, for example, to evolve is an equal if not a greater imperative than to reproduce; and that, in this case, evolving entails the awakening of women to their true role in the energetic scheme of reproduction.

She then turned her argument to the personal level and said that I had been reared, like every other woman, by a mother who regarded her primary function as raising me to find a suitable husband so I would not have the stigma of being a spinster.

I really had been bred like an animal, to have sex, no matter what my mother chose to call it.

Clara said, "You, like every other woman, have been tricked and forced into submission. And the sad part is that you are trapped in this pattern, even if you do not intend to procreate."

Her statements were so distressing that I laughed out of sheer nervousness.

Clara was not fazed at all.

I said, "Perhaps all this is true, Clara. But in my case, how can remembering the past change anything? Is the past not all 'water under the bridge'?"

Clara's green eyes assessed me curiously, and she countered, "I can only tell you that to 'wake up', you must break a vicious circle."

I reiterated that I did not believe in her theories about diabolicbiological imperatives, or vampirelike males leeching off women's energy, and I argued that just sitting in a cave remembering was not going to change anything.

I snapped. I banged my fist on the kitchen table, and said, "There are certain things I just do not want to think about ever again."

I stood up ready to leave and told her that I did not want to hear any more about the recapitulation, the list of names, or any biological imperatives.

Clara, with the air of a merchant getting ready to cheat a customer, said, "Let us make a deal. You are a fair person. You like to be honorable. So, I propose that we reach an agreement."

I asked, with mounting anxiety, "What kind of an agreement?"

Clara tore off a sheet from my writing pad and handed it to me. "I want you to write and sign a promissory voucher stating that you are going to try the recapitulation exercise for one month only.

If, after a month, you do not notice any increase in energy; or any improvement in how you feel toward yourself or toward life in general, you will be free to go back home; wherever home is.

"If this turns out to be the case, you can simply write off the entire experience as the bizarre request of an eccentric woman."

I sat down again to calm myself. As I took a few sips of tea, the thought struck me that it was the least I could do after all the trouble Clara had gone to for me.

Besides, it was apparent that she was not going to let me off the hook that easily.

I could always simply go through the motions of recapitulating my memories. After all, who was to know if in the cave I did the visualization and breathing, or if I just daydreamed or took a nap?

Clara said sincerely, "It is only one month. You will not be signing your life away. Believe me, I am really trying to help you."

"I know that," I said. "But why would you bother doing all this for me? Why me, Clara?"

"There is a reason," she replied, "but it is so farfetched that I can not spring it on you now.

"The only thing I can tell you is that by helping you, I am fulfilling a worthy purpose. I am paying off a debt.

"Would you accept my repaying a debt as a reason?"

Clara looked at me so hopefully that I picked up the pencil and wrote the voucher, deliberately fussing over the wording so that there would be no confusion about the one-month time frame.

She bargained with me for not including in that month the time it took me to draw up the list of names. I agreed and made an addendum to that effect.

Then, in spite of my better judgement, I signed it.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 06.


Seers who have gazed at the boundless have attested that the boundless stares back with a cold, unyielding indifference.

Version 2009.09.09


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 6.

It took weeks of brain-racking work to compile my recapitulation list. I hated myself for having let Clara talk me into not including that time in the voucher.

During those long days, I worked in absolute solitude and silence.

I only saw Clara at breakfast and at dinner, which we ate in the kitchen; but we hardly spoke.

She would rebuff all my attempts at cordial conversation, saying that we would talk again when I had finished my list.

When I had completed it, Clara put down her sewing and immediately accompanied me to the cave.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and according to Clara, early morning and late afternoon were the most propitious times to begin such a vast undertaking.

At the entrance of the cave, Clara gave me some instructions by saying, "Take the first person on your list, and work your memory to recall everything you experienced with that person from the moment you two met to the last time you interacted. Or, if you prefer, you can work backward, from the last time you had dealings with that person to your first encounter."

Armed with the list, I went to the cave every day.

At first, recapitulating was painstaking work. I could not concentrate because I dreaded dredging up the past.

My mind would wander from what I considered to be one traumatic event to the next; or, I would simply rest or daydream.

But after a while, I became intrigued with the clarity and detail that my recollections were acquiring. I even began to be more objective about experiences I had always considered to be taboo.

Surprisingly, I also felt stronger and more optimistic.

Sometimes, as I breathed, it was as if energy were oozing back into my body, causing my muscles to become warm and to bulge.

I became so involved in my recapitulation task that I did not need a whole month to prove its worth.

While Clara and I were eating dinner about two weeks after I had started the recapitulation, I asked her to find someone to move me out of my apartment, and to put my things in storage.

Clara had suggested this option to me several times before, but each time I refused her offer. I had not been ready to make the commitment.

So now Clara was delighted with my request.

She volunteered, saying, "I will have one of my cousins do it. She will take care of everything.

"I do not want any worries to keep you from concentrating."

"Now that you mention it, Clara," I said, "there is one other thing that has been bothering me."

Clara waited for me to speak.

I told her that I found it very odd that our meals were always ready, although I had never seen her cooking or preparing food.

Clara matter-of-factly said, "That is because you are never in the house during the day, and at night, you retire early."

It was true that I spent most of my time in the cave.

When I did go back to the house, it was to have a meal in the kitchen.

Afterward, I stayed in my room because the size of the house intimidated me.

The house was enormous. It did not look abandoned, though, for it was filled to capacity with furniture, books and various decorative objects made of ceramic, silver or cloisonne.

Every room was clean and dust free, as if a maid came regularly to tidy up.

Yet, the house seemed empty, because there were no people in it.

Twice Clara had disappeared on mysterious errands that she refused to discuss, and during those times the only other living being in the house, beside myself, was Manfred.

Those were also the times when Manfred and I hiked into the hills overlooking the house. I mapped the house and its grounds from an observation point I believed I had found myself.

I did not want to admit that Manfred had guided me to that place.

From my private promontory, I spent hours trying to figure out the orientation of the house.

Clara had indicated that it followed the cardinal points, but when I checked it with a compass, the house seemed to be on a slightly different alignment.

The grounds around the house were most disturbing because they defied any accurate mapping I tried to devise.

I could see from my observation post that the grounds seemed much more extensive than when measured from the house itself.

Clara had forbidden me to set foot in the front part of the house-- the east-- as well as the south side. But I had calculated, by walking around the periphery of the house, that the two areas were identical to the west and north sides to which I had access.

However, when seen from a distance, the two areas of the house were not identical at all; and I was at a loss to explain the discrepancy.

I gave up trying to pin down the layout of the house and grounds, and I began placing my attention on another mysterious problem; Clara's relatives.

Although she constantly referred to them in an oblique manner, I had not yet seen hide nor hair of them.

I asked Clara point-blank, "When are your relatives coming back from India?"

"Soon," she replied.

Clara picked up her rice bowl with one hand and held it the way the Chinese do. I had never seen her use chop-sticks before, and I marveled at the incredible precision with which she manipulated them.

Clara asked, "Why are you so concerned with my relatives?"

"To tell you the truth, Clara, I do not know why, but I am very curious about them," I said. "I have been having unsettling feelings and thoughts in this huge house."

"Do you mean that you don't like the house?"

"On the contrary, I love it. It's just so big and haunting."

"What kind of thoughts and feelings unsettle you?" Clara asked as she put down her bowl.

"Sometimes I think I see people in the hallway; or I hear voices. And I am always under the impression that someone is watching me, but when I look around there is noone there."

"There is more to this house than meets the eye," Clara admitted, "but that should not engender fear or worry.

"There is magic in this house, in the land, and in the mountains around this entire area. That is the reason we chose to live here.

"In fact, that is also the reason you decided to live here yourself, even though you do not have the slightest inkling of that being the reason for your choice.

"But this is the way it should be. You bring your innocence to this house, and the house, with all the intent it stores, turns your innocence into wisdom."

"It all sounds very beautiful, Clara, but what exactly does it mean?"

Clara, with a note of disappointment, said, "I always talk to you with the hope that you will understand me.

"Every one of my relatives-- who, I assure you, you will come into contact with sooner or later-- will speak to you in the same way. So do not think that we are talking nonsense just because you do not understand us."

"Believe me, Clara, I do not think that at all, and I am grateful that you are trying to help me."

Clara corrected me, saying, "It is the recapitulation that is helping you, not me.

"Have you noticed any other strange things about the house; other than what you have already told me?"

I told her about the disparity between my visual assessments of the house from the observation post and from the grounds. She laughed until she was coughing.

When Clara was able to talk again, she said, "I have to adjust my behavior to this new development."

"Can you explain to me why the grounds seem to be lopsided, and why I get such different compass readings when I am down here versus up on the hill?" I asked.

"I certainly can. But it will not make any sense to you. What is more, you may even get frightened."

"Does it have to do with the compass, Clara? Or is it me? Am I crazy or what?"

"It has to do with you, of course. You are the one making those measurements. But it is not that you are crazy. It is something else."

"What is it, Clara? Tell me. This whole thing is giving me the creeps. It is as if I were in a science fiction movie where nothing is real, and anything can happen. I hate that genre!"

Clara did not seem willing to divulge anything more. Instead she asked, "Do you not like the unexpected?"

I told her, that having male siblings had been so devastating for me, that I became jaded; and as a matter of principle, I hated everything they liked.

They watched 'Twilight Zone' on television, and raved about it. To me, it was a most manipulative and contrived show.

Clara conceded, "Let us see how I can put this,":

"First of all, this is definitely not a science fiction house.

"It is rather a house of extraordinary intent. The reason why I can not explain its discrepancies is because I can not explain to you yet what intent is."

"Please do not talk in riddles, Clara," I begged. "It is not only frightening, but plainly infuriating."

Clara elaborated, saying, "In order for you to understand this delicate matter, I have to talk in a roundabout way.

"So let me first tell you about the man who was directly responsible for my being here in this house, and indirectly responsible for my relation with you.

"His name was Julian, and he was the most exquisite being you could ever encounter.

"He found me one day when I had lost my way in those mountains in Arizona, and he brought me here to this house."

"Wait a minute, Clara, I thought you said that this house has been in your family for generations," I reminded her.

"Five generations, to be exact," she replied.

"How can you make two contradictory statements with such nonchalance?"

"I am not contradicting myself. It is you who are interpreting things without a proper foundation.

"The truth is that this house has been in my family for generations; but my family is an abstract family.

"My family is a 'family' in the same manner that this house is a 'house,' and Manfred is a 'dog.'

"But you already know that Manfred is not a real dog; nor is this house real like any other house. Do you see what I mean?"

I was not in the mood for Clara's riddles. For a while, I sat quietly, hoping that she would change the subject. Then I felt guilty for brooding and being short-tempered.

I finally said, "No, I do not see what you mean."

Clara patiently said, "In order for you to understand all this, you have to change."

"But then, that is precisely why you are here; to change.

"And to change means that you will be able to succeed in making the abstract flight; at which time everything will be clear to you."

At my desperate urging, Clara explained that this unimaginable flight was symbolized by moving from the right side of the forehead to the left.

But what it really meant was bringing the ethereal part of us, the double, into our daily awareness.

Clara went on, saying, "As I have already explained to you, the body-mind dualism is a false dichotomy.

"The real division is between the physical body, which houses the mind, and the ethereal body or the double, which houses our energy.

"The abstract flight takes place when we bring our double to bear on our daily lives.

"In other words, the moment our physical body becomes totally conscious of its energetic ethereal counterpart, we have crossed over into the abstract; a completely different realm of awareness."

I said, "If it means I will have to change first, I seriously doubt I will ever be able to make that crossing. Everything seems so deeply ingrained in me that I feel I am set for life."

Clara poured some water into my cup. She put down the ceramic pitcher and looked at me squarely.

Clara said, "There is a way to change, and by now you are up to your ears in it. It is called the recapitulation."

She assured me that a deep and complete recapitulation enables us to be aware of what we want to change by allowing us to see our lives without delusion.

Having recapitulated will give us a moment's pause in which we can choose to accept our usual behavior, or to change it by intending it away before it fully entraps us.

I asked, "And how do you intend something away? Do you just say, 'Begone, Satan!'?"

Clara laughed, and took a sip of water. She said, "To change, we need to meet three conditions."

"First, we must announce out loud our decision to change so that intent will hear us.

"Second, we must engage our awareness over a period of time. We can not just start something, and then give it up as soon as we become discouraged.

"Third, we have to view the outcome of our actions with a sense of complete detachment. This means we can not get involved with the idea of succeeding or failing.

"Follow these three steps and you can change any unwanted feelings and desires in you," Clara assured me.

I skeptically said, "I do not know, Clara. It sounds so simple the way you put it."

It was not that I did not want to believe her. It was just that I had always been practical, and from a practical point of view, the task of changing my behavior was staggering in spite of her simple three-fold program.

We finished our meal in complete silence.

The only sound in the kitchen was the constant dripping of water as it passed through a limestone filter.

The water filter gave me a concrete image of the gradual cleansing process of recapitulating.

Suddenly, I had a surge of optimism.

Perhaps it was possible to change oneself; to become purified drop by drop, thought by thought, just like the water passing through the filter.

Above us, the bright track lights cast eerie shadows on the white tablecloth.

Clara put down her chopsticks and began curling her fingers as if she were making shadow pictures on the tablecloth. At any moment I expected her to do a rabbit or a turtle.

"What are you doing?" I asked, breaking the silence.

Clara explained, "This is a form of communication, but not with people, though, but rather with the force we call intent."

She extended her little and index fingers, then made a circle by touching her thumb to the tips of the two remaining middle fingers.

Clara told me that this was a signal to trap the attention of that force and to allow intent to enter the body through the energy lines that end or originate in the fingertips.

Clara showed me the gesture again, and explained, "Energy comes through the index and little finger if they are extended like antennae. Then the energy is trapped and held in the circle made by the other three fingers."

She said that with this specific hand position, we can draw sufficient energy into the body to heal or strengthen it; or to change our moods and habits.

Then Clara said, "Let us go to the living room, where we can be more comfortable. I do not know about you, but this bench is beginning to hurt my bottom."

Clara stood up, and we walked across the dark patio, through the back door and hall of the main house, and into the living room.

To my surprise, the gasoline lamp had already been lit and Manfred was asleep curled up next to an armchair.

Clara made herself comfortable in that chair; which I had always taken to be her favorite.

She picked up a piece of embroidery that she had been working on and carefully added a few more stitches by passing the needle through the cloth and pulling it out with a graceful sweeping motion of her hand.

Her eyes were steadfast; intent on her work.

To me it was so unusual to see this strong woman doing needle work that I glanced over curiously to see if I could catch a glimpse of her handicraft.

Clara noticed my interest and held up the cloth for me to see.

It was a pillowcase with embroidered butterflies perched on colorful flowers. It was too gaudy for my taste.

Clara smiled as if she sensed my critical opinion of her work.

While taking another stitch, Clara said, "You might tell me that my work is sheer beauty or that I am wasting my time. But that would not affect my inner serenity.

"This attitude is called 'knowing your worth.'"

Clara then asked a rhetorical question that she immediately answered herself, saying, "And what do you think my worth is? Absolutely zero."

I told her that in my opinion she was magnificent; truly a most inspiring person. How could she say that she had no worth?

Clara explained, "It is all very simple. As long as the positive and negative forces are in balance, they cancel each other out; and that means that my worth is zero.

"It also means that I cannot possibly be upset when someone criticizes me, nor can I be pleased when someone praises me."

Clara held up a needle and, in spite of the dim light, she quickly threaded it.

As Clara pulled the two ends of the thread together, she said, "Chinese sages of ancient times used to say that in order to know your worth, you have to slip through the eye of the dragon."

She said that those sages were convinced that the boundless unknown is guarded by an enormous dragon whose scales shine with a dazzling light.

They believed that the courageous seekers who dare to approach the dragon are awed by its blinding glare; by the power of its tail that with the minutest flicker crushes anything in its way; and by the dragon's burning breath that turns everything within its reach to ashes.

But they also believed that there is a way to slip by that unapproachable dragon.

Clara said that the Chinese sages were confident that by merging with the dragon's intent, one can become invisible and go through the dragon's eye.

"What does that mean, Clara?" I asked.

"It means that through the recapitulation we can become empty of thought and desire, which for those ancient seers meant to become one with the dragon's intent, and therefore invisible."

I picked up an embroidered cushion-- another sample of Clara's work-- and tucked it behind my back.

I took several deep breaths to clear my mind.

I wanted to understand what Clara was saying, but her insistence on using Chinese metaphors made it all the more confusing to me.

Yet there was such an urgency in everything she said, that I felt it would be my loss if I did not at least try to understand her.

Watching Clara embroidering, I was suddenly reminded of my mother.

Perhaps it was that memory that induced in me a monumental sadness; a longing that had no name.

Or perhaps it was listening to what Clara had said; or just my being in her empty, haunting, beautiful house, and under that eerie light of the gasoline lamp.

Tears flooded my eyes, and I began to weep.

Clara jumped up from her chair, and stood beside me.

She whispered in my ear so loudly that it sounded like a shout, "Do not dare to give in to self-pity in this house. If you do, this house will reject you.

It will spit you out, just like you spit out an olive pit."

Clara's admonition had the proper effect on me. My sadness instantly vanished.

I dried my eyes and Clara continued talking as if nothing had happened.

Taking her seat again, Clara said, "The art of emptiness was the technique practiced by Chinese men of wisdom who wanted to go through the dragon's eye.

"Today, we call it 'the art of freedom'. We feel it is a better term because that art really leads to an abstract realm where humanness does not count."

"Do you mean, Clara, that it is an inhuman realm?"

Clara put her embroidery down in her lap, and looked at me.

Then she said, "What I mean is that almost everything we have heard, from sages and seers who sought the realm of the dragon's eye, smacks of human concerns.

"But we who practice the art of freedom have found out from firsthand experience that this is an inaccurate portrayal.

"In our experience, whatever is human in that realm is so unimportant that it is lost in the vastness."

I interupted, saying, "Wait a minute, Clara. What about that group of legendary personages called the Chinese immortals? Did they not achieve freedom in the way you mean it?"

"Not in the way we mean it," Clara said. "Freedom to us is being free from humanness.

"The Chinese immortals were caught in their myths of immortality-- of being wise, of having liberated themselves, and of coming back to earth to guide others along the way.

"They were scholars, musicians; possessors of supernatural powers. But they were righteous and whimsical-- very much like the classical Greek gods.

"Even nirvana is a human state, in which bliss is being free from the flesh."

Clara had succeeded in making me feel completely forlorn.

I told her that all my life I had been accused of lacking human warmth and understanding. In fact, I had been told that I was the coldest creature anyone could ever come across.

I had always felt I was missing something crucial by not possessing human compassion, and now Clara was saying that freedom was being free from it.

I was on the verge of tears of self-pity again, but Clara again came to my rescue.

She said, "Being free from humanness does not mean such an idiotic thing as not possessing warmth or compassion."

I insisted, "Even so, freedom the way you describe it is inconceivable to me, Clara. I am not sure I would want any part of it."

She retorted, "And I am sure I want every part of it.

"Although my mind can not conceive it either, believe me, it does exist!

"And believe me, too, that someday you will be saying to someone else whatever I am saying to you now about it. Perhaps you will even use the same words."

Clara winked at me as if she knew for certain that this was going to happen.

Clara went on, saying, "As you continue to recapitulate, the entrance of the realm where humanness does not count will appear to you.

"That will be the invitation for you to go through the dragon's eye.

"This is what we call the abstract flight.

"This flight actually entails crossing a vast chasm into a realm that can not be described by us because man is not the measure of it."

I became numb with dread. I did not dare take Clara lightly, for she always meant what she said.

The thought of losing my humanness, such as it was, and jumping into a chasm was more than frightening.

I was about to ask Clara if she knew when that entrance was going to appear to me, but she continued her explanation.

She said, "The truth of the matter is that the entrance is in front of us all the time but only those whose minds are still and whose hearts are at ease can see or feel its presence."

Clara explained that to call it an entrance was not strictly metaphorical because it actually appears sometimes as a plain door, a black cavern, a dazzling light, or anything else conceivable; even a dragon's eye.

She said that, in this respect, the metaphors of China's early sages were not farfetched at all.

Clara said, "Another thing the ancient Chinese seekers believed was that invisibility is the corollary of having attained a calm indifference."

"What is a calm indifference, Clara?"

Instead of answering me directly, Clara asked me if I had ever seen the eyes of fighting cocks.

I told her, "I have never seen a fighting cock in my life."

Clara explained that the look in the eyes of a fighting cock is not the look found in the eyes of ordinary people or animals whose eyes mirror warmth, compassion, rage, or fear.

Clara informed me, "The eyes of a fighting cock are filled with none of these."

"Instead, their eyes reflect an indescribable indifference; something also found in the eyes of beings who have made the great crossing.

"Instead of looking outwardly at the world, they have turned inwardly to gaze at that which is not yet present.

"The eye that gazes inwardly is immovable," Clara went on. "It reflects neither human concerns or fears, but the vastness.

"Seers who have gazed at the boundless have attested that the boundless stares back with a cold, unyielding indifference."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 07.


Clara concluded that my being terrified was a product of the conflict between what I really saw, and what I had already been told was possible and permissible to see.

Version 2009.09.09


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 7.

One afternoon just before dark, Clara and I were taking the long scenic route to the house from the cave when she suggested that we sit and rest in the shade of some trees.

We were watching the shadows that the trees cast on the ground, when suddenly a gust of wind made the leaves quiver.

The leaves began to shimmer in a flurry of light and dark, causing ripples in the patterns on the ground.

When the wind passed, the leaves once again became still, and so did the shadows.

Clara softly said, "The mind is like these shadows. When our breathing is even, our minds are still. If our breathing is erratic, the mind quivers like stirred leaves."

I tried to notice if my breathing was even or disturbed, but I honestly could not tell.

Clara continued, "If your breath is agitated, your mind becomes restless.

"To quiet your mind, it is best to begin by quieting your breathing."

She told me to keep my back erect, and to concentrate on my breathing until it was soft and rhythmic; like that of an infant.

I pointed out that if a person is physically active, as we had just been hiking over hills, one's breathing could not possibly be as soft as an infant's; who just lies around and does nothing.

"Besides," I said, "I do not know how infants breathe. I have not been around many of them; and when I was, I did not pay attention to their breathing."

Clara moved closer and put one hand on my back and the other on my chest.

To my dismay, she pressed until I was so constricted that I felt I was going to suffocate. I tried to move away but she held me down with an iron grip.

To compensate, my stomach began moving in and out rhythmically as air again entered my body.

Then Clara said, "This is how infants breathe. Remember the sensation of your stomach popping out so you can reproduce it regardless of whether you are walking, exercising, or lying around doing nothing.

"You probably will not believe this, but we are so civilized that we have to relearn how to breathe properly."

Clara removed her hands from my chest and back, and she said, "Now let the breath rise to fill your chest cavity," she instructed, "but do not let it flood your head."

I laughed nd said, "There is no way for the air to get into my head."

Clara scolded me, saying, "Do not take me so literally. When I say air, I am really talking about energy derived from the breath, which enters the abdomen, the chest, and then the head."

I had to laugh at her seriousness, and then I braced myself for another barrage of Chinese metaphors.

Clara smiled, and winked. She said, with a chuckle, "My seriousness is a corollary of my size. We big people are always more serious than petite, jovial ones. Is that not right, Taisha?"

I did not know why she was including me when she talked of big people. I was at least two inches shorter than her, and about thirty-five pounds lighter.

I thoroughly resented being called big, and resented even more her intimation that I was overly serious.

But I did not voice my resentment because I knew she would make an issue out of it; and she would likely tell me to do a deep recapitulation on the subject of my size.

Clara looked at me as if to gauge my reaction to her statement.

I smiled and pretended it had not fazed me in the least.

Upon seeing my attentiveness, she became serious again, and she continued to explain that our emotional well-being is directly linked to the rhythmic flow of our breathing.

She leaned closer, and said, "The breathing of a person who is upset is rapid and shallow, and is localized in the chest or head.

"The breathing of a relaxed person sinks to the abdomen."

I tried to lower my breathing to my stomach so that Clara would not suspect that I had been upset.

She smiled knowingly, and added, "It is harder for big people to breath from the abdomen because their center of gravity is just a bit higher.

"Therefore, it is even more important that we remain calm and unperturbed."

Clara went on to explain that the body is divided into three main chambers of energy; our abdomen, our chest, and our head. She touched my stomach just below my navel, then my solar plexus, and then the center of my forehead.

She explained that these three points are the key centers of the three chambers. The more relaxed the mind and body are, the more air a person can take into each of the three body divisions.

Clara said, "Infants take in a vast amount of air for their size. However, as we grow older, we become constricted, especially around the lungs, and we take in less air."

Clara took a deep breath before continuing.

She said, "Since emotions are directly linked to the breath, a good way to calm ourselves is by regulating our breathing.

"For example, we can train ourselves to absorb more energy by deliberately elongating each breath we take."

She stood up and asked me to observe her shadow carefully.

I noticed that it was perfectly still.

Then Clara told me to stand, and look at my own shadow.

I could not help detecting a slight quiver, like the shadow of the trees when the leaves were touched by a breeze.

I asked her, "Why is my shadow shaking? I thought I was standing perfectly still."

Clara replied, "Your shadow quivers because the winds of emotion are blowing through you. You are more quiet than when you first began to recapitulate, but there is still a great deal of agitation left inside you."

She told me to stand on my left leg with my right leg raised and bent at the knee.

I wobbled as I tried to keep my balance.

I marveled that she stood on one leg as easily as she had stood on two; and her shadow was absolutely motionless.

Clara set down her leg and raising the other one noted, "You seem to have a hard time keeping your balance.

"That means that your thoughts and feelings are not at ease; and neither is your breathing."

I raised my other leg to try the exercise again.

This time my balance was better.

But when I saw how still Clara's shadow was, I experienced a sudden pang of envy, and I had to lower my leg to keep from falling.

Setting down her leg again, Clara explained, "Whenever we have a thought, our energy moves in the direction of that thought.

"Thoughts are like scouts. They cause the body to move along a certain path.

Clara ordered, "Now, look at my shadow again, but try not to regard it as merely my shadow. Try to see into the essence of Clara as shown in her shadow-picture."

Immediately I tensed because I was on trial, and my performance was going to be evaluated. My childhood competitive feelings of having to outdo my brothers had surfaced.

Clara said sternly, "Do not tense up. This is not a contest. This is merely a delight. Do you understand? A delight!"

I had been thoroughly conditioned to react to words, and the word 'delight' threw me into total confusion-- and finally into panic.

She is not using the word correctly, was all I could think. She must mean something else.

But Clara repeated the word over and over, as if she wanted it to sink in.

I kept my eyes on her shadow.

I had the impression that it was beautiful, serene, and full of power.

It was not merely a dark area. It seemed to have depth, intelligence and vitality.

Then suddenly I thought I saw Clara's shadow move independent of any movement of Clara's body.

That movement had been so incredibly fast that it almost went unnoticed by me.

I held my breath and waited. I peered at Clara's shadow; pouring on it all my attention.

Then it happened again.

Clara's shadow quivered and then stretched, as if its shoulders and chest had suddenly been inflated. The shadow seemed to have come alive.

Although I had been fully anticipating it, I was certainly not prepared for it.

I let out a shriek and jumped up. I shouted to Clara that her shadow was alive.

I was ready to run away; terrified that the shadow would run after me.

But Clara restrained me by holding my shoulder.

When I had calmed down enough to talk again, I told her what I had seen, all the while keeping my eyes averted from the ground for fear of catching another glimpse of Clara's sinister shadow.

Clara remarked, "To see the movement of shadows means that you have obviously freed a huge portion of energy with your recapitulation."

I said, "Are you sure I did not just imagine this, Clara?" I was hoping she would say I had.

Clara said, authoritatively, "It was your intent that made it move."

I asked, "But Clara; do you not think that recapitulating also disturbs the mind? I must be very disturbed in order to see shadows moving by themselves."

Clara patiently explained, "No. The purpose of the recapitulation is to break basic assumptions we have accepted throughout our lives.

"Unless they are broken, we can not prevent the power of remembering from clouding our awareness."

"What exactly do you mean by the power of remembering, Clara?"

Clara said, "The everyday world is a huge screen of our memories. If certain assumptions of ours are broken, the power of remembering is not only held in check, but even canceled out."

I did not understand what she was saying, and I resented her being so obscure.

I offered a reasonable explanation, saying, "It probably was the wind that stirred the dirt on which your shadow was projected."

Clara shook her head, and suggested, "Try looking at it again, and find out for sure."

I felt goose bumps on my arms. Nothing was going to make me stare at her shadow again.

Clara said, "You insist that shadows of people do not move by themselves, because that is what your ability to remember tells you.

"Do you remember ever seeing shadows move?"

I replied, "No. I certainly do not."

"There you are. What happened to you just now is that your normal ability to remember was held in check for an instant, and you saw my shadow move."

Clara shook a finger at me, chuckled, and said, "And it was not the wind stirring the dirt, either."

Then she hid her head with her arm, as if she were a timid child.

It struck me as odd that even though she was a grown woman, she never looked ridiculous performing childish gestures.

Clara continued, saying, "I have news for you. Before now, as a child, you have seen shadows move. But then you were not yet rational, and so it was all right to see them move.

"As you grew up, your energy was harnessed by social constraints, and so you forgot you had seen them moving. Now you only remember what you think is permissible to remember."

I was trying to appreciate the scope of what Clara was saying when I suddenly remembered that as a child I used to see shadows wiggle and twist on the sidewalks; especially on hot, clear days.

I always thought they were trying to pull themselves free from the people they belonged to.

It terrified me to see the shadows curl sideways to peek behind them.

It always seemed odd that adults would be so totally oblivious of their shadows' antics.

I mentioned this to Clara.

She concluded that my being terrified was a product of the conflict between what I really saw, and what I had already been told was possible and permissible to see.

I confessed, "I do not think I follow you, Clara."

Clara suggested, "Try to imagine yourself as a giant memory warehouse."

"In that warehouse, someone other than yourself has stored feelings, ideas, mental dialogues, and behavior patterns.

"Since it is your warehouse, you can go in there and rummage around any time you want, and use whatever you find there.

"The problem is that you have absolutely no say over the inventory, for it was already established before you came into possession of the warehouse.

"Thus you are drastically limited in your selection to those items in your warehouse-- in opposition to all that is truly available to us."

She added that our lives seem to be an uninterrupted time line because in our warehouses the inventory never changes.

She stressed that unless this storehouse is cleared out, there is no way for us to be what we really are.

I was overwhelmed by my memories, and by what Clara was explaining. I sat down on a large rock.

From the corner of my eye, I saw my shadow and experienced a jolt of panic as I asked myself, "What if my shadow would not quite sit the way I sat?"

Jumping up, I said, "I can not take this, Clara. Let us go back to the house."

Clara ordered me to stay put. "Calm your mind," she said, staring at me, "and the body too will become tranquil. Otherwise you are going to burst."

Clara held her left hand in front of her body with the wrist resting just above her navel and her palm faced sideways. The fingers were pressed together, pointed downward to the ground.

She told me to adopt this hand position and gaze at the tip of my middle finger.

I looked over the bridge of my nose, which forced me to look downward while slightly crossing my eyes.

She explained that to gaze fixedly in that manner places our awareness outside of us and onto the ground; thus diminishing our inner agitation.

Then she said I was to inhale deeply while pointing at the ground; intending to get from the ground a sparkle of energy, like a drop of glue, on my middle finger.

Next, I was to rotate my hand up at the wrist until the base of my thumb touched my breastbone.

I was to gaze at the tip of my middle finger for a count of seven and then shift my awareness immediately to my forehead, to a spot in between the eyes and just above the bridge of the nose.

This shift, she said, must be accompanied by the intent of transferring the sparkle of energy from the middle finger to that spot between the eyes.

If the transfer is accomplished, a light appears on the dark screen behind the closed eyes.

She said that we can send this luminous spot of energy to any part of our body to counteract pain, disease, apprehension or fear.

She then moved her hand and gently pressed my solar plexus.

Clara said, "If you need a quick surge of energy, as you do now, do the power breath I am about to show you and I guarantee that you will feel recharged."

I watched Clara do a series of short inhalations and exhalations through her nose in rapid succession, vibrating her diaphragm.

I imitated her and after twenty or so breaths-- contracting and relaxing my diaphragm-- I felt warmth spreading throughout my midsection.

Clara said, "We are going to sit here doing the power breath, and gaze at the light behind the eyes until you are no longer frightened."

"I was not really that scared," I lied.

Clara retorted, "You did not see yourself. From where I am sitting, I saw someone who was just about to faint."

She was absolutely right. Never had I experienced such total fright as when I saw Clara's shadow stretching itself out.

Lost memories had surfaced from such forgotten depths that, for a second or two, I had felt I was actually a child again.



I held my palm sideways and gazed at my fingertip the way Clara had recommended.

I kept my eyes fixed, and then shifted my attention to the center of my forehead.

I did not see any light, but I gradually became calm.

It was almost dark. I could see Clara's silhouette outlined beside me.

Clara's voice was soothing as she said, "Let us remain here for a while longer to allow that sparkle of energy to settle in your body."

I asked, "Did you learn this technique in China, Clara?"

She shook her head, and said, "I told you that I had a teacher here in Mexico."

Clara then added reverently, "My teacher was an extraordinary man who dedicated his life to learning, and then to teaching us the art of freedom."

"But is this method of breathing not Oriental in origin?"

She seemed to deliberate before answering me.

I thought her hesitation was due to her desire to remain secretive, so I probed, "Where did your teacher learn it? Was he also in China?"

"He learned everything he knew from his teacher," Clara said evasively.

When I asked her to tell me more about her teacher and what he had taught her, Clara apologized for not being at liberty to discuss the subject further at this time.

Clara explained, "In order to understand it, you need to acquire a special kind of energy, which, at the moment, you do not have."

She patted my hand, and sympathetically said, "Do not rush things.

"We intend to teach you all we know, so why the hurry?"

"I am always so intrigued when you say 'we,' Clara, because I get the impression that there are other people in the house, and I begin to see and hear things that my reason tells me can not possibly be true."

Clara laughed until I thought she was going to fall off the boulder on which she sat.

Her sudden and exaggerated outburst annoyed me even more than her refusal to tell me about her teacher.

Clara explained, saying, "You do not know how funny your dilemma is to me."

"Your dilemna proves to me-- just like when you saw the shadows moving-- that you are freeing your energy.

"You are beginning to empty your warehouse. The more items of your inventory you discard, the more you make room for other things."

I was still annoyed as I asked, "Like what? Seeing shadows move and hearing voices?"

Clara said vaguely, "Perhaps.

"Or you might even see the people that the shadows and voices belong to."

I wanted to know what people she was referring to, but she refused to say any more about it.

Abruptly Clara stood up and announced that she wanted to get back to the house to turn on the generator before it got too dark.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 08.


Literal-mindedness is a major item of our inventory that we have to be aware of to bypass.

Version 2009.09.09


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 8.

Clara now habitually, and without a word of warning, would leave me alone in the house for days at a time with only Manfred for company.

Although I had the whole house to myself, I never dared to venture beyond the living room, my bedroom, Clara's gymnasium, the kitchen, and of course, the outhouse.

There was something about Clara's house and grounds, especially when Clara was away, that filled me with an irrational fear.

The result was that when I was alone, I kept a strict routine; which I found comforting.

I used to wake up around nine, and make my breakfast in the kitchen on a hot plate; because I still did not know how to light the wood-burning stove. Then I would pack a light lunch, and I would either go to the cave to recapitulate, or I would take a long hike with Manfred.

I returned in the late afternoon to practice kung fu forms in Clara's martial arts gymnasium.

The gym was a big hall with a vaulted ceiling, a varnished wooden floor, and a standing black-lacquer rack on which a variety of martial arts weapons were displayed.

Along the wall opposite the door was a raised platform covered with straw mats.



I had once asked Clara what the platform was for.

She said it was where she did her meditation.

I had never seen Clara meditate because whenever she went into the building by herself, she always locked the door.

Every time I asked her what kind of meditation she practiced, she refused to elaborate on it.

The only thing I had ever found out about her meditation was that she called it 'dreaming'.



Clara had allowed me free access to her gymnasium whenever she was not using it herself.

And when I was alone at the house, I gravitated to that gym room; and there I found emotional solace; for it was imbued with Clara's presence and power.

It was there that she had taught me a most intriguing style of kung fu.

I had never been interested in Chinese martial arts because my Japanese karate teachers had always insisted that its movements were too elaborate and cumbersome to be of any practical value.

Systematically my Japanese teachers belittled the Chinese styles, and elevated their own. They said that although karate had its roots in the Chinese styles, its forms and applications were thoroughly altered and perfected in Japan.

Since I had no prior knowledge of martial arts, I accepted my teachers' beliefs, and I totally discounted all non-Japenese karate styles.

Consequently, I did not know what to make of Clara's kung fu style.

But in spite of my ignorance, one thing became obvious to me. Clara was an indisputable master of her style.



After I had worked out for an hour or so in Clara's gymnasium, I would change clothes and go to the kitchen to eat.

Invariably, my food would be set on the table. But I had always been so famished after exercising, that I just wolfed down whatever was prepared without speculating how it got there.

When I later questioned Clara about it, she had told me that when she was gone, a male caretaker came to the house to cook my meals.

He must have also done the laundry because I would find my clothes neatly folded in a pile at the door of my bedroom. All I had to do was iron them.



Now, some mysterious errand had kept Clara away and I had not seen her for two days.

That evening after a heavy workout-- which Manfred looked on growling critically from time to time-- I had such a surplus of energy that I decided to break my routine by returning to the cave in the darkness to continue recapitulating.

I was in such a hurry to get there that I forgot to bring my flashlight.

It was a cloudy night, and yet, despite the total darkness, I did not stumble on anything along the path to the cave.

In my recapitulating, I visualized and breathed in all the memories of all my karate instructors; and every demonstration and tournament I had also participated in.

It took me most of the night, but when I finished I felt thoroughly cleansed of the prejudices that I had inherited from my teachers as part of my training.

The following day Clara still had not returned, so I went to the cave a bit later than usual.

It occurred to me that it was unusual for me to have walked all the way to the cave the night before without tripping in the darkness.

So, as I walked home in the daylight, I tried a deliberate exercise.

I walked on the same path I had walked every day, but this time I kept my eyes shut to simulate darkness.

I wanted to see if I could walk without stumbling.

But with my eyes shut, I fell several times over stumps and rocks, and I badly bruised my shin.



I was on the living room floor putting bandages on my abrasions when Clara unexpectedly walked in the door. Clara, with a look of surprise, asked, "What happened to you? Were you and the dog fighting?"

At that very instant, Manfred ambled into the room. He barked gruffly, as if offended.

I was convinced that Manfred had understood what Clara had said.

Clara stood in front of him, and she bowed slightly from the waist the way an Oriental student bows to his master.

Clara then voice a most convoluted bilingual apology.

She said, "I am extremely sorry, my dear 'señor' for having spoken so lightly about your irreproachable behavior and your exquisite manners; and above all, your superior consideration that makes you 'un señor entre señores, el mãs ilustre entre todos ellos'." (... my dear sir... a lord among lords; the most illustrious of them all.)

I was absolutely bewildered. I thought Clara had lost her mind during her three days' absence.

I had never heard her speaking like this before, and I wanted to laugh, but her serious expression made my laugh stick in my throat.

She was about to begin another barrage of apologies when Manfred yawned, looked at her bored, turned around, and left the room.

Clara sat down on the couch, her body shook with muffled laughter. She confided to me, "When he is offended, the only way to get rid of him is to bore him to death with apologies."

I hoped that Clara would tell me where she had been for the past three days. I waited for a moment in case she would bring up the subject of her absence, but she did not.

I told her that while she was gone, Manfred had come every day to visit me at the recapitulation cave; and that it was as if he went there from time to time to check if I was all right.

Again I wanted Clara to say something about the nature of her trip, but instead she calmly replied, "Yes. He is very solicitous, and extremely considerate of others.

"Therefore he expects the same treatment from them. And if he even suspects that he is not getting it, he becomes rabid.

"When he is in that mood, he is deadly dangerous.

"Remember that night he nearly snapped your head off when you called him a toad-dog?"

I wanted to change the subject since I did not like to think of Manfred as a mad dog.

Over the past months, Manfred had become more a friend than a beast.

He was so much a friend, that an unsettling certainty had taken possession of me. I felt sure that he was the only one who truly understood me.



Clara reminded me, "You have not said what happened to your legs,"

I told her about my failed attempt at walking with my eyes shut, and I explained that I had had no difficulty walking in the dark the night before.

She looked at the scratches and welts on my legs, and patted my head as if I were Manfred.

Clara said, "Last night, you were not making a project out of walking.

"You were determined to get to the cave, so your feet automatically took you there.

"This afternoon, you were consciously trying to replicate last night's walking, but you failed miserably because your mind got in the way."

She thought for a moment then added, "Or perhaps you were not listening to the voice of the spirit that could have guided you safely."

Clara puckered up her lips in a childish gesture of impatience as I told her that I had not been aware of any voices; except that sometimes in the house I thought I heard strange whisperings, although I was convinced that those sounds were only the wind blowing through the empty hallway.

Clara reminded me sternly, "We have agreed that you would not take anything I say literally, unless I tell you beforehand to do so.

"By emptying your warehouse, you are changing your inventory.

"Now there is room for something new, such as walking in darkness. So I thought that perhaps there might also be room for the voice of the spirit."

I was trying so hard to figure out what Clara was saying, that my forehead must have been furrowed.

Clara sat down In her favorite chair and patiently began to explain what she meant.

"Before you came to this house, your inventory had nothing on dogs being more than dogs.

"But then you met Manfred and meeting him forced you to modify that part of your inventory."

Clara shook her hand like an Italian, and said, "Capisce?"

Dumbfounded, I asked, "You mean Manfred is the voice of the spirit?"

Clara laughed so hard that she could barely speak. She mumbled, "No. That it is not quite what I mean. It is something more abstract."

Clara suggested I take out my mat from the closet.

As Clara was getting some salve from a cabinet, she said, "Let us go to the patio and sit under the zapote tree. The twilight is the best time to listen for the voice of the spirit."

I unrolled my mat under the huge tree covered with peachlike green fruits.

Clara massaged some salve into my bruised skin. It hurt fearsomely, but I tried not to wince.

When she had finished, I noticed that the biggest welt had almost disappeared.

Clara leaned back, and propped her back against the thick tree trunk.

Rural Community

"Everything has a form," she began, "but besides the outer shape, there is an inner awareness that rules things.

"This silent awareness we call the spirit.

"It is an all-encompassing force that manifests itself differently in different things.

"And this energy communicates with us."

Clara told me to relax, and to take deep breaths because she was going to show me how to exercise my inner hearing.

She said, "It is with the inner ear that we are able to discern the spirit's biddings.

"When you breathe, allow the energy to flow out of your ears."

I asked, "How do I do that?"

"When you exhale, fix your attention on the openings of your ears, and use your intent and your concentration to direct the flow."

She monitored my attempts for a while; correcting me as I went along.

Clara instructed me saying, "Exhale through your nose with your mouth closed and the tip of your tongue touching your palate. And exhale noiselessly."

After a few attempts, I could feel my ears pop and my sinuses clear.

Then Clara instructed me to rub the palms of my hands together until they were hot and then place them over my ears with my fingertips almost touching at the back of my head.

I did as she instructed.

Clara suggested I massage my ears using a gentle circular pressure.

Then, with my ears still covered and my index fingers crossed over the middle fingers, I was to repeatedly tap behind each ear by snapping my index fingers in unison.

As I flicked my fingers, I heard a sound like a muffled bell reverberating inside my head.

I repeated the procedure eighteen times as she had instructed.

When I removed my hands I noticed I could distinctly hear the faintest sounds in the surrounding vegetation, while before, everything had been undifferentiated and muffled.

Clara said, "Now, with your ears clear, perhaps you will be able to hear the voice of the spirit."

"But do not expect a shout from the treetops. What we call the voice of the spirit is more of a feeling.

"Or it can be an idea that suddenly pops into your head.

"Or sometimes it can be like a longing to go somewhere vaguely familiar, or a longing to do something also vaguely familiar."

Perhaps it was the power of her suggestion that made me hear a soft murmur around me.

As I began paying closer attention to it, the murmur turned into human voices speaking in the distance.

I could distinguish women's crystalline laughter, and a man singing with a rich baritone voice.

I heard the sounds as if the wind was carrying them to me in spurts.

I strained to make out what the voices were saying, and the more I listened to the wind, the more elated I became.

Some ebullient energy inside me made me jump up.

I was so happy that I wanted to play, to dance, and to run around like a child.

And without realizing what I was doing, I began to sing and leap and twirl around the patio like a ballerina until I had completely exhausted myself.

When I finally came to sit down next to Clara, I was perspiring, but it was not a healthy physical sweat.

It was more like the cold sweat of exhaustion.

Clara, too, was out of breath from laughing at my antics.

I had succeeded in making an utter fool of myself by jumping and cavorting around the patio.

"I do not know what came over me," I said at a loss for an explanation.

Clara said in a serious tone, "Describe what happened."

When I refused out of embarrassment, Clara added, "You must tell me or I will be forced to view you as being a bit... well, batty in the belfry-- if you know what I mean."

I told her that I had heard the most haunting laughter and singing, and that it actually drove me to dance around.

Concerned, I asked her, "Do you think I am going crazy?"

"If I were you, I would not worry about it," she said. "Your cavorting was a natural reaction to hearing the voice of the spirit."

I corrected her, saying, "It was not 'a' voice. It was lots of voices,"

Clara scoffed, "There you go again; the literal-minded Miss Perfect."

She explained that literal-mindedness is a major item of our inventory and that we have to be aware of to bypass.

She said, "The voice of the spirit is an abstraction that has nothing to do with voices, and yet we may at times hear voices."

Clara then told me that in my case, since I was raised a devout Catholic, my own way of readapting my inventory would be to turn the spirit into a sort of guardian angel; a kind, protective male that watches over me.

Clara continued by saying, "However, the spirit is not anybody's guardian. It is an abstract force; neither good nor evil.

"The spirit is a force that has no interest whatsoever in us, but that nevertheless responds to the power of our awareness.

"And not to your prayers, mind you, but to your energetic power.

"Remember that the next time you feel like praying for forgiveness!"

I asked, alarmed, "But is the spirit not kind and forgiving?"

Clara said that sooner or later I was going to discard all my preconceptions about good and evil, and God and religion. I would think only in terms of a completely new inventory.

I was armed with the ready-made barrage of logical arguments about free will, and the existence of evil that I had learned throughout my years of Catholic schooling when I started off with the question, "Do you mean good and evil do not exist?"

But before I could even begin to present my case, Clara said, "This is where my companions and I differ from the established order.

"I have told you that for us freedom is to be free from humanness.

"That includes God, good and evil, the saints, the Virgin and the Holy Ghost.

"We believe that a nonhuman inventory is the only possible freedom for human beings.

"If our warehouses are going to remain filled to capacity with the desires, feelings, ideas and objects of our human inventory, where is our freedom then?

"Do you see what I mean?"

I understood her, but not as clearly as I would have liked to. I was still resisting the idea of relinquishing my humanness; plus, I had not yet recapitulated all the religious preconceptions handed down to me by the Catholic school system.

I was also accustomed to never thinking about anything that did not pertain to me directly.

As I tried to find flaws with her reasoning, Clara jolted me out of my mental speculations with a tap on my ribs.

She said that she was going to show me another exercise for stopping thoughts and for feeling energy lines.

Clara declared that otherwise I would be doing what I had always done-- be enthralled with the idea of myself.



Clara told me to sit in a cross-legged position and to lean sideways as I inhaled, first to the right, then to the left; and to feel how I was being pulled by a horizontal line extending out of the opening of my ears.

She said that, surprisingly, the line did not sway with the motion of one's body but remained perfectly horizontal, and that this was one of the mysteries she and her cohorts had uncovered.

Clara explained, "Leaning in this manner moves our awareness-- which normally is always directed to the front-- to the side."

She ordered me to loosen my jaw muscles by chewing and swallowing saliva three times.

I asked, "What does this do?" and I swallowing with a gulp.

Clara replied, "The chewing and swallowing brings some of the energy lodged in the head down to the stomach, thereby lessening the load on the brain."

She said with a chuckle, "In your case, you should do this maneuver often."

I wanted to get up and walk around because my legs were falling asleep, but Clara demanded that I remain seated for a while longer and practice this exercise.

I leaned to both sides, trying as hard as I could to feel that elusive horizontal line, but I could not feel it.

I did manage, however, to stop my thoughts from their usual avalanche.

Perhaps an hour passed with me sitting in total silence without any thoughts at all.

Around us, I could hear crickets chirping and leaves rustling, but no more voices were brought by the wind.

For a while I listened to Manfred's barking coming from his room at the side of the house.

Then, as if moved by an unvoiced command, thoughts rushed in my mind again.

I became aware of what had been their complete absence, and how peaceful total silence had been.

My restless body movements must have cued Clara, for she began to speak again.

She said, "The voice of the spirit comes from nowhere.

"It comes from the depth of silence; from the realm of not-being.

"That voice can only be heard when we are absolutely quiet and balanced."

She explained that two opposing forces move us. And whether we consider those forces male and female, or positive and negative, or light and dark, they have to be kept in balance so that an opening is created in the energy that surrounds us.

Then, through this opening in the energy encompassing us, our awareness can seek to align with the spirit.

It is through this opening that the spirit manifests itself to us.

Clara said, "Balance is what we are after. But balance does not only mean an equal portion of each force.

"As the portions are made equal, the new, balanced combination gains momentum and begins to move by itself."

Clara searched my face in the darkness, I supposed, for signs of comprehension.

Finding none, she said almost cuttingly, "We are not that intelligent, are we?"

I felt my whole body tense at her remark.

I told her that in all my life nobody had ever accused me of not being intelligent. My parents, my teachers had always praised me for being one of the brightest students in the class. When it came to report cards, I nearly made myself ill by studying to make sure I had better grades than my brothers.

Clara sighed, and listened patiently to my lengthy reaffirmation of my intelligence.

Before I had exhausted my arguments to convince her that she was wrong, she conceded, "Yes, you are intelligent, but everything you have said refers only to the world of everyday life.

"More than intelligent, you are studious, industrious and cunning. Would you not agree?"

I did agree with her in spite of myself, because my own reason told me that if I had truly been as intelligent as I claimed, I would not have had to nearly kill myself studying.

Clara explained, "In order to be intelligent in my world, you must be able to concentrate; to fix your attention on any concrete thing as well as on any abstract manifestation."

I asked, "What kind of abstract manifestations are you talking about, Clara?"

She said, "An opening in the energy field around us is an abstract manifestation.

"But do not expect to feel it or see it in the same manner you feel and see the concrete world. Something else takes place."

Clara stressed that for us to fix our attention on any abstract manifestation, we have to merge the known with the unknown in a spontaneous amalgamation.

In this way, we can engage our reason, yet at the same time be indifferent to it.

Clara then told me to stand up and walk around. She said, "Now that it is dark, try walking without looking at the ground. Not as a conscious exercise, but as a sorcery 'not-doing'."

I wanted to ask her to explain what she meant by a sorcery not-doing.

But intuitively I knew that if I asked and she tried to explain, I would consciously be thinking about her explanation, and I would undoubtedly gauge my performance against my own understanding of this new concept

I also knew I would do all that regardless of whether or not I even understand what she would say by way of explaination.

I did recall, though, that she had used the term "not-doing" before; and spurred on by my self-imposed reluctance to ask questions, I tried to remember what Clara had told me about not-doing.

For me, explanations, even if they were minimal or faulty, had always been better than a void.

Others' knowledge gave me my desired sense of understanding and control. On the other hand, no knowledge left me feeling completely vulnerable.

Clara, obviously aware of my need for explanations, said, "Not-doing is a term that comes to us from our own sorcery tradition."

"Not-doing refers to everything that is not included in the inventory that was forced upon us.

"When we engage any item of our forced inventory, we are 'doing'.

"Anything we do that is not part of that inventory is not-doing."

Any degree of relaxation I had achieved was abruptly disrupted by the first of the statements she had just made.

I demanded, "What did you mean, Clara, when you referred to your tradition as sorcery?"

"You catch every detail when you want to, Taisha. No wonder your ears are so big," Clara said laughing, and she did not answer me right away.

I stared at her, waiting for her reply.

Finally Clara said, "I was not going to tell you about this yet, but since it slipped out, let me just say that the art of freedom is a product of sorcerers' intent."

"What sorcerers are you talking about?"

"There have been people here in Mexico, and there still are, who are concerned with final questions. My magical family and I call them sorcerers.

"From them we have inherited all the ideas I am acquainting you with.

"You already know about the recapitulation. Not-doing is another of those ideas."

"But who are these people, Clara?"

"You will know all there is to know about them soon," she assured me. "For now, let us just practice one of their not-doings."

Clara said that not-doing at this particular moment would be, for example, to force myself to trust the spirit implicitly by letting go of my calculating mind.

Clara warned me, "Do not just pretend to trust while secretly harboring doubts.

"Only when your positive and negative forces are in perfect accord will you be capable of feeling or seeing the opening in the energy around you; or being capable of walking with your eyes closed, and being assured of success."

I took a few deep breaths and began walking.

I was not looking at the ground, but I had my hands outstretched in front of me in case I bumped into things.

For a while I kept stumbling, and on one occasion I tripped over a potted plant and I would have fallen had Clara not grabbed my arm.

Gradually I began to stumble less and less, until I had no trouble walking smoothly.

It was as if my feet could clearly see everything on the patio and knew exactly where to step, and where not to step.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 09.


He is a being who shapes and molds perception the way you might paint a picture with your brushes.

Version 2009.11.08


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 9.

One afternoon while recapitulating in the cave, I fell asleep.

Upon awakening, I found a pair of beautifully polished crystals lying on the ground next to me.

For a while I deliberated whether or not to touch them because they looked quite ominous.

They were about five inches long with tips fashioned into sharp points.

They were perfectly translucent and they seemed to shine with a light of their own.

When I saw Clara walking toward the cave, I carefully slid the crystals onto my palm and crawled out the cave to show them to her.

Clara nodded as if she recognized them, and she said, "Yes, they are exquisite."

I asked, "Where did they come from?"

"They were left here for you by someone who is watching you very closely," Clara said, putting down a bundle she was carrying.

"I did not see anyone leave them."

"That person came while you were dozing off. I warned you not to fall asleep during your recapitulation."

I asked excitedly, "Who came while I was dozing? One of your relatives?"

I laid the fragile crystals down on a pile of leaves and put on my shoes. Clara had advised me never to wear shoes while recapitulating because, by constricting the feet, shoes impede the circulation of energy.

She said, "If I told you who left the crystals, it would not make any sense to you, or it might even frighten you."

"Try me. After seeing your shadow move, I do not think anything can frighten me."

Clara, while untying her bundle, said, "All right. If you insist. The person who is watching you is a master sorcerer with very few equals on this earth."

"You mean a real sorcerer? One who does evil things?"

"I mean a real sorcerer, but not one who does evil things.

"He is a being who shapes and molds perception the way you might paint a picture with your brushes.

"But that does not mean that he is arbitrary. When he manipulates perception with his intent, his behavior is impeccable."

Clara compared him to the Chinese master painters who were said to have painted dragons so lifelike that when they put in the pupils of the eyes as the finishing touch, the dragons flew right off the wall or the screen on which they had been painted.

In the low tone of a meaningful disclosure, Clara said that when a consummate sorcerer is ready to leave the world, all he has to do is manipulate perception, intend a door, step through it and disappear.

The deep passion, expressed in her voice, made me uneasy.

I sat down on a large flat rock, and holding the crystals, I tried to fathom who the master sorcerer might be.

Since the day I arrived, I had not talked to anyone except Clara and Manfred simply because, there was no one else around.

There had never been any sign of the caretaker Clara had mentioned, either.

I was about to remind her that she and Manfred were the only beings I had seen since my arrival, when I recalled that there had been one other person I had seen; a man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere one morning when I was sketching some trees near the cave.

He was squatting in a clearing about a hundred feet from where I was.

The cold was making me shiver and also made me focus my attention on his green windbreaker.

He had on beige trousers and the typical wide-brimmed straw hat of northern Mexico.

I could not see his features because he wore his hat tilted over his face, but he seemed muscular and limber.

He was facing sideways. I could see him fold his arms across his chest.

Then he turned his back to me and, to my utter amazement, brought his hands all the way around his back where he touched his fingertips. Then he stood up and walked away, disappearing into the bushes.

I quickly sketched his squatting posture, then put down my drawing pad and tried to imitate what he had done. But no matter how I stretched my arms and contorted my shoulders, I could not touch my fingers behind my back.

I continued squatting with my arms wrapped around me. Within moments, I had stopped shivering, and I felt warm and comfortable in spite of the cold.

When I told clara about the man, she remarked, "So you have already seen him."

"Is he the master sorcerer?"

Clara nodded, and reached into her bundle to hand me a tamale she had brought for my meal.

Clara said, "He is very limber. It is nothing for him to dislodge his shoulder joints then ease them into place again.

"If you continue your recapitulation and store enough energy, he may teach you his art.

"The time you saw him, he just showed you how to fight the cold with a specific posture; by squatting with the arms wrapped around the chest."

"Is that some form of yoga?"

Clara shrugged. "Perhaps your paths will cross again and he will answer that question himself.

"In the meantime, I am sure these crystals will help you to clarify things inside you."

"What exactly do you mean by that. Clara?"

Ignoring my question, she asked, "What aspect of your life were you recapitulating before you fell asleep?"

I told Clara that I had been remembering how I hated to do chores at home.

I told her I remembered that it had always seemed to take me forever to wash the dishes. What made it worse was that all the while I could see my brothers playing ball outside the kitchen window.

I envied them for not having to do housework, and I loathed my mother for making me do It. I felt like smashing all her precious plates, but, of course, I did not.

Clara asked, "How do you feel now, recapitulating all this?"

"I feel like smacking all of them, my mother included. I can not bring myself to forgive her."

"Perhaps the crystals will help you rechannel your intent and your trapped energy," Clara said softly.

Driven by a strange urge, I slid the crystals between my index and middle fingers. The crystals fit comfortably, as if they were attached to my hands.

Clara remarked, "I see you already know how to hold them. The master sorcerer instructed me that if I saw that you could hold them correctly by yourself, I was to show you one indispensable movement that you can do with these crystals."

"What kind of movement, Clara?"

"A movement of power," she said. "I will explain more about the movement's origin and purpose later.

"For now, let me just show you how it is done."

She told me to firmly press the crystals between my index and middle fingers.

Helping me from behind, she gently made me extend my arms in front of me at the height of my shoulders, and rotated my arms in a counterclockwise direction.

Clara had me begin by making large circles that became increasingly smaller until the movement stopped. The crystals were pointed into the distance with their extended imaginary lines converging at a single spot on the horizon.

Clara guided me saying, "When you make the circles, be sure to keep your palms facing each other, and always begin by making large, smooth circles.

"This way you gather energy that you can then focus onto whatever you want to affect regardless of whether it is an object, a thought or a feeling.

I asked, "How will pointing the crystals affect them?"

"To move the crystals and point them the way I showed you takes the energy out of things," she explained. "The effect is like defusing a bomb.

"This is exactly what you want to do at this stage of your training, so never under any circumstance rotate your arms in a clockwise direction while holding the crystals.

I then asked, "What would happen if I rotated them in that direction?"

"You would not only make a bomb, but you would light the fuse and cause a gigantic explosion.

"A clockwise movement is for charging things; as for gathering energy for any enterprise.

"We must save that movement for a later occasion; when you are stronger."

"But is that not what I need now, Clara? To gather energy? I feel so depleted."

"Of course you need to gather energy," she agreed, "but right now you must do it by demolishing your indulgence in absurdities.

"There is plenty of energy you can harness simply by not doing the things you are accustomed to, like complaining, or feeling sorry for yourself, or worrying about things that can not be changed.

"Defusing these concerns will give you a positive, nurturing energy that will help to balance and heal you.

"On the other hand, the energy you would gather by moving the crystals in a clockwise direction is a virulent kind of energy, a devastating blast that you will not be able to withstand at the moment.

Clara insisted, "So promise me that you will not under any circumstances attempt to do it."

"I promise, Clara. But it sounds rather tempting."

"The master sorcerer that gave you these crystals is watching your progress," she warned, "so you must not misuse them."

There was a tinge of morbid curiosity in my question as I next asked, "Why is this master sorcerer interested in watching me?"

I was uneasy, yet I felt flattered that a man would go to the trouble of observing me, even if it was from a distance.

"He has designs on you," Clara replied casually.

My alarm was instantaneous. I clenched my hand into a fist and jumped up indignantly.

Clara said, annoyed, "Do not be so stupid and leap to the wrong conclusion.

"I assure you, nobody is trying to get in your pants.

"You really do need to recapitulate your sexual encounters in depth, Taisha, so you can get rid of your absurd suspicions."

Her tone, devoid of all feeling, and her vulgar choice of words were somehow sobering.

I sat down again, and I mumbled an apology.

Clara put a finger to her lips, then said, "We are not involved in ordinary pursuits," she assured me. "The sooner you are clear about that, the better.

"When I speak of designs, I mean sublime designs; maneuvers for a daring spirit.

"In spite of what you think, you are very daring.

"Look at where you are now. Every day you sit for hours alone in a cave recapitulating your life away. That takes courage."

I confessed to Clara that whenever I thought about how I had followed her, and was now living in her house as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I became totally alarmed.

Clara responded by saying, "It has also baffled me, yet I have never asked you outright what made you accompany me so willingly? I would not have done it myself."

"My parents and brothers always told me that I am crazy," I admitted. "I suppose that must be the reason.

"Some strange emotion is bottled up inside me, and because of it, I always end up doing weird things."

"Such as what, for instance?" Clara's sparkling eyes urged me to confide in her.

I hesitated. There were dozens of things I could think of; each a traumatic event that stood out as a milestone to mark a moment when my life turned always for the worse.

I never talked about these catastrophes, although I was painfully aware of them; and during the past months of intensive recapitulating, many of them had become even more poignant and vivid.

Not wanting to go into detail, I said, "Sometimes I do silly things."

"What do you mean by silly things?" Clara asked.

After further prompting on her part, I gave her an example.

I told her about an experience I had had not too long before, in Japan, where I had gone to participate in an international karate tournament.

There, in Tokyo's Budokan, I had disgraced myself in front of tens of thousands of people.

"Tens of thousands of people?" she echoed me. "Are you not exaggerating a bit?"

"Definitely not!" I said. "The Budokan is the largest auditorium in the city and it was packed!"

Recalling the incident, I felt my hands clenching and my neck tensing.

I did not want to continue, and said, "Is it not better just to let sleeping dogs lie? Besides, I have already recapitulated my karate experiences."

But Clara insisted, saying, "It is important that you talk about your experience.

"Perhaps you did not visualize it clearly enough or breath it in thoroughly. It still seems to have a hold over you.

"Just look at you, you are breaking out in a nervous sweat."

So, to appease her, I described how my karate teacher had once let it slip that he thought women were lower than dogs.

To him, women had no place in the world of karate and especially not in tournaments.

At that time, in the Budokan, he wanted only his male students to go on stage to perform.

I told him that I had not come all the way to Japan just to sit on the sidelines and watch the all male team competing.

He warned me to be more respectful. But instead, I became so angry that I did something disastrous.

Clara inquired, "What exactly did you do?"

I told her I became so enraged that I climbed onto the central platform, grabbed the gong from the master of ceremonies, struck it myself and formally announced my name and the name of the karate routine I was going to demonstrate.

Clara, grinning, asked, "And did they give you a grand applause?"

Nearly in tears, I told her, "I flubbed it. In the middle of the long sequence of movements, my mind went blank, and I forgot what came next.

"All I saw was a sea of faces staring at me in disapproval. Somehow, I managed to get through the rest of the form, and I left the stage in a state of shock.

"To take matters into my own hands, and to disrupt the program the way I did was bad enough. But to forget my form in front of thousands of spectators was the ultimate insult to the Karate Federation.

"I brought shame to myself, my teachers, and I suppose, to women in general."

"What happened afterward?" Clara asked, trying to suppress a chuckle.

I said, "I was expelled from the school, and there was talk of revoking my black belt. I never practiced karate again."

Clara burst out laughing.

I, on the other hand, was so moved by remembering my shameful experience, that I began to weep. And on top of that, I was doubly embarrassed for having revealed it to Clara.

Clara shook my shoulders to jolt me, and said, "Do the sweeping breath. Breathe in now."

I moved my head from right to left, breathing in the energy that was still hopelessly caught in the exhibition hall.

As I brought my head back to the right again, I exhaled all the embarrassment and self-pity that had enveloped me.

I moved my head repeatedly, doing one sweeping breath after the other until all my emotional turmoil was released.

Then I moved my head from right to left and back again without breathing. I thereby severed all the ties with that particular moment of my past.

When I had finished, Clara scanned my body, and then nodded.

Clara declared, "You are vulnerable because you feel important." She handed me an embroidered handkerchief to blow my nose.

Then Clara said, "All that shame was caused by your misguided sense of personal worth.

"Then by bungling your performance, as you were bound to do, you added more insult to your already injured pride."

Clara was silent for a moment, giving me time to collect myself.

She finally asked, "Why did you quit practicing karate?"

"I just got tired of it, and all the hypocrisy," I snapped.

She shook her head and said, "No.

"You quit because no one paid any attention to you after your misadventure, and you did not get the recognition you thought you deserved."

In all honesty, I had to admit Clara was right. I had believed I deserved recognition.

Every time I committed one of my wild, impulsive acts, it had been to boost my self-image or to compete with someone in order to prove that I was better.

A sense of sadness and dejection enveloped me. I knew that in spite of all my breathing and recapitulating, there was no hope for me.

Clara tapped my head lightly, and said, "Your inventory is changing very naturally and harmoniously. Do not worry so much.

"Just concentrate on recapitulating, and everything else will take care of itself."

"Perhaps I need to see a therapist," I said. "Although, is recapitulating not a kind of psychotherapy?"

"Not at all," Clara disagreed. "The people who first devised the recapitulation lived hundreds, if not thousands, of years ago. So you certainly should not think of this ancient renewing process in terms of modern psychoanalysis."

"Why not?" I said. "You have to admit that going back to your childhood memories and the emphasis on the sexual act sounds like what psychoanalysis are interested in-- especially the ones with a Freudian twist."

Clara was adamant. She stressed that the recapitulation is a magical act in which intent and the breath alone play indispensable roles.

Clara continued, saying, "Breathing gathers energy and makes it circulate. It is then guided by the preestablished intent of the recapitulation, which is to free ourselves from our biological and social ties.

"The intent of the recapitulation is a gift bestowed on us by those ancient seers who devised this method and passed it on to their descendants."

"Each person performing the recapitulation has to add his or her own intent to it, but their intent is merely the desire or need to do the recapitulation.

"The intent of the recapitulation's end result, which is total freedom, was established by those seers of ancient times.

"Because it was set up independently of us, it is an invaluable gift."

Clara explained that the recapitulation reveals to us a crucial facet of our being; the fact that for an instant, just before we plunge into any act, we are capable of accurately assessing its outcome, our chances, and our motives and expectations.

Yet, since this knowledge is almost never to our convenience or satisfaction, we immediately suppress it.

I asked, "What do you mean by that, Clara?"

"I mean that you, for example, knew for a split second that it would be a deadly mistake to jump onto the stage of the auditorium and disrupt the performance.

"But, you immediately suppressed that certainty for various reasons.

"You also knew, for a moment, that you had stopped practicing karate because you felt offended at not being praised or given recognition.

"But, you instantly covered up that knowledge with another, more self-enhancing explanation-- that of being fed up with the hypocrisy of others."

Clara said that this moment of direct knowing was called 'the seer' by the people who first formulated the recapitulation, because it allows us to directly see into things with unclouded eyes or judgements.

Yet in spite of the clarity and accuracy of our seer assessments, we never pay attention to them, or give our seer a chance to make itself heard.

Through a continual suppression, we stifle its growth and prevent it from developing its full potential.

Clara went on, saying, "In the end, the seer inside us is filled with bitterness and hatred."

"The ancient men of wisdom who invented the recapitulation believed that since we never stop subduing the seer, it finally destroys us.

"But they also assured us that by means of the recapitulation we can allow the seer to grow and unfold as it was meant to do."

I said, "I never realized what the recapitulation was really about."

Clara reminded me, saying, "The purpose of the recapitulation is to grant the seer the freedom to see."

"By giving the seer range, we can deliberately turn the seer into a force that is both mysterious and effective; a force that will eventually guide us to freedom instead of killing us.

"This is the reason why I always insist that you tell me what you find out through your recapitulation."

"You must bring the seer to the surface, and give it the chance to speak, and tell you what it sees."

I had no problem understanding or agreeing with her. I knew perfectly well that there was something inside me that always knew what is what.

I also knew that I suppressed its capacity to advise because what it told me was usually contrary to what I expected or wanted to hear.

A momentary insight I had to share with Clara was that the only time I ever invoked the seer's guidance was when I looked at the southern horizon, and deliberately sought its help, and I had never been able to explain why I did that.

Clara said promisingly, "Someday all that will be explained to you." But from the way she was grinning, I deduced that she did not want to say any more about it.

Clara suggested I return to the cave for a few more hours, then come to the house and take a nap before dinner.

She also offered, "I will send Manfred to fetch you."

I declined. I felt I could not possibly go back into the cave that day. I was too exhausted.

Having revealed to Clara my embarrassing moments, and having to fend off her personal attacks, had left me emotionally drained.

For an instant, my attention was caught by light being reflected on one of the crystals.

Focusing my attention on the crystals calmed me.

I asked Clara if she knew the reason why the master sorcerer had given me the crystals.

She replied that he had not actually given them to me, but that he had, rather, recovered them on my behalf.

Clara said gruffly, "He found them in a cave in the mountains. Someone must have left them there ages ago."

Her impatient tone made me think that she did not want to talk about the master sorcerer in particular, so I asked her instead, "What else do you know about these crystals?"

I held one up to the sunlight to see its translucence.

Clara explained, "The use of crystals was the domain of sorcerers of ancient Mexico."

"The crystal were weapons used to destroy an enemy."

Hearing that gave me such a jolt that I nearly dropped one of the crystals.

I tried to give them to Clara to hold, wanting nothing more to do with them, but Clara refused to take them.

She reprimanded me, saying, "Once you hold crystals like these in your hands, you can not simply pass them on."

"It is not right. And in fact, it is dangerous.

"These crystals must be treated with infinite care. They are a gift of power."

"I am sorry," I said, "I did not mean any disrespect. I just became frightened when you said they were used as weapons."

"Formerly, they were, but not today," she clarified. "We are unconcerned with the knowledge of how to turn them into weapons."

"Was there such a knowledge in ancient Mexico?"

Clara declared, "There certainly was! It is part of our tradition."

"Just as in China where there were ancient beliefs so farfetched that they have turned into legends, here in Mexico we also have our share of beliefs and legends."

"But how is it that nobody knows very much about what went on in ancient Mexico, while everybody is aware of the beliefs and practices of ancient China?"

Clara explained, "Here in Mexico, there were two cultures that collided head on; the Spaniards and the Indians."

"We know everything about ancient Spain, but not ancient Mexico simply because the Spaniards were the victors and tried to obliterate Indian traditions.

"But in spite of their systematic and relentless efforts, the Spaniards did not succeed completely."

I asked, "What were the practices associated with the crystals?"

"It is believed that sorcerers of ancient times used to hold the mental image of their enemy while in a state of intense and pinpointed concentration. This is a unique state that is nearly impossible to attain, and certainly impossible to describe.

"In such a condition of mental and physical awareness, a sorcerer would manipulate that image until they found its center of energy."

Driven by morbid curiosity, I asked, "What did those sorcerers do with their enemy's image?"

"They used to look for an opening usually localized in the area of the heart; like a tiny vortex around which energy circulates.

"As soon as they found it, they would point at it with their dartlike crystals."

At the mention of pointing with the crystals at the image of an enemy, I began to shiver.

Yet, in spite of my discomfort, I felt compelled to ask Clara what happened to the person whose image was being manipulated by the sorcerers.

Clara suggested, "Perhaps his body withered. Or maybe the person met with an accident.

"It is believed that those sorcerers themselves never knew exactly what would happen.

"However, if their intent and power were strong enough, they would be assured of success in destroying their enemy."

More than ever I wanted to put the crystals down, but in the light of what Clara had said, I did not dare profane them.

I wondered why on earth anyone would want to give them to me.

Clara continued, saying, "Magical weapons were terribly important at one time.

"Weapons such as crystals became an extension of the sorcerer's own body. The crystals were filled with energy that could be channeled and projected outward across time and space."

Clara said that the ultimate weapon, however, is not a crystal dart, nor a sword, nor even a gun. It is the human body.

The human body can be turned into an instrument capable of gathering, storing, and directing energy.

Clara explained, "We can regard the body either as a biological organism, or as a source of power.

"It all depends on the state of the inventory in our warehouse. The body can be hard and rigid, or soft and pliant.

"If our warehouse is empty, the body itself is empty, and energy from infinity can flow through it."

Clara reiterated that in order to empty ourselves, we have to sink into a state of profound recapitulation and let energy flow through us unimpeded.

Only in quietude, Clara stressed, can we give the seer in us full reign. With calm awareness we can turn the impersonal energy of the universe into the very personal force of intent.

Clara said, "When we have emptied ourselves sufficiently of our obsolete and encumbering inventory, the energy of and for increased awareness comes to us, gathers, and increases quite naturally.

"When enough of it coalesces for you, it becomes the source of your strength or personal power.

"Then, anything can serve to announce intent's unwaivering presence to you; a loud noise, a soft voice, a thought that is not yours, or an unexpected surge of vigor or well-being."

Clara then added that it makes no difference whether we summon power to ourselves in a state of wakefulness or in dreams.

Clara did admit, though, that in dreaming our alignment with intent is seemingly more elusive and potent.

Yet, the increased energy and increased awareness we gain from our purposeful attempts to align ourselves completely with the spirit is equally valid and enriching whether we try it while awake or dreaming.

To bridge, then, wakefullness and dreaming, Clara said that what we experience in wakefulness in terms of power, we should try to put into practice in our dreams; and whatever power we experience in dreams we should try to use while we are awake.

Clara emphasized, "What really counts is being aware regardless of whether we are awake or asleep."

She peered at me and repeated, "What counts is being aware."

Clara was silent for a moment. Then she told me something I considered to be completely irrational.

She said, "Being aware of time, for example, can make a man's life span several hundred years."

"That is absurd," I said. "How can a man live that long?"

Clara explained, "Being aware of time is a special state of awareness that prevents us from aging quickly and dying in a few decades.

"There is a belief handed down from the ancient sorcerers, that if we would be able to use our bodies as conduits for the spirit, or, in other words, if we would empty our warehouses, we would be able to slip out of the world to roam elsewhere."

"Where would we go?" I asked.

Clara looked at me in surprise, as if I ought to know the answer. She replied, "To the realm of not-being; to the shadows' world.

"It is believed that once our warehouse is empty, we would become so light that we could soar through the void and nothing would hinder our flight.

"Then we could return to this world youthful and renewed."

I shifted on the uncomfortable rock numbing my tailbone, and asked, "But this is just a belief, is it not, Clara? A legend handed down from ancient time."

Clara acknowledged, "At this moment for you, it is just a belief.

"But moments, like all things, are known to change.

"Nowadays, more than ever, man needs to renew himself, and experience emptiness and its accompanying freedom."

For a moment I wondered what it would be like to be as vaporous as a cloud and float up into the air, with nothing to bar my coming and going.

Then I mentally returned to earth again and felt obliged to say, "All this talk about being aware of time, and passing into the shadows' world, Clara, is impossible for me to accept or to understand.

"It is not part of my tradition, or, as you put it, it is not part of the inventory in my warehouse."

Clara agreed, "No, it is not. This is sorcery!"

I asked, "Do you mean to say that sorcery still exists and is practiced today?"

After a brief pause, Clara suddenly got up, and grabbed her bundle.

Then she calmly, but flatly stated, "Do not ask me any more about it.

"Later on you will find out whatever you want to know, but from someone who is more capable of explaining these things than I."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 10.


If you could decide the purpose of your actions, you would be creating sorcery.

Version 2009.09.10


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 10

Clara sat on a rattan armchair at the edge of the patio, and she brushed her shiny black hair.

Then she arranged it with her fingers until everything was in place.

After she had finished grooming herself, she brought her left palm to her forehead and stroked it in a circular fashion.

Then she moved her hand over the top of her head and down the back of her neck; after which she flicked her wrists and fingers in the air.

She repeated that stroking and flicking sequence several more times.

I was fascinated as I watched her movements.

There was nothing careless or haphazard about them. She performed them with intense concentration; as if she were engaged in a most important task.

I broke the silence by asking, "What are you doing? Are you giving yourself some sort of a facial massage?"

Clara glanced over at me and saw I was imitating her movements while I sat on the matching armchair.

She said, "It may appear like a facial massage to you, but it is not.

"These movements are sorcery passes, and this circular stroking prevents wrinkles from forming on my forehead.

"Sorcery passes are designed to gather energy for a specific purpose."

I flicked my wrists the way Clara had done, and I asked, "What specific purpose is that?"

Clara said, "The purpose of these sorcery passes is to keep oneself looking youthful by preventing wrinkles from forming.

"This purpose has been decided beforehand; and not by me, but by power itself."

I had to admit that whatever Clara was doing certainly worked. She had lovely skin that set off her green eyes and dark hair.

I had always believed that her youthful appearance was the consequence of her Indian genes. I never suspected that she deliberately cultivated it by means of specific movements.

Clara said that whenever she gathered the energy of her awareness, as in the case of these sorcery passes, it is called power.

She also said that whether energy is gathered under someone's command, or by itself, it is still referred to as power.

"Remember this, Taisha. You are going to hear much more about power; and not just from me, but from the others, too. They are expected back any time now."

Although Clara had constantly referred to her relatives, by now I had given up all hope of ever meeting them.

Her references to power had been an additional matter.

I never understood what she meant by power.

Clara announced, "I am going to show you some sorcery passes that you must perform every day of your life from now on."

She told me to do so many things every day of my life; the breathing, the recapitulation, the kung fu exercises, and the long walks; that if I lined up back to back everything she told me to do, there would not be enough hours in the day for even half of them.

I let out a sigh of complaint.

Clara saw my pained expression, and said, "For heaven's sake, Taisha, do not take me so literally.

Taisha

"I am cramming all I can into your peewee brain because I want you to know about all these things.

"Knowledge can assist in gathering your energetc awareness, so therefore knowledge is power.

Clara said that if I wanted to make any sorcery act work, I need only know what I intended as the result.

She added that I need not even know the purpose of the results I intended.

"If you could decide the purpose of your sorcery actions, you would be creating sorcery.

"And you and I do not have that much power."

I moved my chair closer, and said, "I do not think I am following you, Clara. For what do we not have enough power?"

"I mean that even together the two of us can not gather the overwhelming energy it would take to create a new purpose for the sorcery passes.

"But, individually we can certainly gather enough energy to intend the results of these sorcery passes; no wrinkles for us.

"That is is all we can do. The passes' purpose, to keep us young and youthful looking, has already been set."

I asked, "Is it like the recapitulation whose end result had been intended beforehand by the ancient sorcerers?"

Clara replied, "Exactly.

"The intent of all of our sorcery acts has already been set. All we have to do is hook our awareness to it."

Clara moved her chair across from me so that our knees were barely touching.

Then she vigorously rubbed each thumb on the palm of the opposite hand and placed them on the bridge of her nose.

She moved them outward with light, even strokes over her eyebrows to the temples.

Clara explained, "This pass will keep furrows from developing between your eyebrows."

After quickly rubbing together her index fingers, like two sticks starting a fire, she brought them vertically to each side of her nose and gently moved them sideways over her cheeks several times.

She said, "That is to clear the sinus cavities."

Clara deliberately constricting her nasal passages, then said, "Instead of picking your nose, do that movement."

I did not appreciate her reference to my picking my nose, but I tried the movement, and it did clear my sinuses.

Then she said, "The next pass is to keep the cheeks from sagging."

She briskly rubbed her palms together, and she slid them up each cheek to her temples using long, firm strokes.

She repeated this movement six or seven times; always using slow, even, upward strokes.

I noticed Clara's face was flushed, but she did not stop.

She placed the inner edge of her hand with her thumb folded over her palm above her upper lip, and rubbed back and forth with a vigorous sawlike motion.

She explained that the spot where the nose and upper lip join, when briskly rubbed, stimulates energy to flow in mild, even bursts.

"If you get drowsy in the cave while recapitulating, rub this point briskly, and it will temporarily revive you," she said.

I rubbed my upper lip and felt my nose and ears clear.

I also experienced a slight numbing sensation on the roof of my palate.

It lasted for a few seconds but took my breath away.

It left me with the sensation that I was just about to uncover something that was veiled.

Clara told me that if greater bursts of energy were needed, they could be obtained by pricking the point at the center of the upper gum underneath the upper lip and below the nose septum.

Clara moved her index fingers sideways under her chin, again using a quick back-and-forth sawlike motion.

She explained that stimulating the point under the chin produces a calm alertness.

She added that we can also activate this point by resting the chin on a low table while sitting on the floor.

Following her suggestion, I moved my cushion to the floor and sat on it, and rested my chin on a wooden crate that was just level with my face.

By leaning forward, I put a slight pressure on that chin point Clara had indicated.

After a few moments, I felt my body settle down: A prickling sensation rose up my back, entered my head, and my breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.

Clara continued, "Another way to awake the center under the chin is by lying on the stomach with the hands in fists, one on top of the other, under the chin."

She recommended that when doing the exercise with the fists, we should tense them to create pressure under the chin, and then relax them to release the pressure.

She said rhat tensing and relaxing the fists produces a pulsating movement that sends small bursts of energy to a vital center directly connected with the base of the tongue.

Clara stressed that this exercise should be done cautiously; otherwise I might develop a sore throat.

I went to sit in the rattan chair again.

Clara continued, "The group of sorcery passes I have shown you must be practiced daily until they cease to be massage-like movements, and they become what they really are; sorcery passes.

She ordered, "Watch me!"

I saw her repeat the movements she had shown me, except that this time she was making her fingers and hands dance.

Her hands seemed at times to penetrate deeply into the skin of her face.

At other times, her hands passed over her skin lightly; gliding on it's surface.

Clara's hands began moving more quickly; so rapidly that they seemed to disappear.

Watching her exquisite movements kept me mesmerized.

When Clara had finished, she laughed, "This way of stroking was never in your inventory. This is sorcery.

"It requires an intent different from the intent of the daily world.

"With all the tension that rises to the face, we certainly need a different intent if we are going to relax the muscles, and tone the awareness centers located there."

Clara said that all our emotions leave traces on our face more than on any other part of our body.

Therefore, we have to release accumulated stress using the sorcery passes with their accompanying intent.

She stared at me for a moment and remarked, "I see from the tension in your face that you have been pondering over your recapitulation.

"Be sure to do your passes before going to bed tonight to remove those creases in your forehead."

I admitted that I had been worrying about my recapitulation.

Clara said with a wink, "The problem is that you are spending too much time in the cave. I do not want you turning into a bat-girl.

"By now I think you have gathered enough energy to start learning other things."

She jumped out of the chair as if released by a spring.

I laughed at the incongruity of my seeing such a powerful woman jumping up so agilely.

I myself got up more slowly; as if I were twice her size.

Clara looked at me, shook her head, and noted, "You are too stiff. You need to do some special physical exercise to open your vital centers."



Clara and I went to the rack outside the back door of the house where the coats and boots were kept.

Clara handed me a wide-rimmed straw hat, and she led me to a clearing a short distance from the kitchen annex.

The sun shone brightly, and it was an unusually warm day.

Clara told me to put on the hat.

She pointed to an area surrounded by a wire fence where the ground had been dug in furrows. The ground was lined with small plants in neat parallel rows.

I was surprised because I had never noticed Clara working there.

I asked, "Who cleared the ground and put in all the plants? It looks like a huge project.

Did you do it yourself?"

Clara replied, "No. Someone else came and did it for me."

"But when? I have been here every day, and I did not see anyone."

Clara said, "That is no mystery. The person who worked on this vegetable garden came when you were at the cave."

Her explanation did not satisfy me.

The garden was so well organized that it looked like it had taken more than one person to lay it out.

Before I could probe her further, Clara announced, "From now on, you will take care of this garden. Consider it your new task."

I had thought that by physical exercise Clara meant that we were going to practice a new martial art form; preferably one using a classical Chinese weapon like the broadsword, or long pole.

I tried not to show my disappointment at being given yet another task that required daily attention.

Clara, seeing my downcast look, assured me that cultivating a garden would be good for me. She said it would give me the physical activity, and exposure to the sun, that I needed for health, and well-being.

She also pointed out that, for more than six months, I had been doing nothing but focusing on incidents of my life. My caring for something outside of myself would prevent me from becoming more self-centered.

It shocked me to realize that half a year had passed.

To me, it seemed like only yesterday that I had come to Clara's house, and my life had changed so drastically that nothing remained the same.

Clara jolted me out of my train of thought by saying, "Most people only know how to care for themselves; and not very well at that.

"Because of their overwhelming emphasis on themselves, most people's self becomes distorted; full of outrageous demands."

Clara walked me to a wooden gate; the entrance to the garden.

Clara said, "Working in this garden will give you a special kind of energy that you can not get from recapitulating, or from breathing, or from practicing kung fu."

"What kind of energy is that?"

She replied, "The energy of the earth."

Clara's eyes were as green as the new plants.

She added, "The energy of the earth complements the energy of the sun.

"Perhaps you will feel it entering through your hands as you work the soil. Or energy may start to flow into your legs as you squat on the ground."

I had never worked in a garden before, and I was not sure what to do.

I asked Clara to outline my duties.

Clara peered at me for a moment as if wondering if she had picked the right person for the task.

She stooped down and touched the soil, then said, "The ground is still moist from yesterday's rain. But when it is dry, you will have to carry buckets of water from the stream. Or if you are very clever, you can devise an irrigation system."

Confidently I said, "I might just do that.

"I will construct an electric water pump like one I saw at a house in the country, and I will connect the pump to the dynamo. Then I will not have to lug the buckets of water up the hill."

"It does not matter how you do it, as long as the plants get watered.

"Also, you will have to feed the plants every two weeks from that pile of compost at the end of the garden. And make sure that all the weeds are pulled. Around here they spread like wildfire. And keep the gate closed so no rabbits can get in."

I half-heartedly assured her, "No problem."

"Good. You can begin now."

She pointed to a bucket and she told me to fill it with compost, and mix it into the soil around each plant.

When I returned with the bucket full of what I hoped was not night soil, she gave me a digging tool to loosen the earth.

For a while Clara watched as I worked. She cautioned me not to dig too closely to the tender plants.

As I concentrated on the task, I felt a sense of well-being, and a strange peace surround me.

The dirt was cool and soft in my fingers.

For the first time since I had been in Clara's house, I felt truly at ease; safe and protected.

As if she had noticed my change of mood, Clara remarked, "The energy of the earth is nurturing.

"You are empty enough from your recapitulation that some of that nurturing energy is already creeping into your body.

"You feel at ease because you know that the earth is the mother of all things."

Clara swept her hands over the rows of plants, and said, "Everything comes from the earth.

"The earth sustains and nourishes us. And when we die, our bodies return to it."

Clara paused for a moment, and then added, "Unless of course, we succeed in the great crossing."

I asked, "You mean there is a chance that we will not die? Really, Clara, are you not exaggerating?"

She softly said, "We all have a chance for freedom, but it is up to each one of us to seize it, and turn that chance into an actuality."

Clara explained that by storing energy, we can dissolve our preconceptions about the world and the body; thus making room in our warehouse for other possibilities.

A chance not to die was one of these possibilities.

She said that the best explanation of this extravagant alternative was offered by the sages of ancient China.

They claimed that it is feasible for one's personal awareness, or 'te', to link up knowingly with the all-encompassing awareness, or 'Tao'.

Then when death comes, one's individual awareness is not dispersed as in ordinary dying, but expands and unites with the greater whole.

Clara added that my recapitulation in the setting of the cocoon-like cave had enabled me to gather and store energy.

Now I needed to use that energy to strengthen my bond with the abstract force called the spirit.

She said, "That is why you have to cultivate the garden, and absorb its energy; and also absorb the energy of the sun.

"The sun bestows its energy on the earth, and causes things to grow. If you allow the sun's light to enter your body, your energy, too, will flourish."

Clara told me to wash my hands in a bucket of water, and to sit on a log by a clearing outside the fenced garden because she was going to show me how to begin to direct my attention to the sun.

She said that I should always wear a wide-rimmed hat in order to shield my head and face.

She also warned me never to do any of the breathing passes she was about to show me for more than a few minutes at a time.

I asked, "Why are they called breathing passes?"

"Because the preset intent of these passes is to pass energy from the breath to an area where we place our attention.

"The focus of our attention could be an organ or an energy channel in our body; or could even be a thought or a memory as in the case of the recapitulation.

"What is important is that energy is transmitted; thus the intent established beforehand is fulfilled.

"The result is sheer magic because it appears as if it had sprung out of nowhere.

"That is why we call these movements and breaths sorcery passes."

Clara instructed me to face the sun with my eyes closed, and then take a deep breath through my mouth, and pull the sun's warmth and light into my stomach.

And as she had then instructed, I held a breath for as long as I could, then I swallowed, and finally, I exhaled all the air.

Clara teased me, saying, "Pretend you are a sunflower. Always keep your face toward the sun when you breathe.

"The light of the sun charges the breath with power, so be sure to take big gulps of air, and completely fill your lungs. Do this three times."

Clara explained that in that exercise, the energy of the sun automatically spreads throughout the entire body.

Also, she said we can deliberately send the sun's healing rays to any area of our body by touching the spot where we want the energy to go.

Clara then added, "Actually, after you have practiced this breath often enough, you do not need to use your hands anymore. You can simply use your mind to direct energy to any spot.

"Just visualize the sun's rays oozing directly into a specific part of your body."

Clara suggested that I do the same breath three times more, but this time breathing through my nose while visualizing the light flowing down into my back; thus energizing the channels along my spine.

The sun's rays would then flood my entire body.

Clara said, "If you want to bypass breathing using your nose and mouth altogether, you can breathe directly with your stomach, or your chest, or your back.

"You can even bring the energy through the soles of your feet and up through your body."

She told me to concentrate on my lower abdomen at the spot just below my navel; and breathe in a relaxed fashion until I could feel a bond forming between my body and the sun.

As I inhaled under her guidance, I could feel the inside of my stomach becoming warmer, and filled with light.

After a while, Clara told me to practice breathing with other areas of my body.

She touched the spot on my forehead between my eyes. When I concentrated my attention there, my head became flushed with a yellow glow.

Clara recommended that I absorb as much of the sun's vitality as I could by holding my breath; then rolling my eyes in a clockwise direction before exhaling.

I did as she instructed, and the yellow glow intensified.

Clara said, "Now stand up and try breathing with your back."

I stood, and she helped me take off my jacket.

I turned my back to the sun, and tried to place my attention on the various centers she pointed out with a touch.

One was between my shoulder blades.

Another was at the nape of my neck.

As I breathed, I visualized the sun on my back. I felt a warmth move up and down my spine, and then it rushed to my head.

I became so dizzy that I nearly lost my balance.

Clara handed me my jacket as she said, "That is enough for today."

I sat down feeling giddy; as if I were happily drunk.

Clara said, "The light of the sun is pure power. After all, it is the most intensely gathered energy there is."

She said that an invisible line of energy flows out directly from an opening at the very center of the top of the head, and the energy flows upward to the realm of not-being.

Or energy can flow from the realm of not-being down into us via the top of the head.

Clara said, "If you like, you can call it the life line that links us to a greater awareness. The sun, if used properly, charges this line and causes it to spring into action.

"That is why the crown of the head must always be protected."

Clara said that before we returned to the house, she was going to show me another powerful sorcery pass; one involving a series of body movements.

She said that it had to be executed in one single motion; with strength, precision and grace, but without straining.

She added, "I can not urge you enough to practice all the passes I show you. They are the indispensable companions of the recapitulation.

"This one did wonders for me. Watch me closely. See if you can see my double."

I was afraid I would miss something crucial, or not know what to make of it even if I saw it.

Panicking, I said, "Your what?"

Clara enunciated her words carefully as she repeated, "Watch my double. It is like a double exposure.

"You have enough energy to intend with me the result of this sorcery pass."

"But tell me again, Clara, what is the result?"

"An awareness of the double; the ethereal body; the counterpart of the physical body, which by now you must know, or at least suspect, is not merely a projection of the mind."

Clara moved to an area of level ground, and stood with her feet together and her arms at her sides.

I interjected, "Clara, wait. I am sure I do not have enough energy to see what you are referring to, because I can not even understand it conceptually."

Clara replied, "It does not matter if you understand it conceptually. Just watch closely.

"Maybe I have enough power to intend my double for both of us."

In the most agile movement I had yet seen Clara perform, she brought her arms over her head with her palms touching in a gesture of prayer.

Then she arched backward, forming an elegant bow with her arms stretched out behind her, almost to the ground.

She flipped her body laterally to the left so that instantly she ended up bending forward almost touching the ground; and before I could even open my mouth in surprise, she had flipped back and her body was gracefully arched backward.

Clara flipped back and forth two more times as if to give me a chance to see her double in her inconceivably fast and graceful movements.

At one point in her movement, I saw her as a hazy shape; just as if she were a life-size photograph that had been double exposed.

For that fraction of an instant, there were two Claras moving; one a millisecond behind the other.

I was completely perplexed by what I saw, and when I thought about it, I explained it to myself as being an optical illusion created by her speed.

But at a bodily level, I knew that my senses had witnessed something inconceivable.I realized I had had enough energy to suspend my common sense expectations, and I had allowed another possibility to enter in.

Clara stopped her exquisite acrobatics. She came and stood beside me and she was not even out of breath.

Clara explained that this sorcery pass enables the body to unite with its double in the realm of not-being; a realm whose entrance hovers above the head and slightly behind it.

Clara said, "By bending backward with the arms outstretched, we create a bridge. And since the body and the double are like two ends of a rainbow, we can intend them to join."

I asked, "Is there any specific time when I should practice this pass?"

"This is a sorcery pass of the twilight," she said. "But in order to do it, you have to have lots of energy and you have to be extremely calm.

"The twilight helps you to become calm and gives you an added boost of energy. That is why the end of the day is the best time to practice it."

"Should I try it now?" I asked.

Clara looked at me doubtfully, so I assured her that I had studied gymnastics as a child and I was eager to try it.

Clara replied, "The question is not whether you have studied gymnastics as a child, but how calm you are now."

I told her that I was as calm as I could be.

Clara laughed in disbelief, but encouraged me to go ahead and try it.

She said she would watch over me to make sure I did not break anything by twisting too forcefully.

I planted my feet on the ground, bent my knees, and began slowly executing my best backbend.

But, when I got past a certain point, gravity took over and I fell clumsily to the ground.

As she helped me up, Clara amiably concluded, "You are the farthest thing from being calm.

"What is bothering you, Taisha?"

Rather than revealing to Clara what was on my mind, I asked her if I could try the movement again.

She consented. But the second time I had more trouble than before.

I was sure my mental and emotional concerns had made me lose my balance.

I knew that the demands of my self, as Clara had said, were really outrageous. And they took all my attention.

I saw no solution except to confess to Clara what was on my mind.

I told her what bothered me the most was that I seemed to have reached a standstill in my recapitulation.

Clara asked, "What is causing it?"

I admitted that it had to do with my family. I said, sadly, "I know now without a doubt that they dislike me.

"Not that I did not suspect it all along-- because I did-- and I used to get into rages about it.

"But, now that I have reviewed my past, I can not get angry the way I used to, so, I do not know what to do."

Clara eyed me critically, moving her head backward to size me up.

She asked, "What is there to do? You have done the work, and found out that they disliked you.

"That is good! I do not see the problem."

Her cavalier tone annoyed me.

I had expected, if not sympathy, at least her understanding, and an intelligent comment from her.

I, on the verge of tears, emphatically said, "The problem is that I am stuck.

"I know that I need to go deeper than I have, but I can not.

"All I can think is that they disliked me; whereas I loved them."

Clara replied, "Walt, wait. Did you not tell me that you hated them? I distinctly remember..."

I interupted her, saying, "Yes, I did say that. But at the time I said it, I did not know what I was saying.

"I really loved them; my brothers too. Later I learned to despise them, but that was much later. Not as a child.

"As a child I wanted them to pay attention to me and to play with me."

Nodding, Clara said, "I think I see what you mean. Let us sit down and discuss this."

We sat down again on the log.

Clara began, "As I see it, your problem stems from a promise you made as a child.

"You did make a promise as a child, did you not, Taisha?" Clara asked, and she looked me squarely in the eye.

I said sincerely, "I do not recall making any promises."

In a friendly tone, Clara suggested that perhaps I did not recall because I had been very young when I made it; or because it was more of a feeling than a promise actually stated in so many words.

Clara explained that as children, we often make vows, and then we become bound by those vows even though we can no longer remember making them.

Clara said, "Such impulsive pledges can cost us our freedom.

"Sometimes we are bound by preposterous childish devotion, or by pledges of undying, eternal love."

Clara said that there are moments in everyone's life, especially in early childhood, when we have wanted something so badly that we automatically fixed our total intent on it, which, once fixed, remains in place until we fulfill our desire.

She elaborated by saying that vows, oaths, and promises bind our intent; so that from then on, our actions, feelings and thoughts are consistently directed toward fulfilling or maintaining those commitments regardless of whether or not we remember having made them.

She advised me to review, during the recapitulation, all the promises I had ever made in my lifetime, especially the ones made in haste or ignorance or faulty judgement.

Clara assured me that unless I deliberately retrieved my intent from those promises, intent would never rise freely to be expressed in the present.

I tried to think about what she was saying, but my mind was a mass of confusion.

Suddenly I remembered, and told Clara about, a scene from my very early childhood when I had been about six years old.

I had wanted to be cuddled by my mother. But she pushed me away, and said that I was too old for cuddling. She told me to go clean up my room.

Yet the youngest of my brothers, who was my mother's favorite, and who was four years older than I, had always been cuddled by her.

I swore then that I would never love, or get close to, any of them ever again.

From that day on I seemed to keep my promise as I always remained estranged from them.

Clara said, "If it is true that they did not love you, it has been your fate not to be loved by your family.

"Accept it! Besides, what possible difference could it make now whether they loved you or not?"

It still made a difference, but I did not tell Clara that.

Clara went on, "I too had a problem very much like yours.

"I had always been aware of being a friendless, fat, miserable girl.

"But through recapitulating I found out that my mother had deliberately fattened me up since the day I was born.

"She reasoned that a fat, homely girl would never leave home; and she wanted me as her servant for life."

This was the first time Clara had revealed anything about her past to me; and I was horrified.

She went on, "I went for advice about this problem to my teacher, who was definitely the greatest teacher one can ever have.

"He said to me, 'Clara, I feel for you, but you are wasting your time because then was then: now is now. Now there is only time for freedom.'

"You see, I sincerely felt that my mother had ruined me for life. I was fat and I could not stop eating.

"It took me a long time to get the meaning of 'Then was then, and now is now.'

"And now there 'is' only time for freedom."

Clara was silent for a moment as if to let the impact of her words settle on me.

Clara gave me a nudge as she said, "You only have time to fight for freedom, Taisha. Now is now."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 11.


You ought to know by now that the outward form of anything we do is really an expression of our inner state.

Version 2009.09.12


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 11.

Clara had asked me to rake the leaves in the clearing behind the house; and asked me to carry some rocks from the stream and make a border on each side of the path leading from the vegetable garden to the back of the patio.

As it was growing dark, I was becoming more and more apprehensive about finishing my task.

I had raked the leaves, and was hurriedly lining up the river rocks along the path when Clara came out of the house to check on my progress.

Clara glanced at the path, and said, "You are setting the rocks any which way. And you do not have the leaves raked up. What have you been doing all afternoon, daydreaming again?"

I knew, to my dismay, that an untimely gust of wind had scattered my neat piles of leaves before I had a chance to put them in a basket.

I said defensively, "The path looks pretty good to me. "And as for the leaves, well, can I help it if the wind made a mess of them?"

Clara replied, "When aiming for the perfect form, 'pretty good' is not good enough. You ought to know by now that the outward form of anything we do is really an expression of our inner state."

I told her that I did not see how arranging heavy rocks could be anything but hard work.

Clara retorted, "That is because you do everything just to get by."

She walked over to the row of rocks I had lined up.

She shook her head, and said, "These rocks look as if you have dropped them without considering their proper placement."

I explained, "It is getting dark, and I was running out of time,"

I felt I knew more than Clara about the subject of composition from my art classes, but I was in no mood for a lengthy discussion on aesthetics or composition.

Clara said, "Placing rocks is just like practicing kung fu.

"It is not how fast we do things, nor how much we get done.

"It is how we do things that matters"

Surprised, I shook my wrists to relax my cramped fingers as I asked, "Do you mean that carrying rocks is a part of martial arts training?"

Clara responded saying, "What do you think kung fu is?"

I suspected she was asking me a trick question, so I deliberated for a moment to find the right answer.

Then I said confidently, "It is a set of martial arts fighting techniques."

Clara shook her head, and with a laugh she said, "Leave it to Taisha to come up with a pragmatic reply."

She sat down on one of the wicker chairs at the edge of the patio from where we had a good view of the path.

I slumped into the chair next to her.

I propped my feet on the rim of a huge ceramic pot, and settled myself comfortably.

Clara then explained that the term "kung fu" was derived from the juxtaposition of two Chinese characters. One character meant 'work done over a period of time', and the other signifed 'man.'

When these two characters are combined, the new term refers to man's endeavor to perfect himself through constant effort.

Clara contended that whether we practice formal exercises; or arrange rocks, or rake leaves; we always express our inner state through our actions.

Clara concluded, "Therefore, to perfect our acts is to perfect ourselves. That is a truer meaning of kung fu."

I said, "But I still do not see the connection between garden work and practicing kung fu."

Clara replied with a tone of exaggerated patience, saying, "Then let me spell it out for you.

"I asked you to carry the rocks from the stream so that walking up the hilly trail with the added weight you would develop your internal strength.

"We are not just interested in building muscles, but rather in cultivating internal energy.

"All the breathing passes I have taught you thus far, and that you should be practicing daily, are designed to increase your internal strength."

From the way Clara looked at me as she had said I should be practicing the breathing exercises daily, I knew that she was aware I was not doing them religiously.

I felt guilty.

Clara continued, "What you have been learning here with me might be referred to in China as internal kung fu, or 'nei kung'.

"Nei kung uses controlled breathing and the circulation of energy to strengthen the body, and augment one's health.

"External martial arts like the karate forms you learned from your Japanese teachers, and some of the forms I showed you, focus on building muscles and quick body responses in which energy is released and is directed away from us."

Clara said that internal kung fu was practiced by monks in China long before they developed the external or hard styles of fighting that are popularly known as kung fu today.

Clara added, "But, understand this. Regardless of whether you are learning martial arts or the discipline I have been teaching you, the goal of your training is to perfect your inner being so that it can transcend its outer form in order to accomplish the abstract flight."

I felt my old mood of failure taking hold of me, and a feeling of dejection swept over me like a somber cloud.

I felt I would never be able to succeed in whatever it was that Clara wanted even if I did do the breathing passes as she recommended.

I did not know what the great crossing meant, much less could I conceive of it as a pragmatic possibility.

As if Clara sensed my need for encouragement, she patted me on the back as she said, "You have been very patient all these months."

"You have never really pressed me about my constant insinuations that I am teaching you sorcery as a formal discipline."

I saw the perfect opportunity to ask something that had been on my mind from the first time she used the word sorcery.

I asked, "Why do you call this formal discipline sorcery?"

Clara peered at me with an expression on her face that was seriousness itself.

She replied, "That is hard for me to say. My reluctance to discuss it is because I do not want to misrepresent it, and scare you away.

"Yet, I think now is the time to talk about it.

"But first let me tell you something more about the people of ancient Mexico."

Clara leaned toward me and in a low voice said that the people of pre-Hispanic Mexico were very similar in many respects to the ancient Chinese.

Perhaps they both had the same origins, but in any case, they shared a similar world view.

The ancient Indians of Mexico, however, then gained a slight advantage because the world they lived in experienced transition.

This made them extremely eclectic, and curious about every facet of existence.

They wanted to understand the universe, life, death, and the full range of human possibilities in terms of awareness and perception.

Their great drive to know led them to develop practices that enabled them to arrive at levels of awareness which are truly unimaginable for most people.

Those Indians made detailed descriptions of their practices, and they mapped realms that those practices unveiled.

This tradition they handed down from generation to generation; always shrouding it in secrecy.

Nearly out of breath with excitement or perhaps wonderment, Clara ended her discussion of those ancient Indians by saying that they were indeed sorcerers.

Clara stared at me wide-eyed. In the twilight, her pupils were enormous.

She confided that her foremost teacher, a Mexican Indian, possessed a complete knowledge of those ancient practices. And he had taught them to her.

I asked, with matching excitement, "Are you teaching me those practices, Clara? You said the crystals were used as weapons by the ancient sorcerers, and the sorcery passes were empowered with their intent, and the recapitulation also was devised in ancient times. Does that mean that I am learning sorcery?"

Clara replied, "That is partially true. But for the time being, it is better not to focus on the fact that these practices are sorcery."

"Why not?"

"Because we are interested in something beyond the aberrant, esoteric rituals and incantations of those sorcerers of ancient times.

"You see, we believe that their bizarre practices and obsessive search for power resulted only in a greater enhancement of their 'self's.

"Sorcery is a dead-end road because it never leads to total freedom, and total freedom is what we ourselves are after.

"The danger is that one can easily become swayed by the mood of those sorcerers."

I assured Clara, "I would not become swayed."

She said, exasperated, "I really can not tell you any more at the moment, but you will find out more as you go along."

I felt betrayed and protested vehemently.

I accused her of deliberately toying with my mind and feelings by keeping me dangling with bits of information that piqued my curiosity; and with promises that all was going to be clarified at some unspecified future date.

Clara completely ignored my protests. It was as if I had not said a word.

She stood up, walked over to the pile of rocks, and picked one up as if it were made of Styrofoam.

After deliberating for a moment as to which side to turn up, she set the rock down on the edge of the path.

She then arranged two more rocks the size of footballs on either side of it. When she was satisfied with their placement, she stepped back to study the effect.

I had to admit that the smooth gray rocks she had set, and the garden path, and the jagged green leaves of the plants, made a most harmonious composition.

Clara picked up another rock and reminded me, "It is the grace with which you manipulate things that matters.

"Your inner state is reflected in the way you move, talk, eat or place rocks.

"It does not matter what you do, as long as you gather energy with your actions and transform it into power."

Clara held the rock in her hands and she gazed at the path as if considering where to place it.

When she found a suitable spot, she gently set the rock down, and gave it an affectionate pat.

Clara explained, "As an artist you should know that the rocks have to be put where they are in balance, and not simply where it is easiest for you to drop them.

"Of course, if you were imbued with power, you could drop them any which way and the result would be beauty itself.

"Your understanding this is the real purpose of the exercise of placing rocks."

From the tone of her voice, and the ugly, erratic arrangement of my rocks, I realized I had failed again at my task.

I felt acutely dejected.

"Clara, I am not an artist," I confessed. "I am merely a student. In fact, I am an ex-student. I dropped out of art school a year ago.

"I like to make believe that I am an artist, but that is about all. I am really nothing."

Clara reminded me, "We are all nothing."

"I know, but you are a mysterious, powerful nothing while I am a meager, stupid, petty nothing. I can not even set down a bunch of dumb rocks. There is no..."

Clara clamped her hand over my mouth, and said, "Do not say another word."

Clara then warned me, "I am telling you again. Be careful of what you say out loud at this house; especially in the twilight!"

It was almost dark then, and everything was absolutely still to the point of being eerie.

The birds were silent. Everything had quieted down. Even the wind, which had been so annoying earlier while I was trying to rake the leaves, had settled.

Clara whispered, "This is a time of no shadows. Let us sit in the dark under this tree, and find out if you can summon the shadows' world."

I, in a loud whisper that bordered on a screech, said, "Wait a moment, Clara. What are you going to do to me?"

My stomach was cramping with waves of nervousness, and in spite of the cold, my forehead was perspiring.

Clara asked me then outright if I had been practicing the breaths and the sorcery passes she had taught me.

Although I would have to lie, I wanted more than anything to tell her that I had.

In truth, I had practiced them minimally just so I would not forget them. Recapitulating took all of my available energy, and left me no time for anything else. At night I was too tired to do anything, so I just went to bed.

Clara leaned closer to me, and said, "You have not been doing them regularly or you would not be in this sorry state now. You are trembling like a leaf.

"There is a secret to the breathing and to the passes I have taught you that makes them invaluable."

I stammered, "What is that?"

Clara tapped me on the head, and said, "You have to practice them every day, or else they are worthless.

"You would not think of going without eating, or without drinking water, would you?

"The exercises I have taught you are even more important than food and water."

Clara had made her point.

I silently vowed that I would do them before going to bed, and again upon awakening before going to the cave; every night, and each morning.

Clara explained, "The human body has an extra energy system that comes into play when we are under stress.

"Stress happens any time you do anything to excess like being overly concerned with yourself and your performance; as you are now.

"That is why avoiding excesses is one of the fundamental precepts of the art of freedom."

Clara said that whether she called them breaths or sorcery passes, the movements she was teaching me were important because they operate directly on my reserve system.

The reason the movements are be called indispensable passes is because they allow added energy to pass into and through our reserve pathways.

Then when we are summoned to action, instead of being depleted from stress, we have surplus energy for extraordinary tasks and we become stronger.

Clara went on, "Now, before we summon the shadows' world, I will show you two more indispensable sorcery passes which combine breathing and movements."

"Do them every day. Not only will you not feel tired or get sick, but you will have plenty of surplus energy for your intending."

"For my what?"

"Your intending," Clara repeated. "For intending the result of anything you do. Remember?"

She held my shoulders and twisted me around so that I was facing north.

Clara proclaimed, "This movement is particularly important for you, Taisha, because your lungs are weakened from excessive weeping.

"A lifetime of feeling sorry for yourself certainly has taken its toll on your lungs."

Her statements jolted me to attention, and I watched her bend her knees and ankles, and assume a martial art posture called the 'straight horse.'

The stance simulates the sitting position of a rider mounted on a horse with legs a shoulders' width apart, and slightly bowed.

The index finger of her left hand was pointed down, while her other fingers were curled at the second joint.

As she began to inhale, she gently but forcefully turned her head to the right as far as she could, and rotated her left arm at the shoulder joint over her head in a full circle all the way to the back, ending up with the heel of her left palm resting on her tailbone.

Simultaneously she had brought her right arm around her waist to her back. She placed her right fist over the back of her left hand, and wedged it against her bent left wrist.

Using her right fist, she pushed up her left arm along her spinal column with her left elbow bent akimbo, and finished her inhalation.

She held her breath for a count of seven, then released the tension on her left arm.

She lowered her left arm to her tailbone again and rotated her arm at the shoulder joint straight overhead and then to the front; ending up with the heel of her left palm resting on her pubis.

Simultaneously she brought her right arm around her waist to the front and placed that fist on the back of her left hand, and pushed the left arm up her abdomen as she finished exhaling.

"Do this movement once with your left arm, and again with your right one," she said. "That way you will balance your two sides."

To demonstrate, she repeated the same movements, alternating arms, and this time turning her head to the left.

"Now you try it, Taisha," she said, stepping aside to give me room to circle my arm backward.

I replicated her movements.

As I swung my left arm back, I felt a painful tension along the underside of my extended arm, running all the way from my finger to my armpit.

Clara said, "Relax and let the breath's energy flow through your arm and out of the tip of your index finger. Keep that finger extended and the other fingers curved. That way you will release any blockage of energy along the pathways in your arm."

The pain grew even more acute as I pushed my bent arm upward along my back.

Clara noticed my pinched expression, so she warned, "Do not push too hard, or you will strain your tendons. And round your shoulders a bit more as you push."

After performing the movement with my right arm, I felt a burning in my thigh muscles from standing with my knees and ankles bent.

Even though I stood in the same position every day while practicing kung fu, my legs seemed to vibrate as if an electric current were running through them.

Clara suggested I stand up and shake my legs a few times to release the tension.

Clara emphasized that within that sorcery pass, rotating and pushing the arms up in conjunction with breathing moves energy to the organs in the chest, and vitalizes them. The pass massages deep, underlying centers that rarely are activated.

Turning the head massages the glands in the neck, and also opens energy passageways to the back of the head.

She explained that if awakened and nourished by the energy from breathing, these centers could unravel mysteries beyond anything we can imagine.

Clara continued, "For the next sorcery pass, stand with your feet together, and look straight ahead as if you were facing a door that you are going to open."

Clara told me to raise my hands to eye level, and to curl my fingers as if I were placing them inside the recessed handles of sliding doors that open in the middle.

She explained, "What you are going to open is a crack in the energy lines of the world."

"Imagine those lines as rigid vertical cords that make a screen in front of you.

"Now grab a bunch of the fibers, and pull them apart with all your might.

"Pull them apart until the opening is big enough for you to step through."

She told me that once I had made that hole, I should step forward with my left leg and then quickly, using my left foot as a pivot, rotate one hundred and eighty degrees counterclockwise to face the direction from which I had come.

By my turning in this manner, the energy lines I had pushed apart would wrap around me.

To return, she said, I had to open the lines again by pulling them apart the same way I had done before, then step out with the right foot and quickly turn one hundred and eighty degrees clockwise as soon as I had taken the step. In this fashion, I would have unwrapped myself and would again be facing the direction in which I had begun the sorcery pass.

Clara cautioned, "This is one of the most powerful and mysterious of all the sorcery passes. With it you can open doors to different worlds. Clara quickly added, "...provided of course that you are able to realize the intent of the pass, and that you have a surplus of internal energy stored."

Her serious tone and expression made me ill at ease.

I did not know what to expect if I succeeded in opening that invisible door.

In a brusque tone, she then gave me some final instructions.

She said, "When you step in, your body has to feel rooted, heavy, full of tension.

"But once you are inside and you are prepared to turn around, you should feel light and airy; as if you were floating upward.

"Exhale sharply as you first lunge forward through the opening, then fill your lungs completely by inhaling slowly and deeply the energy from behind that screen."

I practiced the pass several times as Clara looked on, but it was as if I were only going through the outward motions.

I could not feel the energy fibers forming the screen that Clara was talking about.

Clara encouraged me by prompting, "You are not pulling the door open hard enough. Use your internal energy and not just your arm muscles. Expel the stale air, and pull in your stomach as you lunge forward. Once inside, breathe as many times as you can, but be on the alert. Do not stay longer than you need to."

Clara stood behind me and held my forearms as I mustered up all my strength, reached out, and grabbed the air.

Clara gave my forearms a tremendous pull sideways.

Instantly I felt as if some sliding doors had opened.

As I exhaled sharply, Clara pushed me forward with a shove, and I lunged through the opening.

I remembered to turn around and breathe deeply.

As Clara watched me breathing, I became worried that I would not know when to come out.

Clara sensed this and she told me when to stop breathing, and step out.

Clara said, "As you practice this sorcery pass by yourself, you will learn to do it perfectly.

"But be careful. All sorts of things can happen once you go through that opening.

"You have to be cautious while at the same time bold."

"How will I know which is which?" I asked.

Clara shrugged. "For a while, you will not. Unfortunately, prudence comes to us only after we have gotten blasted."

She added that maintaining cautiousness without cowardice hinges on our ability to control our internal energy.

Diverting and storing energy in the reserve channels makes it available to us when we need it for extraordinary actions.

Clara said, "With enough internal energy, anything can be accomplished. But we need to store and refine it.

"So let us together practice some of the sorcery passes you have learned, and we will see if you can be cautious without being cowardly, and summon up the shadows' world."

I experienced a surge of energy that began as small circles in my stomach.

At first I thought it was fear, but my body did not feel frightened.

It was as if an impersonal force, void of desires or sentiment, was stirring inside me; moving from the inside out. As it ascended, my upper back jerked involuntarily.

Clara moved to the center of the patio, and I followed her.

She began doing some of the sorcery passes, slowing herself down to allow me to follow her.

Clara whispered, "Close your eyes. When your eyes are closed, it is easier to use energy lines that are already here to keep your balance."

I shut my eyes and started to move in unison with Clara.

I had no trouble following her cues for changing positions, yet I had difficulty in keeping my balance.

I knew it was because I was trying too hard to do the movements correctly. It was like the time I had tried walking with my eyes shut, but I kept stumbling because I desperately wanted to succeed.

But my desire to excel gradually diminished, and my body became more limber and subtle.

As we kept on moving, I became so relaxed that I felt I had no bones or joints.

If I raised my arms overhead, it seemed I could stretch them all the way to the tops of the trees.

If I bent my knees and lowered my weight, a surge of energy rushed downward through my feet.

I felt I had grown roots. Lines were extending from the soles of my feet deep into the earth, giving me an unprecedented stability.

Gradually the boundary between my body and its surroundings dissolved.

With every pass I did, my body seemed to melt and merge with the darkness until it began to move and breathe all by itself.

I could hear Clara breathing beside me, performing the same passes.

With my eyes closed, I sensed her shape and postures.

At one point, the strangest thing yet happened.

I felt a light turning on inside my forehead.

But as I looked up, I became aware that the light was not really inside me at all. It came from the top of the trees, as if a huge panel of electric lights had been turned on at night to illuminate an outdoor stadium.

I had no trouble seeing Clara, and everything on and around the patio.

The light had the strangest hue, and I could not decide if it was rose-tinted, pinkish or peach, or like pale terra-cotta.

In places, the illumination seemed to change its glare depending on where I looked.

Clara, peering at me curiously, said, "Do not move your head. And continue keeping your eyes closed. Just concentrate on your breathing."

I did not understand why she had told me to continue keeping my eyes closed since she must have seen that my eyes were wide open.

I tryed to determine the coloration of the light, for it seemed to change with every movement of my head, and its intensity fluctuated depending on how hard I stared at it.

I became so involved with the glow around me that I lost the rhythm of the breaths.

Then as suddenly as the light had turned on, it switched off again, and I was left in total darkness.

Clara nugged me an said, "Let us go into the kitchen, and heat up some stew."

I hesitated. I felt disoriented and out of place. My body was so heavy I thought I must be sitting down.

"You can open your eyes now," Clara said.

I do not remembered having had a more difficult time opening my eyes as I did at that moment. It seemed to take me forever to do it.

Each time I got them open, they would droop shut again.

This opening and closing seemed to go on for a long time, until I felt Clara shaking my shoulders.

"Taisha, open your eyes!" she commanded. "Do not dare to pass out on me. Do you hear?"

I shook my head to clear it, and my eyes popped open.

Apparently, my eyes had been closed all the time.

It was pitch black, but there was enough moonlight coming through the foliage to see Clara's silhouette. We were sitting under the tree on the two rattan armchairs in the patio.

I asked dazed, "How did I get here?"

Clara said matter-of-factly, "You walked over here, and sat down."

"But what happened? A moment ago it was light. I could see everything clearly."

Clara said with a congratulatory tone, "What happened is that you entered into the shadows' world."

"I could tell by the rhythm of your breathing that you had gone there, but I did not want to frighten you then by asking you to look at your shadow.

"If you had looked, you would have known that..."

I instantly understood what Clara was intimating, and I gasped, "There were no shadows. There was light, but nothing had a shadow."

Clara nodded. "Tonight you have found out something of real value, Taisha. In the worlds outside this one, there are no shadows!"





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 12.


If you talk to yourself, you can not breathe correctly.

Version 2009.09.12


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 12.

After more than eight months of faithfully practicing the recapitulation, I was able to do it all day long without fretting or becoming distracted.

One day, while I was visualizing the buildings and the classrooms and teachers where I had attended the last year of high school, I became so involved in going down the aisles and seeing where my classmates sat, that I ended up talking to myself.

I heard a man's voice say, "If you talk to yourself, you can not breathe correctly."

I was so startled that I bumped my head against the cave wall.

I opened my eyes, and the image of the classroom faded as I turned to look at the cave's entrance.

Outlined against the opening, I saw a man squatting.

I immediately knew that he was the master sorcerer; the man I had once seen in the hills.

He wore the same green windbreaker and trousers, but this time I could see his profile. He had a prominent nose and a mildly sloping forehead.

The master sorcerer's voice was low, and rumbled like a stream over gravel, as I heard him say, "Do not stare.

"If you want to learn more about breathing, remain very quiet and regain your equilibrium."

I continued taking deep breaths until his presence no longer frightened me, and I became, instead, relieved that I was finally making his acquaintance.

He sat down cross-legged at the cave entrance, and leaned in the way Clara always did.

In a low murmur he said, "Your movements are too jerky. Breathe like this."

He inhaled deeply as he gently turned his head to the left.

Then he exhaled thoroughly as he smoothly turned his head to the right.

Finally, he moved his head from his right shoulder to the left and back to the right again without breathing, and then back to the center.

I copied his movements inhaling and exhaling as completely as I could.

He said, "That is more like it. When exhaling, throw out all the thoughts and feelings you are reviewing.

"Do not just turn your head with your neck muscles. Guide it with the invisible energy lines from your midsection.

"Enticing those lines to come out is one of the accomplishments of the recapitulation."

He explained that just below the navel was a key center of power, and that all body movements, including one's breathing, had to engage this point of energy.

He suggested I synchronize the rhythm of my breathing with the turning of my head, so that together they would entice the invisible energy lines from my abdomen to extend outward into infinity.

I asked, "Are those lines a part of my body, or am I to imagine them?"

He shifted his position on the ground before answering.

He said, "Those invisible lines are a part of your soft body; your double.

"The more energy you entice out by manipulating those lines, the stronger your double will become."

I again asked, "What I wanted to know was, are they real or just imaginary?"

He said, "When perception expands, nothing is real and nothing is imaginary. There is only perception.

"Close your eyes and find out for yourself."

I did not want to shut my eyes. I wanted to see what he was doing in case he made any sudden moves.

But, my body grew limp and heavy, and my eyes began to droop shut in spite of my efforts to keep them open.

Before I drifted off into a drowsy stupor, I managed to ask, "What is the double?"

He said, "That is a good question."

"It means that a part of you is still alert and listening."

I sensed him take a deep breath and inflate his chest.

After slowly exhaling, he said, "The physical body is a covering; a container, if you will. By concentrating on your breathing, you can make the solid body dissolve so that only the soft, ethereal part is left."

He corrected himself, saying that it is not that the physical body dissolves, but that by changing the fixation of our awareness we begin to realize that it was never solid in the first place.

This realization, he said, is the exact reversal of what took place as we matured.

As infants, we were totally aware of our double. As we grew up, we learned to put increasingly more emphasis on the physical side and less on our ethereal being.

As adults we are completely unaware that our soft side exists.

He explained, "The soft body is a mass of energy. Usually we are aware only of its hard, outer casing.

"We become aware of our ethereal side by allowing our intent to shift back to it."

He stressed that our physical body is inseparably linked with its ethereal counterpart, but that link has been clouded over by our thoughts and feelings which are focused exclusively on our physical body.

In order to shift our awareness from our hard appearance to its fluid counterpart, we must first dissolve the barrier that separates the two aspects of our being.

I wanted to ask him how that could be done, but I found it impossible to voice my thoughts.

And yet, he answered my unspoken queson by saying, "The recapitulation helps to dissolve our preconceptions, but it takes skill and concentration to reach the double.

"Right now you are using your ethereal part to some extent. You are half asleep, but some part of you is awake and alert. It can hear me and sense my presence."

He warned me that there is considerable danger involved in releasing the energy that is locked within us, because the double is vulnerable and can easily become injured in the process of shifting our awareness to it.

He cautioned me, "You can inadvertently create an opening in the ethereal net and lose vast amounts of energy; precious energy that is necessary to maintain a certain level of clarity and control in your life."

"What is that ethereal net?" I mumbled, as if talking in my sleep.

He explained, "The ethereal net is the luminosity that surrounds the physical body.

"This web of energy gets torn to shreds during daily living. Huge portions of it become lost or entwined in other people's bands of energy.

"If a person loses too much vital force, he becomes ill or dies."

His voice had lulled me so thoroughly that I was breathing from my stomach as if in a deep sleep.

I had slumped against the side of the cave, but I did not feel its hard walls.

He explained, "Breathing works on both the physical and ethereal levels. It repairs any damage in the ethereal net and keeps it strong and pliant."

I wanted to ask something about my recapitulation, but I could not formulate the words; they seemed so far away.

Without my asking, he again supplied the answer.

"This is what you have been doing for the past months with your recapitulation.

"You are retrieving filaments of your energy from your ethereal net that have become lost or entangled as a result of your daily living.

"By focusing on that interaction, you are pulling back all that you dispersed over twenty years and in thousands of places."

I was thinking of auras, and I wanted to ask him whether the double had a specific shape or, color.

He did not reply.

After a long silence, I forced my eyes open, and saw that I was alone in the cave.

I strained to peer through the dark to the light at the opening where I had first seen him outlined against the entrance.

I suspected that he had slipped away, and was waiting nearby for me to crawl out.

As I looked, a bright patch of light appeared and hovered about two feet from me.

The light startled me, yet at the same time it enthralled me so much that I could not turn my eyes away.

I had the irrational certainty that the light was alive; conscious and aware that my attention was focused on it.

Suddenly the glowing sphere expanded to twice its size and became encircled by an intense purple ring.

Frightened, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that the light would disappear so I could leave the cave without passing through it.

My heart pounded loudly in my chest, and I was perspiring. My throat was dry and constricted.

With great effort, I slowed down my breathing.

When I opened my eyes, the light had vanished.

I was tempted to explain away the entire event as a dream, for I often dozed off during my recapitulation, but the memory of the master sorcerer and what he had said was so vivid that I was almost certain it all had been real.

Cautiously I crawled out of the cave, put on my shoes, and took the shortcut to the house.

Clara was standing by the living room door as if she were expecting me.

Panting, I blurted out that I had either just spoken with the master sorcerer, or I had a most vivid dream about him.

She smiled and pointed with a subtle movement of her chin to the armchair.

My mouth fell open. There he was; the same man who had been with me in the cave only minutes before, except that he was wearing different clothes. Now he had on a gray cardigan sweater, a sports shirt and tailored trousers.

He was much older than I thought, but also much more vital.

It was impossible for me to tell his age. He may have been forty or seventy. He appeared to be extremely strong, and was neither lean nor corpulent. He was dark, and looked Indian. He had a prominent nose, a strong mouth, a square chin and sparkling black eyes, which had the same intense look I had seen in the cave.

All of these features were accentuated by a thick, lustrous crop of white hair. The remarkable effect of his hair was that it did not turn him into an old man, as white hair ordinarily does.

I remembered how old my father looked when his hair turned silver and how he covered it with dyes and hats; all to no avail because old age was in his face, in his hands, and in his whole body.

Clara said to me, "Taisha, let me introduce you. This is Mr. John Michael Abelar,"

The man politely stood up and extended his hand. He gave my hand a strong shake, and said in perfect English, "Very glad to meet you, Taisha."

I wanted to ask him what he was doing here, and how he had changed his clothes so fast; and whether or not he had really been in the cave.

A dozen other questions ran through my mind, but I was too shocked and intimidated to ask any of them.

I pretended to be calm and not nearly as unsettled as I was.

I commented on how well he spoke English, and how clearly he had expressed himself when he talked to me in the cave.

With a disarming smile, he said, "It is nice of you to say so. But I ought to speak English well. I am a Yaqui Indian born in Arizona."

"Do you live in Mexico, Mr. Abelar?" I asked awkwardly.

He replied, "Yes. I live in this house. I live here with Clara."

He looked at her in a way I could only describe as sheer affection.

I did not know what to say. I felt self-conscious, and embarrassed for some unknown reason.

Clara, as if to put me at ease, said, "We are not man and wife." At that, both of them broke out laughing.

Rather than lightening things up, their laughter made me feel even more self-conscious.

Then to my dismay, I recognized the emotion I was feeling. It was pure jealousy.

In an inexplicable possessive impulse, I felt that he belonged to me. I tried to conceal my embarrassment by quickly asking some trivial questions.

I asked, "Have you lived in Mexico for a long time?"

He said, "Yes, I have."

"Are you planning to return to the United States?"

He fixed me with his fierce eyes, then smiled and said in a charming way, "Those details are unimportant, Taisha.

"Why do you not ask me about the topic we discussed in the cave? Was anything unclear?"

At Clara's suggestion, we sat down; Clara and I on the sofa, and on the winged chair.

I asked him if he would tell me more about the double. The concept interested me enormously.

Mr. Abelar began, "Some persons are masters of the double. They can not only focus their awareness on it, but also spur it into action.

"The majority of us, however, are scarcely aware that our ethereal side exists."

I asked, "What does the double do?"

"Anything we want it to do.

"It can jump over trees, or fly through the air. It can become large or small, or take the shape of an animal.

"Or it can become aware of people's thoughts; or become a thought itself, and hurl itself in an instant over vast distances."

Clara, looking straight at me, interjected, "It can even act like the self.

"If you know how to use it, you can appear in front of someone and talk to him as if you were really there."

Mr. Abelar nodded. "In the cave, you were able to perceive my presence with your double.

"It was only when your reason woke up that you doubted that your experience had been real."

I said, "I am still doubtingit. Were you really there?"

Mr. Abelar replied with a wink, "Of course; as much as I am really here."

For a moment I wondered if I was dreaming now, but my reason assured me I could not possibly be.

Just to make certain, I touched the table. It felt solid.

I leaned back on the sofa, and asked, "How did you do it?"

Mr. Abelar was silent for a moment as if choosing his words, and then he said, "I let go of my physical body and allowed my double to take over.

"If our awareness is tied to the double, we are not affected by the laws of the physical world; rather, we are governed by ethereal forces.

"But as long as awareness is tied to the physical body, our movements are limited by gravity and other constraints."

I still did not understand if that meant that he could be in two places at once. He seemed to sense my confusion.

Mr. Abelar said, "Clara tells me you are interested in martial arts. The difference between the average person and an expert in kung fu is that the latter has learned to control his soft body."

I said, "My karate teachers used to tell me the same thing. They insisted that martial arts trained the soft side of the body, but I could never understand what they meant."

Mr. Abelar said, "What they probably meant was that when an expert practitioner attacks, he strikes the vulnerable points of his enemy's soft body.

"It is not the power of the physical body that is destructive, but rather the opening an expert makes in an enemy's ethereal body.

"A martial arts expert can hurl a force into that opening that rips through the ethereal net to cause major damage.

"A person may receive what seems at the time only a gentle hit, but hours or perhaps days later, the person may die from that blow."

Clara agreed, "That is right. Do not be fooled by the outward movements or by what you see. It is what you do not see that counts."

I had often heard similar tales from my karate teachers. When I had asked them how those feats were performed, they could not give me a coherent explanation.

I had thought at the time that it was because my teachers were Japanese and could not express such intricacies of thought in English.

Now Mr. Abelar was explaining something similar.

And although his command of English was perfect, I still could not understand what he meant by the soft body or the double, nor how to tap its mysterious powers.

I wondered if Mr. Abelar was a martial artist, but before I could ask him, he continued, "True martial artists, as Clara has described them to me from her training in China, are interested in mastering the control of their soft body.

"The double is controlled not by our intellect but by our intent.

"There is no way to think about it, or to understand it rationally.

"It has to be felt; for it is linked to some luminous lines of energy crisscrossing the universe."

He touched his head, pointed upward and said, "For instance, a line of energy that extends up from the top of the head gives the double its purpose and direction.

"That line suspends and pulls the double whichever way it wants to go.

"If it wants to go up, all it has to do is to intend up. If it wants to sink into the ground, it just intends down. It is that simple."

At that point, Clara asked me whether I remembered what she had told me in the garden the day we were doing the sun breathing exercises; how the crown of the head always needed to be protected.

I told her I remembered very clearly, and ever since then, I had been afraid to leave the house without a hat.

She then asked me if I was able to follow what Mr. Abelar was saying.

I assured her that I was having no trouble understanding him even though I did not comprehend the concepts. I also said that although I found what he was saying incomprehensible, it was also familiar and believable.

Clara nodded and said that was so because he was directly addressing a part of me that was not quite rational, and that part of me had the ability to grasp things directly; especially if a sorcerer spoke to it directly.

What Clara said was true. There was something about Mr. Abelar that put me even more at ease than Clara did.

It was not his polite and soft-spoken manner, but something in the intensity of his eyes that forced me to listen and follow his explanations despite the fact that, rationally, they seemed nonsensical.

I heard myself asking questions as if I knew what I was talking about.

I asked Mr. Abelar, "Would I be able to reach my soft body some day?"

"The question is, Taisha, do you want to reach it?"

For a moment I hesitated.

From my recapitulation, I had found out that I am complacent and cowardly, and that my first reaction is to avoid anything that is too troublesome or frightening.

But I also had an intense curiosity to experience things out of the ordinary, and as Clara had once told me, I possessed a certain reckless daring.

I said, "I am very curious about the double, so I definitely do want to get to it."

"At any price?"

I said lamely, "Anything short of selling my body."

At that they both burst out laughing so hard I thought they were going to convulse right there on the floor.

I had not meant it to be facetious, for in truth, I was not certain what secret plans they had for me.

As if sensing my train of thought, Mr. Abelar said that it was time to acquaint me with certain premises of their world. He straightened up and assumed a serious demeanor.

He said, "The involvements of men and women are no longer our concern. That means we are not interested in man's morality, immorality or even amorality. All our energy is poured into exploring new paths."

I asked, "Can you give me an example of a new path, Mr. Abelar?"

"Certainly. How about the task you are engaged in; the recapitulation?

"The reason I am talking to you now is because by means of the recapitulation you have stored enough energy to break certain physical boundaries.

"You have perceived, if only for an instant, inconceivable things that are not part of your normal inventory-- to use Clara's terminology."

I warned him, "My normal inventory is pretty weird. I am beginning to see from recapitulating the past that I was crazy. In fact, I still am crazy.

"The proof of it is that I am here and I can not tell if I am awake or dreaming."

At that they both burst out laughing again as if they were watching a comedy program and the comedian had just dropped his punchline.

Mr. Abelar said with a note of finality, "I know very well how crazy you are, but not because you are here with us.

"More than crazy, you are indulgent. Nevertheless, since the day you came here, contrary to what you might think, you have not indulged as much as you had in the past.

"So in all fairness, I would say that some of the things Clara tells me you did, like entering what we call the shadows' world, were not indulging or being crazy.

"It was a new path; something unnamed and unimaginable from the point of view of the normal world."

A long silence followed that made me fidget uneasily.

I wanted to say something to break the spell, but I could not think of anything.

What made it worse was that Mr. Abelar kept giving me sideward glances.

Then he whispered something to Clara, and they both laughed softly. That irritated me no end because there was no doubt in my mind that they were laughing at me.

I go up and said, "Maybe I had better go to my room."

Clara said, "Sit down, we are not through yet."

All of a sudden, Mr. Abelar said, "You have no idea how much we appreciate your being here with us. We find you humorous because you are so eccentric.

"Soon you will meet another member of our party; someone who is as eccentric as you are, but much older.

"Seeing you reminds us of her when she was young. That is why we laugh. Please forgive us."

I hated being laughed at, but his apology was so genuine that I accepted it.

Mr. Abelar resumed talking about the double as if nothing else had transpired.

He said, "As we let go of our ideas of the physical body, little by little or all at once, awareness begins to shift to our soft side.

"In order to facilitate this shift, our physical side must remain absolutely still; suspended as if it were in deep sleep.

"The difficulty lies in convincing our physical body to cooperate, for it rarely wants to give up its control."

I asked, "How do I let go of my physical body, then?"

Mr. Abelar said, "You fool it. You let your body feel as if it were sound asleep. You deliberately quiet it by removing your awareness from it.

"When your body and mind are at rest, your double wakes up and takes over."

I said, "I do not think I follow you."

Clara snapped, "Do not play the devil's advocate with us, Taisha.

"You must have done this in the cave. In order for you to have perceived the 'nagual', you must have used your double. You were asleep and yet aware at the same time."

What caught my attention in Clara's statement was the way she had spoken of Mr. Abelar when she had called him 'the nagual.'

I asked her what that word meant.

She said proudly, "John Michael Abelar is the nagual. He is my guide, and the source of my life and well-being.

"He is not my man by any stretch of the imagination, and yet he is the love of my life.

"When he is all that for you, he will then be the nagual for you also.

"In the meantime, he is Mr. Abelar; or even John Michael."

Mr. Abelar laughed, as if Clara had said those things only in jest, but Clara held my gaze long enough to let me know that she had meant every word of it.

The silence that followed was finally broken by Mr. Abelar, who said, "In order to activate the soft body, you have to first open certain body centers that function like gates.

"When all the gates are open, your double can emerge from its protective covering.

"Otherwise, it will forever remain encased within its outer shell."

Mr. Abelar asked Clara to get a mat out of the closet.

He spread it on the floor, and told me to lie face up with my arms at my sides.

I asked suspiciously, "What are you going to do to me?"

He snapped ack at me, saying, "Not what you think."

Clara giggled, and explained to Mr. Abelar, "Taisha is really wary of men."

He replied, "It has not done her any good."

That make me feel utterly self-conscious.

Mr. Abelar faced me, and explained he was going to show me a simple method for shifting awareness from my physical body to the ethereal net that surrounds it.

He ordered, "Lie down and close your eyes, but do not fall asleep."

Still embarrassed, I did as he asked. I felt strangely vulnerable lying down in front of them.

Mr. Abelar knelt down beside me and spoke in a soft voice, saying, "Imagine lines extending out from the sides of your body, beginning at your feet."

"What if I can't imagine them?"

He said, "If you want to, you certainly can. Use all your strength to intend the lines into existence."

He elaborated that it was not really imagining those lines that was involved, but rather a mysterious act of pulling them out from the side of the body, beginning at the toes and continuing all the way up to the top of the head.

He said that I should also feel lines emanating from the soles of my feet going downward and wrapping around the length of my body to the back of my head; and also other lines that radiated from my forehead upward and downward, along the front of my body to my feet, thus forming a net or a cocoon of luminous energy.

He said, "Practice this until you can let go of your physical body and can place your attention at will on your luminous net. Eventually, you will be able to cast and sustain that net with a single thought."

I tried to relax.

I found Mr. Abelar's voice soothing. It had a mesmerizing quality. At times it seemed to come from very close, and at other times from far away.

He cautioned me that if there was a place in my body where the net felt tight, or where it was difficult to stretch the lines out, or where the lines recoiled, that was the place where my body was weak or injured.

He said, "You can heal those parts by allowing the double to spread out the ethereal net."

"How do I do that?"

He replied, "By intending it; but not with your thoughts. Intend it with your intent, which is the layer beneath your thoughts.

"Listen carefully.

"Look for intent beneath the thoughts; away from them.

"Intent is so far away from thoughts that we can not talk about it. We can not even feel it, but we can certainly use it."

I could not even conceive how to intend with my intent.

Mr. Abelar said that I should not have too much difficulty casting my net because for the past few months, unknowingly, I had been projecting just such ethereal lines during my recapitulation.

He suggested that I begin by concentrating on my breathing.

After what seemed to be hours, and during which time I must have dozed off once or twice, I could eventually feel an intense tingling heat in my feet and head.

The heat expanded to form a ring encircling my body lengthwise.

In a soft voice, Mr. Abelar reminded me that I should focus my attention on the heat outside my body and try to stretch it out, pushing it out from within and allowing it to expand.

I focused on my breathing until all the tension in me vanished.

As I relaxed even more, I let the tingling heat find its own course.

It did not move outward or expand. It contracted instead, until I felt I was lying on a gigantic balloon, floating in space.

I experienced a moment of panic. My breathing stopped and for an instant I was suffocating.

Then something outside of myself took over, and began to breathe for me.

Waves of lulling energy surrounded me; expanding and contracting until everything went black, and I could no longer focus my awareness on anything.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 13.


He dedicated his life to leading us to freedom.

Version 2009.09.13


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 13

I awoke hearing Clara tell me to sit up.

It took me a long time to respond; first, because I was totally disoriented; and second, because my legs were numb.

Seeing my difficulty, Clara held me under the arms and pulled me forward, then propped some pillows behind my back so I could sit without her help.

I was in my bed and I had my nightgown on. From the light, I could tell it was late afternoon.

"What happened?" I muttered. "Did I sleep all night?"

"You did," Clara replied. "I was concerned about you. You went off the deep end into a perceptual limbo. No one could get through to you. So we decided to let you sleep it off."

I leaned over and rubbed my legs until the prickling sensation stopped. I still felt groggy and strangely enervated.

Clara said in her most authoritative tone, "You have got to talk to me until you are yourself again. This is one of those occasions when talking is good for you."

I had broken out in a cold sweat and my limbs felt limp and rubbery.

I plopped back onto the pillows and said, "I do not feel like talking. Did Mr. Abelar do something to me?"

"Not while I was looking," Clara replied, and laughed jovially at her own joke.

She took my hands in hers and rubbed the backs of them, attempting to revive me.

I was not in the mood for levity, and demanded, "What really happened, Clara? I do not remember a thing."

She made herself comfortable on the edge of the bed.

Clara said, "Your first encounter with the nagual was too much for you. You are too weak.

"That is what happened. But I do not want you to focus on that because you become discouraged so easily.

"Also, I do not want you to read between the lines, as you are apt to do, and come up with the wrong conclusions."

My teeth chattered asI said, "Since I do not know what is going on, how I am going to read between the lines?"

Clara sighed, and said, "I am sure you would find a way. You are exceptionally adept at jumping to conclusions; unfortunately, the wrong ones.

"And it does not matter that you do not know what is going on. You always assume that you do."

I had to admit I hated ambiguous situations because they always put me at a disadvantage. I wanted to know what was going on so I could deal with the contingencies.

Clara said, "Your mother taught you to be a perfect woman. By observing the surroundings, perfect women infer everything they need to know, especially when a male is involved.

"They can anticipate their man's subtlest wishes. Perfect women are always aware of changes in his moods because they believe that these changes are caused by something they themselves said or did.

"Consequently, they feel it is up to them to appease their man."

Having seen myself, by means of my recapitulation, acting in such a fashion again and again, I had to admit, to my chagrin, that Clara was correct.

I was well trained. I only needed a look or a sigh or tone of voice from my father and I would know exactly what he was thinking or feeling.

The same was true of my brothers. They had me jumping at the most subtle cues.

And worse still, I only had to imagine that a man did not like me and I would bend over backward to please him.

Clara nudged my side gently to get my attention, and with a most annoying smile she said, "If you and I had been alone last night, you would not have passed out so dramatically."

I replied, "What are you insinuating, Clara? That I find Mr. Abelar appealing?"

"Precisely. When a man is around, you undergo an instant transformation. You become the woman that will do anything for a man's attention, including passing out."

"I beg to differ with you," I said. "I really was not trying to play up to Mr. Abelar."

Clara said, "Do not just defend yourself. Think about it.

"I am not attacking you. I am merely pointing out to you what I used to feel and do myself."

Deep down I knew what Clara was talking about.

Mr. Abelar had such a charismatic charm that, in spite of his age, I found him utterly attractive. Yet I chose not to acknowledge this, either to myself or to Clara. To my relief, Clara did not pursue the subject of my feelings for Mr. Abelar.

She continued, "I understand you perfectly because I too had my John Michael Abelar. He was the nagual Julian Grau; the most handsome and debonair being that ever lived.

"He was charming, impish and funny. He was truly unforgettable.

"Everyone adored him, including John Michael and the rest of my family. We all kissed the ground he walked on."

As I listened to Clara rave about her teacher, it occurred to me that she might have spent too much time in the Orient.

I had always been disturbed by the obscene adoration that students in the karate world felt for their teacher; or 'sensei'.

Those students literally kissed the ground their teacher walked on. They brought their heads to the floor in obeisance whenever their master entered the room.

I did not say this to Clara, but I felt that she was lowering herself by revering her teacher so much.

Clara, oblivious to my judgements, went on, "The nagual Julian taught us everything we know. He dedicated his life to leading us to freedom.

"The nagual Julian Grau gave special instruction to John Michael Abelar; instruction that made Mr. Abelar qualified to become the new nagual."

I wanted Clara to see the danger and fallacy of too much veneration, and I said, "Do you mean, Clara, that naguals are like kings?"

She answered, "No. Not at all. Naguals have no self-importance whatsoever. And it is precisely for this reason that we can adore them."

I adjusted my previous question, and quickly asked Clara, "What I meant was, do they inherit their post?"

"Oh, yes! They certainly inherit their post, but not like kings. Kings are sons of kings.

"A nagual, on the other hand, has to be singled out by the spirit because unless the spirit chooses him, he cannot set himself up as our leader.

"A nagual to begin with is a person with extraordinary energy, but it is not until he is taught the rule of the naguals that he actually becomes a nagual himself."

I followed Clara's explanation, but I felt inexplicably ill at ease with it.

I realized upon deliberation that the part that bothered me was that the spirit had to make the selection.

I asked, "How does the spirit decide whom to pick?"

Clara shook her head and said softly, "That, my dear Taisha, is a mystery beyond mysteries. All a nagual can do is fulfill the spirit's biddings; or fail miserably."

I remembered that Clara had said that Mr. Abelar might one day be a nagual to me. I thought of him, and I wondered what bidding the spirit had in mind for him.

I tried to sound casual as I asked, "By the way, where is Mr. Abelar?"

"He left last night when he realized that you were out for the count."

"Will he be back?"

"Certainly. He lives here."

"Where, Clara? In the left side of the house?"

"Yes. At the moment, he lives there. Not at this precise moment," she corrected herself, "but nowadays.

"At other times, he lives with me on the right side of the house. I take care of him."

I felt a pang of jealousy so potent that it charged me with a surge of energy. I had a most disturbing twitch in the side of my mouth as I asked, "You said he was not your husband, did you not, Clara?"

Clara laughed so hard that she rolled backward onto the bed out of breath.

She sat up again, and assured me, "The nagual John Michael Abelar has transcended all aspects of being a male."

"What do you mean, Clara?"

"I mean, he is not a human being any longer. But I can not explain all this to you because I lack the finesse, and you lack the facility to understand me.

"The way I see it, my inability to explain things to you is the reason why the nagual gave you those crystals."

"What inability, Clara? You speak perfectly well."

"Then it is you who does not understand perfectly well."

"That is idiotic, Clara."

"Then how come I can not convey to you what we are, and what we have in mind for you?"

I took several deep breaths to settle my nervous stomach.

I fell prey once more to panic, and I asked, "What do you have in mind for me, Clara?"

She began, "It is very hard for me to explain.

"You and I belong to the same tradition. You are an integral part of what we are; and therefore, we are compelled to teach you."

"Whom do you mean when you say 'we'? Do you mean you and Mr. Abelar?"

Clara took a moment as if giving herself time to answer correctly.

She said, "As I have told you already, we are more than two. In fact, I am not really your teacher, and neither is the nagual John Michael. Someone else is."

"Wait, wait, Clara. You are confusing me again. Who is this other person you are referring to?"

"Another woman like yourself, but older and infinitely more powerful.

"I am merely your usher. I am in charge of preparing you; of getting you to store enough energy through your recapitulation so you can meet this other person.

"And believe me, her presence is much more devastating than the nagual's."

"I do not understand what you are trying to say, Clara. Do you mean she is dangerous and will harm me?"

Clara explained, "Your words illustrate the problem of my trying to answer your questions. You get confused because you and I have only a superficial connection.

"You ask me a question, expecting a clear-cut answer that would satisfy you; and I give you an answer that satisfies me and throws you into confusion.

"I recommend that you either do not ask questions or that you take my answers without getting into a dither." [* dither- an excited state of agitation]

I wanted to know more about Mr. Abelar and this other woman's plans for me. So with the hope of getting Clara to tell all, I promised that from then on, I would weigh all her answers with due consideration, but with no panic or agitation on my part.

Clara tentatively said, "All right. Let us see how you take this.

"I am going to tell you what the nagual told you last night before you passed out on him.

"But, since I am not a male, you no doubt are going to react differently to me than you did when the nagual talked to you. You might even listen to me."

I protested, "But I do not remember him telling me anything before I fell asleep on the mat."

Clara paused and searched my face; I supposed for some spark of recognition.

Although I was tring to appear as calm and attentive as possible, and I even smiled to reassure her, Clara shook her head to denote she found no spark.

Clara began, "He told you about all the beings that live in this house. He told you that they are all sorcerers; including Manfred."

At the mention of Manfred's name, something inside me clicked.

I blurted out without thinking, "I knew it."

I found the idea that Manfred was a sorcerer perfectly believable, yet I had not the vaguest notion of why it should be so.

I told Clara that at one point I must have already entertained that thought, although I still did not know exactly what a sorcerer was.

Clara assured me with a broad smile, saying, "Of course you do."

"But I tell you, I do not."

Clara looked at me bewildered, and said, "Are you sure you do not remember the nagual explaining this to you?"

"No. I really do not."

Clara, with an air of formality, said , "To us a sorcerer is someone who through discipline and perseverance can break the limits of natural perception."

We were on different trains of thought. Clara was talking about people I had not even laid eyes on, and I was talking about Manfred.

"Well, that does not make things any clearer," I said. "How can Manfred do all that?"

She seemed to appreciate my confusion.

"I think we are having a misunderstanding again, Taisha. I am not just talking about Manfred.

"It has not sunk in for you that all of us in this house are sorcerers. And not just the nagual, Manfred, and myself, but the fourteen others you have not yet met. We are all sorcerers; abstract beings.

"If you want to think of sorcery as something concrete involving rituals and magic potions, all I can tell you is that there 'are' sorcerers who are as concrete as that, but you will not find them in this house."

Only now after Clara had told me so directly did it strike me that she, Mr. Abelar, and the elusive others to whom she had repeated alluded were all sorcerers.

I remembered her advice and rather than ask any more questions, I thought it best I remained silent.

She went on to elaborate that abstract sorcerers seek freedom through enhancing their capacity to perceive; while concrete sorcerers, like the traditional ones who lived in ancient Mexico, seek personal power and gratification through increasing their self-importance.

I took a sip of water from a glass on the bedside table, and I asked, "What is wrong with seeking personal gratification?"

"Leave it to Taisha to side up with the concrete sorcerers," Clara said with a look of concern. "No wonder the nagual gave you those crystal darts."

In spite of my promise to stay calm, at the mention of the crystals, waves of nervousness ran through me.

My stomach began to cramp with such intensity that I was certain I was coming down with an intestinal flu.

Clara said, "It is nearly impossible for me to explain to you what we do, and even harder to convey why we do it. You must ask those questions of your teacher."

"My teacher?"

"Were you not listening to me, Taisha? I have already told you that you have a teacher. You have not met her yet because you do not have the necessary energy.

"Meeting her requires ten times more energy than meeting the nagual, and you still have not recovered from that encounter. You look green and pasty."

"I think I have a case of the flu," I said, feeling dizzy again.

Clara shook her head, and intergected, "You have a bad case of indulging.

"The nagual could also explain anything you ask him. The only problem is that you think of him as a male, so if he talks to you for more than a few minutes, rest assured, you are going to fall into your female mold. That is why your teacher has to be a woman."

"Aren't you making too much of this male-female thing?" I said, trying to get out of bed.

I felt weak and my legs were trembling. The room began to spin and I nearly fainted.

Clara caught me by the arm in the nick of time.

She said, "We will soon find out if I am making too much of it."

"Let us go outside and sit in the shade of a tree. Maybe the fresh air will help revive you."

Clara helped me put on a long jacket and some pants, and she led me like an invalid out of the room to the back patio.



Clara and I sat on some straw mats under the enormous zapote tree that shaded nearly the entire patio.

Once before, when I had asked Clara if I could eat the fruit, she had hushed me and then she had simply said, "Just eat, but do not talk about it."

I did what she told me, but I felt guilty ever since; as if I had insulted the tree.

Clara and I sat in silence and listened to the wind rustling the leaves.

It was cool and peaceful, and I felt relaxed and at ease again.

After a while, Manfred sauntered over from around the side of the house where he had a room with a large swinging panel cut into the door so he could come and go as he pleased.

He came up to me, and began licking my hand.

I looked into his soulful eyes and I knew we were the best of friends.

As if by an unstated invitation, he eased himself across my lap, making himself comfortable. I stroked his soft silky coat, and felt the most profound affection for him.

Gripped by an inexplicable compassion, I leaned forward and embraced him. The next thing I knew I was weeping, for I felt so sorry for him.

Clara demanded, "Where are your crystals?"

Her harsh tone brought me back to reality.

I said, "In my room." I let go of Manfred to wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my jacket.

Manfred took one look at Clara's disapproving stare, jumped off my lap, and moved across the walk to sit under a nearby tree.

Clara said, "You should have them with you at all times.

"As you already know, weapons like those crystals have nothing to do with war or peace.

"You can be as peace-loving as you wish and yet still need weapons. In fact, you need them at this moment to fight your enemies."

I sniffled, "I do not have any enemies, Clara. No one even knows I am alive."

Clara leaned toward me and she softly said, "The nagual gave you those crystals to help you to destroy your enemies.

"Namely, if you had the crystals with you at this moment, you could make your sorcery passes with them and that would help dissipate your nagging self-pity."

"I was not feeling sorry for myself, Clara," I said, on the defensive. "I was feeling sorry for poor Manfred."

Clara laughed and shook her head. "There is no way to feel sorry for poor Manfred. No matter what form he is in, he is a warrior.

"Self-pity, on the other hand, is inside you, and expresses itself in different ways.

"Right now you are calling it 'feeling sorry for Manfred.'"

My eyes began to tear once more as I realized that in addition to my insecurity, I did have a bottomless pool of pity centered totally on myself.

I had done enough recapitulating to realize that I had learned this reaction from my mother, who felt sorry for herself every day of her life, or at least every day of my life with her.

Since I never knew any other personal expression in her, that was what I had learned to feel myself.

Clara went on, "You should hold the crystal weapons in your fingers and make your sorcery passes at the heart of your elusive enemies, such as self-importance.

"Your self-importance comes to you disguised as self-pity, moral indignation, or righteous sadness."

I could only stare at her in dismay.

She went on to accuse me of being weak, and of falling apart the moment a little pressure is put on me.

But what hurt me more was when she then told me that my months of recapitulating were meaningless.

They were nothing but shallow reveries, for all I had done was to reminisce nostalgically about my marvelous self, or I had wallowed in pity remembering my not-so-marvelous moments.

I could not understand why she was attacking me so viciously.

My ears were buzzing as I experienced a surge of fury.

I began to weep uncontrollably, hating myself for having allowed Clara the opportunity to devastate me emotionally.

I heard her words as if they were coming from far away.

She was saying, "...self-importance, lack of purpose, unchecked ambition, unexamined sensuality, cowardice. The list of enemies that try to stop our flight to freedom is endless, and you must be relentless in your fight against them."

Clara told me to calm down.

She said she had just been trying to illustrate to me that our attitudes and feelings were our real enemies and that they were just as damaging and dangerous as any bandit armed to the teeth that we might encounter on the road.

She said, "The nagual gave you those crystals to round up your energy.

"The crystals are extraordinary for gathering our attention and fixing it. That is a quality of quartz crystals in general, and is the specific intent of these crystals in particular.

"To accomplish this, all you have to do is perform your sorcery passes with them."

I wished I had the crystals with me then.

Instead I looked at Manfred's sympathetic, shiny eyes. The thought occurred to me that they were reflecting light just as the quartz crystals had done.

For a moment, his eyes held my gaze. And as I stared at them, an irrational certainty popped into my mind.

I knew Manfred was a sorcerer of the ancient tradition, a sorcerer's spirit that had somehow gotten trapped in a dog's body.

The moment I thought that, Manfred let out a sharp yelp which I took as an affirmation.

I wondered, too, if it was not Manfred who had found the crystals for me in a cave, and had led the nagual to them the same way he had led me to my favorite lookout point in the hills overlooking the house and grounds.

Clara interrupted my mental speculations, saying, "You asked me once how it was possible that I knew so much about crystals.

"I could not tell you then because you had not yet met the nagual. But now that you have been introduced to him I can tell you."

She took a deep breath, leaned toward me, and said, "We are sorcerers from the same tradition as those of ancient times.

"We have inherited all their esoteric rituals and incantations. But although we know how to use them, we are not interested in making them work."

I forot that I had not mentioned to Clara my speculations about Manfred, and I exclaimed in sincere amazement, "Manfred is an ancient sorcerer!"

Clara looked at me as if questioning my sanity, and then she laughed so hard that the conversation stopped.

Manfred barked as if he too were laughing, and the eerie part was that I could have sworn that either Clara's laughter had an echo or that someone hidden around the corner of the house was also laughing.

Clara did not want to hear my details about light being reflected in Manfred's eyes.

I felt like a complete imbecile.

Clara chided, "I have told you that you are slow and not that intelligent, but you did not believe me. But do not worry; and rest assured that none of us is all that intelligent either. We are all arrogant, dumb, thick-headed apes."

She gave me a rap on my head to bring the point home.

I did not like being called a thick-headed ape, but I let the remark pass.

Clara continued, "The nagual has many other reasons for giving you those crystals, but he will have to explain them to you himself. The one thing I know for certain is that you need to make a pouch for them."

"What kind of pouch?"

"A sheath made with whatever material you feel is right. You can use suede, felt or quilt, or even wood if that is what you want to use."

"What kind of pouch did you make for yours, Clara?"

"I did not get any crystals myself," she said, "but I handled them at one time in my youth."

"You speak of yourself as if you were old. The more I see you, the younger you look."

"That is because I do plenty of sorcery passes to create that illusion," she replied, and laughed with childlike abandon. "Sorcerers create illusions. Just look at Manfred."

At the mention of his name, Manfred stuck his head out from behind the tree and stared at us. I had the uncanny sensation that he knew we were talking about him and that he did not want to miss a single word.

I automatically lowered my voice and asked, "What about Manfred?"

"One would swear that he is a dog," Clara said in a whisper. "But that is his power to create an illusion." She nudged me and gave me a conspiratorial wink. "You see, you are absolutely right, Taisha. Manfred is not a dog at all."

Manfred was sitting up, and he was definitely listening to every word we were saying.

I could not tell whether Clara had been simply coaxing me to agree with her for Manfred's sake, or whether she really meant what she said; that Manfred was not a dog.

Before I could find out which, a shrill noise from inside the house made both Clara and Manfred jump up and rush in that direction.

I began to follow, but Clara turned to me and said gruffly, "You stay where you are. I will be back in a moment."

Clara ran into the house with Manfred close on her heels.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 14.


I do not feel at ease with the word 'sorcerer,' because it connotes beliefs and actions that are not part of what we do.

Version 2009.09.13


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 14

Weeks went by, then months.

I did not really pay attention to dates or the passage of time.

Clara, Manfred and I lived in perfect harmony.

Clara had ceased to insult me, or perhaps it was that I had ceased to feel insulted.

I spent all my time recapitulating and practicing kung fu with Clara and with Manfred who, at one hundred pounds of bone and muscle, was a mighty dangerous opponent.

I was certain that to be rammed with his head was equivalent to being punched by a prize fighter.

The one thing that worried me was a contradiction I found difficult to resolve.

While Clara maintained that my energy was unmistakably on the rise because I could now have conversations with Manfred, I believed the opposite was true; that I was slowly going over the deep end.

Whenever Manfred and I were alone, a bond of indescribable affection would possess me.

I actually adored him, and it was this blind feeling of love that created a bridge between us so he could, at times, transmit his thoughts and moods to me.

I knew Manfred's feelings were simple and direct like a child's.

He experienced happiness, discomfort, pride in any accomplishment, and fear of everything; which instantly turned to wrath.

But the traits that I found most admirable in him were his courage and his capacity for compassion.

I sensed that he actually felt sorry for Clara for looking like a toad.

With respect to courage, Manfred was unique. His was the courage of an evolved consciousness aware of his imprisonment.

To me, Manfred was alone beyond comprehension, and no one can face that imposed solitude the way he did without possessing peerless courage.

One afternoon, upon returning from the cave, I sat down to rest under the shade of the zapote tree.

Manfred came to me, lay across my legs, and fell instantly asleep.

Listening to his snoring and feeling his warm weight in my lap made me drowsy.

I must have fallen asleep, because I suddenly woke up from a dream in which I was arguing with my mother over the advantages of not putting the silverware away after washing them.

Mr. Abelar was staring at me with fierce, cold eyes.

His gaze, the posture of his body, his extremely defined features, and his concentration gave me the total impression that he was an eagle. He imbued me with awe and fear.

The temperature and the light had changed. Twilight shadows had fallen over the patio and it was almost dark.

I asked, "What happened?"

Mr. Abelar said with a broad smile, "What has happened is that Manfred got hold of you, and is using your energy like a fiend. He did the same with me.

"There seems to be a genuine rapport between you two. Try calling him 'sapito' and let us see if he gets angry."

"No. I can't do that," I said, running my fingers on Manfred's head. "He is beautiful and solitary and in no way does he resemble a t-o-a-d."

I found it absurd that I had actually spelled the word, but something in me did not want to risk offending Manfred.

"Toads are also beautiful and solitary," Mr. Abelar said with a glint.

Spurred by a sudden curiosity, I leaned over to Manfred and with only the best of feelings I whispered in his ear, "Sapito."

Manfred yawned as if bored with my empathy.

Mr. Abelar laughed and said, "Let us go into the house before Manfred saps all your energy. Besides, it is warmer there."

I pushed Manfred off my lap, and followed Mr. Abelar inside the house.

I sat down very formally in the living room, acutely self-conscious at being alone with a man in a dark, empty house.

Mr. Abelar lit the gasoline lantern, then sat on the sofa a respectable distance away, and said, "I understand you wanted to ask me some questions. Now is a good time, so go ahead and ask them."

For an instant my mind went blank. Being confronted so directly with his intense stare made me lose my composure.

Finally, I asked, "What happened to me the night I met you, Mr. Abelar? Clara felt she could not explain it to me adequately, and I do not remember much about it."

He said, matter-of-factly, "Your double took over, and you lost control of your everyday self."

I asked, worried, "What do you mean, I lost control? Did I do anything I should not have?"

"Nothing that you could not tell your mother about," he chuckled.

His eyes sparkled and were full of mischief as he said, "Seriously, Taisha, all you did was to cast your luminous net as far as you were able to.

"You learned how to rest on that invisible hammock that is actually a part of you.

"Someday, as you become more adept, you may begin to use its lines to move and alter things."

I asked, "Is the double inside or outside the physical body? That night, it seemed to me that, for a moment, something clearly outside of myself had taken over."

"It is both," Mr. Abelar said. "It is inside and outside the physical body at the same time.

"How can I put it? In order to command it, the part of it that is outside floating freely has to be linked to the energy that is housed inside the physical body.

"The external force is beckoned and held by an unwavering concentration, while the internal energy is released by opening some mysterious gates in and around the body.

"When the two sides merge, the force that is produced allows one to perform inconceivable feats."

I was incapable of meeting his gaze directly as I asked, "Where are those mysterious gates you are talking about?"

Mr. Abelar replied, "Some are close to the skin, while others are deep inside the body.

"There are seven main gates. When they are closed, our inner energy remains locked within the physical body.

"The presence of the double inside us is so subtle that we can go through our entire lives without ever knowing that it is there.

"However, if one is going to release it, the gates must be opened and this is done through the recapitulation and the breathing exercises Clara showed you."

Mr. Abelar promised that he himself would guide me to deliberately open the first gate after I had successfully accomplished the abstract flight.

He emphasized that in order to open the gates, a complete change of attitude is necessary. Our preconceived notion that we are solid is what keeps the double imprisoned rather than any physical structure of the body itself.

"Could you not describe to me where the gates are so I can open them myself?"

He looked at me, shook his head, and warned, "To tamper haphazardly with the power behind the gates is foolish and dangerous.

"The double must be released gradually; harmoniously.

"A prerequisite, however, is that one remains celibate."

I asked, "Why is celibacy important?"

"Did Clara not tell you about the luminous worms a man leaves inside a woman's body?"

"Yes," I said, ill at ease and embarrassed. "But I must confess I did not really believe her."

"That was a mistake," he said, annoyed. "For without a thorough recapitulation first, you would literally be opening a can of worms. And to have sex would only be adding more fuel to the fire."

Mr. Abelar laughed heartily making me feel ridiculous.

He said, "Seriously, though, storing sexual energy is the first step in the journey toward the ethereal body; the journey into awareness and total freedom."

Just then, Clara entered the living room wearing a white flowing kaftan that made her look like a huge toad.

I began to snicker for thinking such a disrespectful thought, and immediately glanced over at Mr. Abelar, who I could have sworn was thinking the same thing.

Clara sat down on the armchair and smiled at the two of us sitting awkwardly on the couch.

She asked Mr. Abelar curiously, "Have you gotten to the subject of the gates yet? Is that why Taisha is pressing her legs together so tightly?"

Mr. Abelar nodded in utter seriousness. "I was just about to tell her that an enormous gate is in the sexual organs. But I do not think she will understand what I am talking about. She still has quite a few misconceptions in that department."

Simultaneously, they both broke out in such peals of laughter that I felt utterly disconnected.

I resented being laughed at and talked about as if I were not in the room.

I was about to tell them that they did not understand me at all, when Clara spoke again; this time addressing me.

She asked, "Do you understand why we are recommending that you remain celibate?"

I repeated Mr. Abelar's words, saying, "To journey to freedom."

I boldly asked Clara if she and Mr. Abelar were celibate, or if they were just recommending behavior they were not prepared to practice themselves.

Clara, not the least bit perturbed, replied, "I told you we are not man and wife. We are sorcerers interested in power; in gathering energy, not losing it."

I turned to Mr. Abelar and asked him if he really was a sorcerer and what that entailed.

He did not answer me, but looked at Clara as if he were asking her permission to divulge something.

Clara nodded her almost imperceptible assent.

Mr. Abelar said, "I do not feel at ease with the word 'sorcerer,' because it connotes beliefs and actions that are not part of what we do."

"What exactly do you do?", I asked. "Clara said only you could tell me."

Mr. Abelar straightened his back and gave me a frightening look that jolted me to attention.

He began formally, "We are a group consisting of sixteen people, myself included, and the being Manfred. Ten of the people are women.

"All of us do the same thing. We have dedicated our lives to developing our double.

"We use our ethereal bodies and defy many of the natural laws of the physical world.

"Now, if that is being a sorcerer, then all of us are sorcerers. If not, then we are not. Does that make things any clearer?"

I asked, "Since you are teaching me about the double, am I going to be a sorceress too?"

He scanned me curiously. and replied, "I do not know,"

"It will all depend on you. It is always up to us individually to fulfill or to nub our fate."

I asked, "But Clara said everyone in this house has a purpose for being here. Why was I selected? Why me in particular?"

"That is a very difficult question to answer," Mr. Abelar said, smiling. "Let us say that we are compelled to include you.

"Do you remember that night, about five years ago, when you were caught in a compromising situation with a young man?"

I immediately began to sneeze. This was my usual reaction when I felt threatened.

During my recapitulating I had remembered time and again being in compromising situations.



Since I was fourteen, I had been obsessed with boys, and had aggressively run after them, as I had run after my brothers as a child.

I wanted desperately to be loved by anyone because I knew my family did not like me.

But I always ended up scaring off my would-be suitors before they could get too close.

My aggressiveness made everyone think I was a loose woman; capable of anything.

Consequently, I had the worst reputation imaginable in spite of the fact that I had not done even half of the things my friends and family attributed to me.



I heard Mr. Abelar say, "You were caught on the food counter where you worked in the concession stand of a drive-in theater in California. Remember?"

How could I possibly not remember? That was by far one of the worst experiences of my life.

And because it was so sensitive, I had put off recapitulating it deeply; always skirting its fringes.



I had at that time a high school summer job selling hot dogs and soft drinks in a drive-in theater.

Near the end of the summer, Kenny, the young man who managed the concession stand, told me that he loved me.

Up to that moment, I had been indifferent to him because I had my eye on the boss, who was handsome and rich.

Unfortunately, the boss was interested in Rita, my red-headed nemesis, who was nineteen and gorgeous.

Every night soon after the movie began, she would slip into the boss's office and lock the door.

When she emerged just before intermission, her pink and white checkered uniform was wrinkled and her hair was limp and tangled.

I acutely envied Rita for all the attention she was getting.

What made it even worse was her promotion to running the cash register, while I had to continue passing out popcorn and serving soft drinks at the counter.

When Kenny told me that I was beautiful and desirable, I began to think of him in a different light.

I overlooked the fact that he had severe acne, drank beer by the gallon, listened to country music, wore boots, and spoke with a heavy Texan drawl.

All of a sudden I found him manly and affectionate, and all I cared to know about him was that his parents were Catholic and did not know that he smoked marijuana.

I was beginning to fall in love with him, and I did not want his personal details to stand in the way.

Kenny became incensed when I told him that I had to quit working at the end of the week because my family was leaving for a holiday in Germany, and I had to go with them.

He said my parents were deliberately trying to separate us.

He took my hand and swore that he could not live without me. He proposed marriage, but I was not quite sixteen so I told him that we would have to wait.

He embraced me passionately and said that the least we could do was to have sex.

I did not know if he meant sometime before I left for Germany or right then, but I thoroughly agreed with him, and I opted for right then.

We had about twenty minutes until the show broke, so I moved the rest of the buns from the worktable and began taking off my clothes.

He was frightened. He shook like a little boy, although he was twenty-two.

We hugged and kissed, but before anything else could happen, we were interrupted by an old man who burst into the room.

Upon seeing us in such a compromising situation, the old man grabbed a broom and hit me on the back with the straw side.

The old man chased me half-naked into the foyer in full view of the people who had lined up at the snack shop. They laughed and jeered at me.

The worst part was that I recognized two of my teachers from school. They were as shocked to see me as I was to see them.

One of my teachers reported the incident to the principal, who in turn informed my parents.

By the time everyone finished gossiping, I was the laughingstock of the school.

For years afterward, I hated that horrid old man who took it upon himself to be my moral judge.

I thought he had actually ruined my life because I was never allowed to see Kenny again.



Mr. Abelar, as if he had been following my thoughts, said, "I was that man."

At that moment, the full impact of remembering my public humiliation struck me.

To have the person responsible for it in front of me was more than I could bear.

I began to weep out of sheer frustration.

The worst part was, that Mr. Abelar did not seem at all sorry for what he had done.

Mr. Abelar said, grinning slyly, "I have been looking after you ever since that night,".

I read all kinds of kinky sexual nuances into his look and words. My heart was about to explode out of wrath and fear.

I knew then that Clara had brought me to Mexico for sinister reasons, centering on some secret scheme the two of them had been hatching from the start that included plenty of aberrant sex. I did not believe their claim of celibacy; not for an instant.

My voice cracked with fear as I asked, "What do you intend to do to me?"

Clara looked at me puzzled, and then began to laugh as if she had just understood all that had been going through my mind.

Mr. Abelar imitated my cracked voice as he asked Clara the same question, "What do you intend to do to me?"

Then his booming laughter joined Clara's to reverberate throughout the house.

I heard Manfred's howls from his room. It sounded like he too was laughing.

I was more than miserable. I was devastated.

I got up to leave, but Mr. Abelar pushed me back onto the couch.

He said seriously, "Shame and self-importance make terrible companions.

"You have not recapitulated that incident or you would not be in such a state now."

Then he softened his fierce stare to an almost kind look.

He added, "There is nothing Clara and I want to do to you. You have done more than enough yourself.

"That night, I was looking for the rest room and opened a door for employees only.

Since a nagual never makes such a careless mistake because he is always aware of what he does, I had to assume that I was fated to find you, and that you had a special significance for me.

"Seeing you there half naked, about to give yourself to a weak man who might have destroyed your life, I acted in a very specific manner, and hit you with the broom."

I yelled, "What you did was to make me the laughingstock of my family and friends."

Mr. Abelar said, "Perhaps. But, I also grabbed your ethereal body and tied an energy line around it."

"From that day on, I have always known where you were.

"Yet it has taken me five years to get you in a position where you would listen to what I have to say."

For the first time, what he was saying registered.

I stared at him incredulously, and asked, "You mean you have known where I was all the time?"

He said, "Definitely. I have been tracking your every move."

The implications of what he was saying were slowly rising to the surface of my mind, and I said, "You mean you have been spying on me."

He admitted, "Yes, in a manner of speaking."

"Did Clara also know I lived in Arizona?"

"Naturally. We all knew where you were."

I gasped, "Then, it was not by accident that Clara found me in the desert that day."

I turned to Clara, furious. "You knew I would be there, did you not?"

Clara nodded, saying, "I admit it. You went there so regularly it was not hard to follow you."

I shouted, "But you told me that you just happened to be there. You lied to me. You tricked me into coming to Mexico with you. And you have been lying to me ever since, laughing behind my back for God only knows what reason."

All my doubts and suspicions that had not had expression for months finally surfaced and exploded.

I yelled, "This has been nothing but a joke to you to see how stupid and gullible I am."

Mr. Abelar gave me a ferocious look, but that did not stop me from staring right back at him.

He tapped me on the top of my head to quiet me, and he said sternly, "You are deadly wrong, young lady. All this has not been a joke to us.

"It is true we laugh a great deal at your idiocies, but none of our actions are lies or tricks.

"They are utterly serious. In fact, they are a matter of life or death to us."

He was so earnest and looked so commanding that the bulk of my anger dissipated, leaving in its place a hopeless bewilderment.

I looked at Mr. Abelar, and asked, "What did Clara want with me?"

He explained, "I entrusted Clara with the most delicate mission of bringing you home, and she succeeded.

"You followed her, obeying your own inner drive.

"It was extremely difficult to get you to accept an invitation from anyone, but from a total stranger, it was nearly impossible.

"But she did it. Hers was a masterful stroke! I have only praise and admiration for a job well done."

Clara jumped up to her feet, and took a graceful bow.

She assumed a solemn expression as she sat down again, and said, "Leaving all joking aside, the nagual is right. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.

"For a while there, I thought you were going to let your suspicious nature get the better of you, and tell me to get lost. I even had to lie and tell you that I have a secret Buddhist name."

"You do not have one?"

"No, I do not. My desire for freedom has burned every secret in me."

I looked at Mr. Abelar, and said, "But I am still not clear as to how Clara knew where to find me. How did she know I was in Arizona at that particular time?"

Mr. Abelar replied, as if it were the most obvious thing, "By means of your double."

The instant he said that, my mind cleared and I understood exactly what he meant. In fact, I knew it was the only possible way they could have kept track of me.

He explained, "I tied an energy line to your ethereal body the night I burst in on you."

"Since the double is composed of pure energy, it is not that difficult to mark it.

"I had felt that, given the circumstances of our meeting, it was the least I could do for you as a form of protection."

looked at me, waiting for me to ask a question.

But my mind was too busy trying to remember more details of what had happened that night when he had run into the room.

Mr. Abelar gazed at me intently, and asked, "Are you not going to ask me how I marked you?"

My ears popped. The room became energized and everything fell into place.

I did not have to ask Mr. Abelar how he had done it. I already knew.

I exclaimed, "You marked me when you hit me with the broom!"

It was perfectly clear to me. But when I thought about it, it made no sense whatsoever, for that did not explain anything.

Mr. Abelar nodded, pleased that I had arrived at that realization myself.

"That is right. I marked you when I struck your upper back with the broom as I chased you out the door.

"I left a particular energy inside you.

"And this energy has been lodged in you ever since that night."

Clara came over, scrutinized me, and said, "Have you not noticed, Taisha, that your left shoulder is higher than the right?"

I had been aware that one of my shoulder blades protruded more than the other, causing my neck and shoulders to be tense.

I said, "I thought I was born that way."

Clara laughed and said, "Nobody is born with the nagual's mark. The nagual's energy is lodged behind your left shoulder blade.

"Think about it. Your shoulders got out of alignment after the nagual struck you with the broom."

I had to admit that it had been around the time I had had my summer job in the drive-in theater that my mother first noticed that there was something wrong with my upper back.



She was fitting a sundress she was sewing for me and saw that it did not fit properly.

She was shocked to find that the flaw was not in the dress but in my shoulder blades. One was definitely higher than the other.

The next day she had the family doctor examine my back.

He concluded that my spine was slightly curved to one side.

He diagnosed my condition as congenital scoliosis, but assured my mother that the curvature was so slight that we should not concern ourselves with it.



Clara teased, "It is a good thing the nagual did not leave too much energy in you, otherwise you would be a hunchback."

I turned to face Mr. Abelar.

I felt the muscles in my back tense, the way they usually did when I was nervous.

I asked, "Now that you have me reeled in, what are your intentions?"

Mr. Abelar took a step closer. He fixed me with his cold stare.

He replied solemnly, "All I have wanted since the day I found you was to do the same thing I did for you that night; to open the door and chase you out.

"This time, I want to open the door of the daily world and chase you out to freedom."

His words and mood unleashed a wealth of feelings.

For as long as I can remember, I had been always searching. I looked out of windows, and peered down streets as if something or someone was around the corner waiting for me.

I have always had premonitions and dreams of escaping, although I did not know from what.

It was this feeling that had compelled me to follow Clara to an unknown destination.

And this feeling was also what prevented me from leaving in spite of the impossibility of my tasks.

As I held Mr. Abelar's gaze, an indescribable wave of well-being enveloped me.

I knew that I had at last found what I had been looking for.

Following an impulse of the purest affection, I leaned over and kissed his hand.

Out of the unsuspected depth of me, I muttered something that had no rational but only an emotional significance.

I said to him, "You are the nagual to me, too,"

His eyes were shining and happy as we had finally come to an understanding.

He ruffled my hair in an affectionate way, and all my pent-up fears and frustrations exploded in a deluge of anguished tears.

Clara got up and handed me a handkerchief.

She said, "The only way I know to get you out of this sad mood is to make you angry or to make you think.

"I am going to do both by telling you this.

"Not only did I know where to find you in the desert, but do you remember that hot, stuffy little apartment you asked me to move your things out of?

"Well, the building is owned by my cousin."

I looked at Clara shocked and unable to utter a single word.

Clara's and Mr. Abelar's laughter was like a giant explosion reverberating inside my head.

I could not have been more surprised at anything they might have said or sprung on me.

As my initial numbness subsided, instead of becoming angry for being manipulated, I was filled with awe at the incredible precision of their maneuvering, and at the immensity of their control, which I finally realized, was not control over me but over themselves.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 15.


She is so far removed from human beings and their concerns that her energy might completely disrupt you.

Version 2009.09.14


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 15.

One afternoon several months after I had met Mr. Abelar, Clara asked me to keep her company while she worked in the yard; instead of my returning to the cave to recapitulate.

Near the vegetable garden beyond the back patio of her house, I watched Clara meticulously rake leaves into a pile.

On top of the heap, she carefully arranged some crisp brown leaves into an elliptical pattern.

I moved closer to take a better look, and I asked, "What are you doing?"



I was feeling tense and somber because I had spent the entire morning in the cave recapitulating memories of my father.

I had always thought he was a bombastic and arrogant ogre.

I came to realize that he was actually a sad, defeated man broken by the war and his thwarted ambitions. This left me emotionally drained.



Clara replied, "I am making a nest for you to sit on. You are to brood like a hen hatching eggs.

"I want you to be rested because we may have a visitor this afternoon."

I asked casually, "And who might that be?"

For months Clara had promised to introduce me to the other members of the nagual's group-- her mysterious relatives that had finally returned from India-- but she never had.

Every time I had expressed my desire to meet them, she always said I needed to cleanse myself first with a more thorough recapitulation because in my present state I was not fit to meet anyone.

I believed her. The more I examined memories of my past, the more I felt in need of cleansing.

I said testily, "You have not answered my question, Clara. Who is coming?"

"Never mind who," she said, and handed me a bunch of dry, copper-colored leaves.

"Put these over your navel and tie them with your recapitulation sash."

I said, "I left my sash in the cave."

"I hope you are using it properly," she commented.

Clara had told me that the sash supports us while we recapitulate. I was to wrap my stomach with it, and tie one end of it to the stake I planted in the ground inside the cave.

That way, she said, I would not fall over and bang my head if I doze off; or in case my double decided to wake up.

I asked, "Should I go and get it?"

Clara clicked her tongue, exasperated, and said, "No, we do not have time.

"Our visitor might be here any minute and I want you to be relaxed and at your best. You can use my sash."

Clara hurried inside the house and momentarily returned with a strip of saffron cloth.

It was truly beautiful. It had an almost imperceptible pattern woven in it. In the sunlight the strip of silk shimmered, changing its hue from a dark gold to a mellow amber.

Clara explained. "If any part of your body is injured or in pain, wrap this sash around it. It will help you recover.

"It has a bit of power, for I have done years of recapitulating wearing it.

"Someday you will be able to say the same about your sash."

I pressed Clara, asking, "Why can you not tell me who is coming to visit? You know I hate surprises. Is it the nagual?"

She replied, "No, it is someone else; but equally powerful, if not more so.

"When you meet her, you have to be quiet and empty of thoughts, or you will not benefit from her presence."

With exaggerated solemnity, Clara said that today, as a matter of principle, I had to use all the sorcery passes she had taught me; and not because anyone was going to test me to make sure I knew them, but because I had come to a crossroad and I had to begin moving in a new direction.

I pleaded, "Wait, Clara, do not frighten me with talk of changing. I am terrified of new directions."

"To frighten you is the farthest thing from my mind," she assured me. "It is just that I am a bit worried myself. Do you have your crystals with you?"

I unbuttoned my vest and showed her the leather double-shoulder holster I had fashioned, with her help, to hold the two quartz crystals.

The crystals were secured, one under each arm, like two knives in their own sheathes; complete with an overlapping flap, and fastened with a snap.

She said, "Take them out and have them ready, and then use them to rally your energy.

"Do not Wait for her to tell you to do so.

"Do it at your own discretion whenever you feel you need an extra boost of energy."

From Clara's statements, it was easy to deduce two things. This was going to be a serious encounter, and that our mystery guest would be a woman.

I asked, "Is she one of your relatives?"

Clara replied with a cold smile, "Yes, she is. This person is a member of our party. Now relax and do not ask any more questions."

I wanted to know where her relatives were staying.

It was impossible that they were staying in the house because I would have run across them or at least seen signs of their presence.

The fact that I had not seen anybody had turned my curiosity into an obsession.

I imagined that Clara's relatives were deliberately hiding from me and even spying on me.

This made me angry and at the same time even more determined to catch a glimpse of them.

The origin of my turmoil was the unmistakable feeling that I was constantly being watched.

I deliberately tried to entrap whoever it was by leaving one of my drawing pencils lying around to see if anyone picked it up, or by placing a magazine open at a certain page and checking it later to see if that page had been changed.

In the kitchen, I carefully examined the dishes for signs of use.

I even went as far as smoothing out the packed dirt on the path by the back door, then coming back later and searching the ground for footprints or unfamiliar tracks.

In spite of all my efforts at sleuthing, the only prints I ever saw were those of Clara, Manfred and myself.

If a person was hiding from me, I was convinced I would have noticed it. But as it was, there seemed to be no one else in the house in spite of my being certain that other people were present.

I finally blurted out, "Forgive me, Clara, but I have to ask you because it is driving me nuts. Where are your relatives staying?"

Clara looked at me surprised. "This is their house. They are staying here, of course."

"But where exactly?" I demanded.

I was on the verge of confessing how I had laid traps to no avail, but decided against it.

Clara said, "Oh! I see what you mean. You have not found any signs of them in spite of your efforts at playing detective, but that is no mystery. You never see them because they are staying in the left side of the house."

"Do they never come out?"

"They do, but they avoid the right side because you are staying here and they do not want to disturb you. They know how much you value your privacy."

"But not to show themselves ever? Is that not carrying the idea of privacy a bit too far?"

"Not at all," Clara said. "You need absolute solitude to concentrate on your recapitulation.

"When I said that you are going to have a visitor today, I meant that one of my relatives is going to come from the left side of the house to where we are and meet you.

"She has been looking forward to talking to you, but she had to wait until you had cleansed yourself minimally.

"I told you that to meet her is even more taxing than to meet the nagual. You needed to have stored enough power or else you would go off the deep end as you did with him."

Clara helped me put the leaves on my stomach, and tie them with the cloth.

Clara said, "These leaves and this sash will buffer you from the woman's onslaughts."

Then Clara gazed at me and added softly, "and from other blows too. So whatever you do, do not take it off."

"What is going to happen to me?" I asked, and I nervously packed in more leaves.

Clara shrugged, and said, "That will depend on your power." She gave the knot in the cloth a firm tug, and added, "But, from the looks of you, God only knows."

With trembling fingers I rebuttoned my shirt and tucked it into my baggy pants.

I looked bloated with the wide saffron band around my middle. The leaves were like a brittle, scratchy pillow covering my abdomen.

But gradually my jittery stomach stopped shivering and became warm, and my entire body felt relaxed.

The look I gave Clara must have surprised her because she asked me, "What do you think hens do when they brood?"

"I really could not say, Clara."

"A hen remains still listening to her eggs underneath her, and directs all her attention to them.

"A hen listens and never lets her concentration waver.

"In this unbending manner she intends the chicks to hatch.

"It is a quiet listening that animals do naturally but which human beings have forgotten, and therefore must cultivate."

Clara sat down on a large, pale gray rock and faced me. The rock had a natural depression in it and looked like an armchair.

Clara said, "Now, doze like a hen does and listen with your inner ear while I talk.

"Concentrate on the warmth in your womb and do not let your attention wander.

"Be aware of the sounds around you, but do not allow your mind to follow them."

"Do I really have to sit here like this, Clara? I mean, would it not be better if I just took a refreshing nap?"

"I am afraid not. As I have said, our visitor's presence is terribly taxing. If you fail to gather energy, you will sink pitifully.

"Believe me, she is not soft like me. She is more like the nagual; pitiless and hard."

"Why is she so taxing?"

"She can not help it.

"She is so far removed from human beings and their concerns that her energy might completely disrupt you.

"By now, there is no difference between her physical body and her ethereal double.

"What I mean to say is that she is a master sorceress."

Clara gave me a searching look and commented on the dark circles under my eyes. "You have been reading at night by the light of the lantern, have you not?" she scolded. "Why do you think we do not have electricity in the bedrooms?"

I told her I had not read a single page since the day I arrived at her house because the recapitulation and all the other things she had asked me to do gave me no time for anything else.

I admitted, "Although I am not particularly fond of reading, I do browse from time to time through your bookshelves in the halls."

I did not tell her that what I really did was that I went there snooping to see if any of the books had been removed by her relatives.

She laughed and said, "Some of the members of my family are avid readers. I am not one of them."

"But do you not read for pleasure, Clara?"

"Not me. I read for information. But some of the others do read for pleasure."

"So how come I never see any of the books missing?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

Clara giggled and said, "They have their own library on the left side of the house."

Then she asked me, "You do not read for pleasure, Taisha?"

"Unfortunately, I also only read for information," I said.

I told Clara that for me the joy of reading was nipped in the bud when I was in grade School.

One of my father's friends, who owned a book distribution firm, had the habit of giving him boxes of books that were out of print.

My father used to screen them and give me the literary books, which he said I had to read in addition to my regular homework.

I always took it for granted that he meant I had to read every word. Also, I thought I had to finish one book before beginning the next one.

It came as a complete surprise to me when I found out later that some people start several books simultaneously, and switch back and forth; reading according to their mood.

Clara looked at me and shook her head as if I were a lost cause. "Children do strange things under pressure," she said. "Now I know why you have turned out to be so compulsive.

"I bet if you try to remember those stories now, you will be shocked at what you find.

"As children, we can never question what is presented to us, just as you did not question that you had to read a book from cover to cover.

"All the members of my family have serious contentions about what is done to children."



"I have become obsessed with meeting your family, Clara."

"That is only natural. I have talked about them so often."

"It is not just that, Clara," I said. "It is more of a physical sensation.

"I do not know why, but I can not stop thinking about them. I even dream about them."

The minute I voiced that, something arranged itself in my mind, and I bluntly confronted Clara with a query.

Since she knew who I was, and her cousin being my landlord knew me, it suddenly occurred to me to ask whether I knew her other relatives too.

Clara, as if it were the most obvious thing, said, "Naturally all of them know you."

But she did not answer my question. I could not possibly imagine who they might be, and I insisted, "Now let me bluntly ask you this, Clara. Do I know them?"

"These are all impossible questions, Taisha. I think it is best that you do not ask them."

I became sulky. I got up from my seat of leaves but Clara gently pushed me down again.

She said, "All right, all right, Little Miss Snoop. If it will make you stay put, I will tell you.

"You know them all, but you certainly do not remember having met them.

"Even if any one of my relatives were standing right in front of you, my guess is that you still would not have even the slightest twitch of recognition. But, at the same time, something in you will get extremely agitated.

"Now are you satisfied?"

Her reply did not satisfy me in the least. In fact, it convinced me that she was deliberately mystifying me, leading me on, and playing with words.

I said, disgusted, "You must enjoy tormenting me, Clara,"

Clara laughed out loud, and assured me, "I am not playing with you."

"To explain what we are and what we do is the most trying thing in the world.

"I wish I could make it clearer, but I can not.

"So it is pointless to keep on insisting on explanations when there are none."

My legs had fallen asleep, and I shifted uncomfortably on the ground.

Clara suggested that I lie on my stomach and rest my head on my right arm, bending it at the elbow.

I did that and found the position comfortable. The ground and the leaves seemed to keep me rooted while my mind was still but alert.

Clara leaned over and caressed my head affectionately.

Then she fixed me with her gaze in such an odd way that I grabbed her hand for a moment and held it.

Clara, loosening my grip, said softly, "I have got to go now, Taisha, but rest assured I will see you again."

Her green eyes had specks of light-amber in them, and their glow was the last thing I saw before falling asleep.



I woke up as someone was poking my back with a stick.

A strange woman was standing over me.

She was tall, slender and incredibly striking. Her features were exquisitely chiseled; small mouth, even teeth, perfectly defined nose; oval face; delicate, almost transparent white Nordic complexion; lustrous, curly gray hair.

She smiled, and I thought she was an adolescent girl, full of daring and sensuality.

Then she looked serene, and seemed to be a continental European woman, fashionable and mature.

There was elegance in her stylish dress which extended to her sensible shoes.

And sensible shoes were something I had never seen in the United States; where well-dressed women wearing comfortable shoes always appeared matronly.

The woman was at once older and younger than Clara. The woman was definitely older than Clara in age, but she appeared years younger as she possessed something I could only call inner vitality.

By contrast, Clara seemed to be still in a formative stage, while this being was the finished product.

I knew that someone incredibly different from me was examining me with genuine curiosity. I consided that perhaps she was as different as a member of another species.

I sat up and quickly introduced myself.

She reciprocated warmly by saying in English, "I am Nelida Abelar. I live here with the rest of my companions.

"You already know two of them, Clara and the nagual John Michael. You will meet the rest of us soon."

Nelida's voice was most appealing, and with its slight inflection, it was so utterly familiar that I could not help staring at her.

My face muscles froze in a smile of surprise, and Nelida laughed.

The sound of her raspy laughter was also remotely familiar and I had the sensation that I had heard that laughter before.

And although I could not fathom where, the thought crossed my mind that I had seen Nelida before.

The more I stared at her, the more I became convinced that I had known her at one time, and I had forgotten when.

Nelida asked in a solicitous tone, "What is the matter, dear? Do you have the feeling we have met before?"

"Yes, yes," I said excitedly, for I felt that I was about to remember where I had seen her.

Nelida, in a soothing tone that led me to understand that there was no hurry, said, "You will remember sooner or later

"The cleansing breath you do while recapitulating will eventually allow you to remember everything you have ever done; including your dreams.

"Then you will know where and when we have met."

I felt embarrassed for staring at her, and for being caught so completely off guard. I stood up and faced her, not challengingly, but with awe.

I asked, in a daze, "Who are you?"

Smiling, Nelida said, "I already told you who I am. Now, if you want to know if I am a sort of personage, you will be disappointed.

"I am not anyone important. I am only one of a group of people who seek freedom.

"Since you have met the nagual, the next step for you was to meet me. That is because I am responsible for you."

Upon hearing that she was responsible for me, I experienced a pang of fear.

All my life I had fought to gain my independence, and I had struggled for it as fiercely as I was capable of.

I said, "I do not want anyone to be responsible for me. I have fought too hard to be independent to fall under anyone's thumb now."

I thought she might take offense, but she laughed and patted me on the shoulder.

Nelida said. "I never meant it like that. No one wants to keep you down.

"The nagual has an explanation about your unruly personality.

"He really believes that you have a fighting spirit. In fact, he thinks you are undeniably crazy, but in a positive sense."

Nelida said that the nagual's explanation of my craziness was that I was conceived under unusual and desperate conditions.

Nelida then related to me facts about my parents' history that no one except my parents could have known.

She disclosed that while my parents lived and worked in South Africa before I was conceived, my father was incarcerated for reasons he never revealed.

I had always fantasized that he was not really in a prison but in a political detention camp.

Nelida told me that my father saved a guard's life, and later that guard helped my father to escape by turning his back at a crucial moment.

Nelida said, "Your father was certain he would be caught and killed.

"With his pursuers on his trail, he went to see his wife and be with her for the last time on earth.

"During that passionate life-death embrace, your mother became pregnant with you.

"The intense fear and passion for life that your father was feeling then was transmitted to you.

"Consequently, you were born restless and unruly and with a passion for freedom."

I could barely hear her last words.

I was so stunned by what she was revealing to me that my ears were buzzing and my knees went weak.

I had to lean against a tree trunk to keep from falling down.

Before I could speak, she continued.

Nelida said, "The reason your mother was so unhappy and secretly despised your father was because he used up all of her family inheritance to pay for his mistakes, whatever they might have been.

"The money ran out and they had to leave South Africa before you were born."

"How can you know things about my parents that not even I am clear about?" I asked.

Nelida smiled and replied, "I know those things because I am responsible for you."

Again I felt a jolt of fear run through me, making me shiver. I was afraid that if she knew my parents' secrets, she must also know things about me.

I had always felt safe and hidden in the impregnable fortress where I kept my secrets.

I had been lulled into a false security, and I had been certain that what I felt, thought, and did would not matter as long as I kept it hidden; as long as no one else knew about it.

But now it was obvious that this woman had access to my inner self, and I desperately needed to reaffirm my position.

I said defiantly, "If I am anything, I am my own person. No one is responsible for me, and no one is going to dominate me."

Nelida laughed at my outburst.

She tousled my hair the way the nagual had done, and her gesture was both soothing and utterly familiar.

In a friendly tone Nelida said, "Nobody is trying to dominate you, Taishika."

Her gentleness served to dissipate my anger.

Nelida continued, "I have said all those things to you because I need to prepare you for a very specific maneuver."

I listened to her intently because I sensed from her tone that she was about to reveal something awesome to me.

"Clara has brought you to your present level in a most artistic and effective way. You will forever be indebted to her.

"Now that she has finished her task, she has gone. The sad part is that you did not even thank her for her care and her kindness."

Some horrible, unnamed feeling loomed over me and I muttered, "Wait a minute. Did Clara leave?"

"Yes, she did."

I asked, "But she will be coming back, will she not?"

Nelida shook her head, said, "No. As I told you, her job is done."

At that moment, I had the only true feeling I had ever had in my entire life.

Compared to that feeling, nothing of what I had felt before was real-- not my anger, not my fits of rage, not my outbursts of affection, not even my self-pity.

None of my feelings had been true when compared with the searing pain I felt at that moment which was so intense, it numbed me.

I wanted to weep, but I could not. I knew then that real pain brings no tears.

"And Manfred? Is he gone too?" I asked.

"Yes. His job of guarding you is finished too."

"And what about the nagual? Will I see him again?"

Nelida touched my head, and said, "In the sorcerers' world anything is possible.

"But one thing is for certain, It is not a world to be taken for granted.

"In it, we must voice our thanks now, because there is no tomorrow."

I stared at her blankly, totally stunned.

She gazed back at me and whispered, "The future does not exist. It is time you realized this.

"When you have finished recapitulating and you have completely erased the past, all that will be left is the present.

"And then you will know that the present is but an instant, nothing more."

Nelida gently rubbed my back, and told me to breathe.

I was so grief-stricken that my breathing had stopped.

I asked pleadingly, "Will I ever be different? Is there a chance for me?"

Without answering, Nelida turned around and walked toward the house.

When she reached the back door, she signaled me with a beckoning crook of the index finger to follow her inside.

I wanted to run after her, but I could not move.

I began to whimper, and then the oddest whine came out of me; a sound that was not quite human.

I knew then why Clara had tied her protective sash around my stomach. It was to shield me from this blow.

I lay face down on the pile of leaves and released into them the animal cry that was choking me, but it did not relieve my anguish.

I took out the crystals, placed them in my fingers and turned my arms in counterclockwise circles that became smaller and smaller.

I pointed the crystals at my indolence, at my cowardice, and at my useless self-pity.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 16.


When I say that I am responsible for you, I mean that I am in charge of your ultimate freedom.

Version 2009.09.14


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 16.

It took me hours to calm down, and it was late afternoon.

Nelida was patiently waiting for me at the back door.

I followed her inside the house.

In the hall just outside the living room, she stopped so abruptly that I nearly collided with her.

Nelida turned to face me, and said, "As Clara told you, I live in the left side of the house.

"I am going to take you there, but first let us go in the living room, and sit down for a while so you can catch your breath."

I was panting and my heart was beating disturbingly fast.

I assured Nelida, "I am in good physical condition. I practiced kung fu with Clara every day. But right now I am not feeling very well."

Nelida said reassuringly, "Do not worry about being out of breath.

"The energy of my body is pressing on you. That extra pressure is what is making your heart beat faster.

"When you get used to my energy, it will no longer bother you."

She took my hand, and guided me to sit on a cushion on the floor with my back propped against the front of the sofa.

"When you are agitated as you are now, prop your lower back against a piece of furniture.

"Or, bend your arms backward and press your hands against the top of your kidneys."

To sit on the floor with my back propped in that fashion had a definite relaxing effect on me.

In a few moments I was breathing normally, and my stomach was no longer tied in knots.

I watched Nelida pace back and forth in front of me.

She continued her relaxed and easy stride, and said, "Now, understand something once and for all.

"When I say that I am responsible for you, I mean that I am in charge of your ultimate freedom.

"So do not give me any more nonsense about your struggle for independence.

"I am not interested in your capricious fight against your family.

"Even though you have been at odds with them all your life, your fight has had no purpose or direction.

"It is time to give your natural strength and your compulsive drive a worthy cause."

Her pacing, I noticed, was not nervous at all. Rather it seemed to be a way of trapping my attention. Her pacing put me completely at ease, yet kept me attentive.

I asked her once more if I would ever see Clara and Manfred.

Nelida looked at me with a pitiless gaze that sent chills through me.

She said, "No, you will not see them again; at least not in this world.

"Both of them have done their impeccable best to prepare you for the great flight.

"Only if you are successful in awakening the double and crossing over into the abstract will you meet again.

"If not, they will become memories that you will talk about with others for a while, or that you will keep to yourself, but then gradually forget."

I swore to her that I would never forget Clara or Manfred; that they would be a part of me always, even if I never saw them again.

And although something in me knew that that would be so, I could not bear such a final separation. I wanted to weep as I had done so easily all my life.

But, somehow my sorcery pass with the crystals had worked, and weeping had fallen off me.

Now when I really needed to cry, I could not.

I was hollow inside and cold. I was what I had always been, except that now I had no more pretenses.

I remember what Clara had told me; that coldness is not cruelty or heartlessness, but an unbending detachment.

At last I knew what it meant to be without pity.

Nelida sensed my mood and said, "Do not focus on your loss. At least not for the time being.

"Let us deal, rather, with helpful ways to gather energy to attempt the inevitable abstract flight.

"You know now that you belong to us and to me in particular. You must try today to come to my side of the house."

Nelida took off her shoes, and sat down in an armchair across from me.

In one graceful movement, she raised her knees to her chest and planted her feet on the seat.

Her full skirt was pulled over her calves so that only her ankles and feet showed.

Nelida said, "Now, try not to be bashful, judgy or kinky."

Then before I could respond, she lifted her skirt and spread her legs apart.

Nelida ordered, "Look at my vagina."

"The hole between the legs of a woman is the energetic opening of the womb, and th womb is an organ that is at the same time powerful and resourceful."

To my horror, Nelida had no underwear on. I could see right into her crotch.

I wanted to look away but I was mesmerized. I could only stare with my mouth half open.

She was hairless, and her abdomen and legs were hard and smooth with absolutely no wrinkles or fat.

Nelida, without a hint of embarrassment, said, "Since I am not in the world as a female, my womb has acquired a different mood than the mood of an average, undisciplined woman. So you simply should not see me in a derogatory light."

She was indeed beautiful and I felt a jolt of sheer envy.

I was at least one third her age and yet I could not possibly have looked that good in a similar position.

In fact, I would not dream of letting anyone see me naked. I always wore long bathrobes, as if I had something to hide.

Remembering my own shyness, I politely looked away, but not before I got an eyeful of what I can only call sheer energy. The area around her vagina seemed to radiate a force that if I stared at it made me dizzy.

I shut my eyes and I did not care what she thought of me.

Nelida's laughter was like an endless cascade of water, soft and bubbly.

She said, "You are perfectly relaxed now.

"Look at me again, and take a few deep breaths to charge yourself."

I had a sudden realization that struck fear in me, and I blurted out, "Wait just a moment, Nelida."

Stammering pitifully, I told her what I had just realized.

Showing me her nakedness had done something inconceivable to me. It had soothed my anguish, and made me abandon all my prudishness. In one instant, Nelida had become extraordinarily familiar to me.

Nelida said cheerfully, "That is exactly what the energy from the womb is supposed to do.

"Now really, you must look at me and breathe deeply. After that, you can analyze things to your heart's content."

I did as she said, and I felt no shyness at all.

Breathing in her energy made me feel strangely invigorated as if a bond had formed between us that needed no words.

Nelida pulled her skirt back down over her calves again, and said, "You can accomplish wonders by controlling and circulating the energy from the womb."

Nelida explained that the womb's primary function is reproduction in order to perpetuate our species.

But unbeknownst to women, the womb also has subtle and sophisticated secondary functions, and these were the functions that she and I were interested in developing.

I was so pleased when Nelida had included me in her statement that I actually experienced a tickling sensation inside my stomach.

I listened attentively as she explained that the most important secondary function of the womb is to serve as a guiding unit for the double.

Males have to rely on a mixture of reason and intent to guide their doubles.

Females have at their disposal a powerful source of energy with an abundance of mysterious attributes and functions all designed to protect and nurture the double.

Nelida explained, "All this becomes possible if you rid yourself of all the encumbering energy that men have left inside you.

"A thorough recapitulation of all your sexual activity will take care of that."

She emphasized that using the womb is an extremely powerful and direct method of reaching the double.

She reminded me of the sorcery pass I had learned in which one breathes directly with the opening of the vagina.

Nelida said, "The womb is the way female animals sense things and regulate their bodies.

"Through the womb, women can generate and store power in their doubles to build or destroy, or to become one with everything around them."

Again I felt a tingle in my abdomen like a mild vibration that this time spread to my genitals and inner thighs.

Nelida continued, "Another way of reaching the double-- which is also called the other-- besides using the energy of the womb, is through movement.

"This is the reason why Clara taught you the sorcery passes.

"There are two passes that you must use today to prepare yourself adequately for what is to come."

She walked to the closet, pulled out a straw mat, unrolled it on the floor, and told me to lie on it.

When I was flat on my back, she asked me to bend my knees a bit, fold my arms across my chest, and roll once to my right side and then once to my left.

She made me repeat this movement seven times. As I rolled, I was to slowly curl my spine at the shoulders.

She told me then to sit cross-legged once more on the floor leaning my back against the couch, while she took her seat on the armchair.

Slowly and softly, she inhaled through her nose.

Then she gracefully wiggled her left arm and hand out and upward as if she were boring a hole in the air with her hand.

Then she reached in, grasped something, and pulled her arm back.

That gave me the total impression of a long rope being retrieved from a hole in the air.

She then did the same movements with her right arm and hand.

As she performed her sorcery pass, I recognized it to be a movement of the same nature as the ones Clara had shown me, but it was different too as it was lighter, smoother, more energetically charged.

Clara's sorcery passes were like martial art movements. They were graceful and filled with internal strength.

Nelida's passes were ominous, threatening, and yet, at the same time a pleasure to watch. They were not agitated and yet they radiated a nervous energy.

While she executed her pass, Nelida's face was like a beautiful mask. Her features were perfectly symmetrical.

Watching her exquisite movements done with utter aloofness and detachment, I remembered what Clara had said about Nelida having no pity.

Nelida said, "That pass is for gathering energy from the vastness that lies just behind all that we see.

"Try making a hole. Reach behind the facade of visible forms, and grasp the energy that sustains us. Do it now."

I tried to replicate her swift, graceful movements, but I felt stiff and clumsy in comparison.

I could not by any stretch of the imagination feel that I was reaching through a hole and grasping energy.

Nevertheless, after I had finished the pass, I felt strong and bursting with energy.

Nelida went on, "It does not really take much to communicate or reach the ethereal body.

"In addition to using the womb and movement, sound is a powerful way of attracting the etheral body's attention."

Nelida explained that by systematically directing words to our source of awareness-- our double-- we can receive a manifestation of that source.

She added, "Provided, of course, that we have enough energy.

"If we do, it may take only a few selected words or a sustained sound to open something unthinkable in front of us."

I asked, "How exactly can we direct those words to the double?"

Nelida extended her arms in a sweeping gesture, and said, "The double is nearly infinite.

"For just as the physical body is in communication with other physical bodies, the double is in communication with the universal life force."

Abruptly Nelida stood up and said, "We have done our sorcery passes and also plenty of talking. Now let us see if we can act.

"I want you to stand in front of the door leading to the left side of the house.

"I want you to remain very quiet, but acutely aware of everything around you."

I followed Nelida down the hall to the door that had always been closed.

Clara had explained to me that it was kept closed even when all of the family members were present in the house.

Since Clara had made me promise that I would never under any circumstances try to open it, no matter how curious I became, I never paid much attention to the door.

As I looked at it now, I saw nothing unusual about it. It was just a common wooden door much like all the other doors in the house.

Nelida carefully opened it.

There was a hallway, just like the right-side hallway that led to the other side of the house.

Nelida stood close behind me, and said, "I want you to repeat one word.

"The word is 'intent.' I want you to say 'intent' three or four times or even more, but bring it out from the depths of you."

"From the depths of me?"

"Allow the word to burst out from your midsection loud and clear.

"In fact, you should shout the word 'intent' with all your strength."

I hated to shout and I disliked it when people raised their voices at me. As a child, I learned it was impolite to shout and I dreaded to hear my parents arguing in loud voices.

I hesitated.

Nelida said, "Do not be bashful. Shout as loud and as many times as is needed."

"How will I know when to stop?"

"You stop when something happens, or when I tell you to stop because nothing has happened. Do it! Now!"

I said the word 'intent', but my voice sounded hesitant, feeble, and unsure. Even to my ear, it lacked conviction.

But, I kept on repeating it, and with more vigor each time.

My voice became not deep but shrill and loud, until I shocked myself into a near faint with a hair-raising scream that seemed not my own, and yet I had heard it before.

It was the same shrill noise I had heard the day Clara and Manfred had dashed into the house and left me under the tree.

I began to shiver, and I became so dizzy that I slumped down on the spot, and leaned against the door frame.

Nelida ordered, "Do not move!"

But she spoke too late, as I became limp on the floor.

Nelida said sternly, "Too bad you moved when you should have stayed put."

Yet she added a smile when she saw I was about to pass out.

She squatted next to me, and rubbed my hands and neck to revive me.

I straightend up against the wall, and muttered, "What did you make me shout for?"

Nelida said, "We were trying to catch the attention of your double.

"There are two levels to the universal awareness; the level of the visible, of order, and of everything that can be thought or named; and the unmanifested level of energy that creates and sustains all things.

"Because we rely on language and reason," Nelida continued, "it is the level of the visible that we regard as reality.

"It appears to have an order, and appears to be stable and predictable.

"Yet in actuality, it is elusive, temporary and ever changing.

"What we judge as permanent reality is only the surface appearance of an unfathomable force."

I felt so drowsy, I could barely follow her words. I yawned several times to take in more air.

Nelida laughed when I opened my eyes wide in an exaggerated manner to give her the impression I was paying full attention.

She went on, "What you and I want to do with all this shouting, is to catch the attention of, not the visible reality, but rather the attention of the unseen; the force that is the source of your existence; a force that we hope will carry you across the chasm."

I wanted to listen to what she was saying, but a strange thought kept distracting me.

Just before I had slumped to the floor, I caught a glimpse of a rare sight.

I noticed that the air in the hall behind the door was bubbling just like the air did in the darkness of my room the first night I had slept in the house.

As Nelida continued speaking, I turned to look into the hallway again, but she moved in front of me and blocked my view.

She bent over and picked up a leaf.

I guessed that while I had been shouting, the leaf must have fallen out of the protective bundle Clara had tied around my midsection.

Nelida held the leaf up for meto see, and said, "Perhaps this leaf will help clarify things."

Nelida began talking faster, as if she knew my attention was waning, and as if she wanted to get as much in as she could before my mind wandered off again.

Nelida said, "Its texture is dry and brittle. Its shape is flat and round. Its color is brown with a touch of crimson.

"We can recognize it as a leaf because our instruments of perception, our senses; and because of our thoughts that gives things names.

"Without them, the leaf is abstract, pure, undifferentiated energy.

"The same unreal, ethereal energy that flows through this leaf flows through and sustains everything.

"We, like everything else, are real on the one hand, and only appearances on the other."

She carefully put the leaf back on the floor as if it were so fragile that it would shatter at the slightest touch.

Nelida paused for a moment as if to wait for my mind to assimilate what she had said, but my attention was again drawn through the open door to the hallway where I saw filaments of light streaming through a large window at the end of the hall.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of three or four men and women who for an instant had stuck their heads out of doors opening onto the hallway.

They all seemed to have been awakened at once by my shouts, and had poked their heads out of their bedrooms to see what all the commotion was about.

Nelida barked at me, "You are certainly undisciplined. Your attention span is much too short."

I tried to tell Nelida what I had seen, but she subdued me with one look.

I felt a chill going up my spine into my neck and I ended up shivering involuntarily.

As I sat there confused and defenseless, the strangest thought thus far occurred to me.

Nelida seemed familiar to me because I had seen her in a dream.

In fact, I had seen her not in one dream, but in a series of recurring dreams. And the people in the hall...

Nelida shouted at me, "Do not let your mind go beyond this point!

"Do not dare. Do you hear me? Do not dare to wander away! I want your undivided attention here with me."

She pulled me to my feet and told me to gather my wits.

I did my best to gather them because I was definitely intimidated by her.

I had always taken pride in believing that no one could dominate me, and yet one look from this woman could stop my thoughts and fill me with awe and dread at the same time.

Nelida gave me a firm knock on the top of my head with a knuckle.

It sobered me up as easily as her shouts had unsettled me.

Nelida said, "I have been talking my head off because Clara assured me that talking is the best way to relax you and pique your interest.

"I want you ready to go through this door at any cost."

I told her that I had the certainty that I had seen her in my dreams. And, that was not all. I had the feeling that the people that had poked their heads into the hall were also known to me.

When I mentioned the people, Nelida stepped back and scrutinized me as if looking for markings on my body.

Nelida was silent for a moment, perhaps considering whether or not to divulge something, and then she said, "As the nagual and Clara have already told you, we are a group of sorcerers.

"We are a lineage, but not a family lineage.

"In this house there are two branches of that lineage. Each has eight members. The members of Clara's branch are the Graus, and the members of my branch are the Abelars.

"Our origin is lost in time, but we count ourselves by generations.

"I am a member of the generation in power, and that means I can teach what my group knows to someone new who is like me; in this case, you.

"You are an Abelar."

She stood behind me, and turned me in the direction of the hallway.

"Now, no more talking. Face the hallway and shout again the word 'intent.' I think you are ready to meet all of us in person."

I shouted "intent" three times.

This time my voice did not screech, but resonated loudly beyond the walls of the house.

On the third shout, the air in the hall began to fizzle. Billions of tiny bubbles sparkled and glowed as if they had all lit up at the same instant.

I heard a soft hum that reminded me of the sound of a muffled generator.

Its mesmeric purr drew me inside past the threshold where Nellda and I had been standing.

My ears were plugged and I had to swallow repeatedly to unplug them.

Then the humming stopped and I found myself in the middle of a hallway that was the exact mirror image of the hallway in the right side of the house where my room was.

Only this hallway was full of people. They all had come out of their rooms, and were staring at me as if I had dropped in from another planet and had materialized right in front of their eyes.

Among them, at the far end of the hallway, I saw Clara.

She had a beaming smile and opened her arms inviting me to come and embrace her.

Then I saw Manfred, pawing the floor. He was as happy to see me as Clara was.

I ran toward them, but instead of feeling my steps on the wooden floor, I felt that I had been catapulted in the air.

To my agony, I flew past Clara and Manfred and all the other people in the hallway. I had no control over my movements.

All I could do was shout Clara's and Manfred's names in anguish as I flew past them beyond the hall, beyond the house, beyond the trees and the hills into a blinding glare, and finally into an absolutely black stillness.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 17.


You do not have to fight with me. I am nobody important.

Version 2009.09.14


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 17.

I was dreaming that I was digging the ground in the garden when a sharp pain in my neck awoke me.

Without opening my eyes, I groped for the pillows in order to ease my neck into their soft comfortable folds.

But my hands searched in vain.

I could not find the pillows and I could not even feel the mattress.

I began swaying as if I had eaten or drunk too much the night before, and I was feeling the unsettling effects of indigestion.

Gradually I opened my eyes.

Instead of seeing the ceiling or walls, I saw branches and green leaves.

When I tried to rise up, everything around me began moving.

I realized that I was not in my bed. I was suspended in midair in some sort of leather harness and it was I who was swaying, not the world around me.

I knew beyond a doubt that this was not a dream.

As my senses tried to make order out of chaos, I saw that I was hoisted with pulleys into the highest branch of a tree.

The sensation of unexpectedly waking up restrained, coupled with the realization that there was nothing beneath me, created in one instant a physical terror of heights. I had never been up in a tree in my life.

I began to scream for help. No one came to my rescue so I continued screaming until I lost my voice.

Exhausted, I hung there like a limp carcass. Being physically terrified had made me lose control of my excretory functions. I was a mess.

But screaming had drained me of my fears. I looked around and slowly began to assess my situation.

I noticed that my arms and hands were free, and when I turned my head downward, I saw what was suspending me.

Thick brown leather belts were buckled around my waist, chest and legs.

Around the trunk of the tree was another belt, which I could reach if I stretched my arms. That belt had the end of a rope and a pulley attached to it.

I saw then that all I bad to do to free myself was to release the rope and let myself down.

It took an excruciating effort to reach the rope and then lower myself because my arms and hands were trembling.

But once I was lying on the ground, I was able to painstakingly unbuckle the straps from around my body and slip out of the harness.

I ran into the house calling for Clara.

I had a vague recollection that I would not be able to find her, but it was more of a feeling than a conscious certainty.

Automatically, I began searching for her but Clara was nowhere to be found and neither was Manfred.

I became aware then that somehow everything had changed, but I did not know what or when or even why things were different from the way they used to be. All I knew was that something had been irreparably broken.

I lapsed into a long inner monologue.

I said to myself how I wished that Clara had not gone off on one of her mysterious trips precisely when I needed her most.

Then I reasoned that there might be other explanations for her absence. She might be deliberately avoiding me or visiting with her relatives in the left side of the house.

Then I remembered meeting Nelida and I rushed to the door of the left side hallway and tried to open it, ignoring Clara's warning never to tamper with that door.

I found it was locked. I called out to her through the door a few times, then kicked it in anger and went to my bedroom.

To my dismay, that door was locked too.

Frantically I tried opening the doors to the other bedrooms in the hallway. All of them were locked except one which was a sort of storage room or den.

I had never before entered it as I had obeyed Clara's specific instructions to keep out of it.

But that door had always remained ajar, and every time I had passed by, I had peeked inside.

This time I went in, calling out for Clara and Nelida to show themselves.

The room was dark but filled to capacity with the most bizarre collection of objects I had ever seen.

In fact, it was so crammed with grotesque sculptures, boxes and trunks that there was hardly any room to move around.

Some light came in from a beautiful stained-glass bay window along the back wall. It was a mellow glow that cast eerie shadows on all the objects in the room.

The room made me think that this was the way storage rooms of elegant but no longer in-service ocean liners that have cruised the world over must look like.

The floor underneath me suddenly began to sway and creak and the objects around me also seemed to shift.

I let out an involuntary shriek and rushed out of the room.

My heart was pounding so fast and loud that it took several minutes and quite a few deep breaths to quiet it.

In the hallway, I noticed that the large walk-in closet opposite to that storage room was open and all my clothes were there, neatly placed on hangers or folded on shelves.

Pinned to the sleeve of the jacket that Clara had given me the first day I came to the house was a note addressed to me.

It read, 'Taisha, the fact that you are reading this note tells me that you have let yourself down from the tree. Please follow my instructions to the letter. Do not go back to your old room, for it is locked. From now on, you will sleep in your harness, or in the tree house. We have all gone on an extended trip. The whole house is in your care. Do your best!'

It was signed 'Nelida.'

Stunned, I stared at the note for a long time, reading it again and again.

What did Nelida mean that the house was in my care? What was I supposed to do there all alone? The thought of sleeping in that horrible harness, hung like a side of beef, gave me the eeriest feeling of all.

I wanted tears to flood my eyes. I wanted to feel sorry for myself because they had left me alone. I wanted to be angry with them for leaving without warning me first. But I could not do any of these things.

I stomped around trying to work up momentum for a tantrum. Again, I failed miserably.

It was as if something inside me had been turned off making me indifferent and incapable of expressing my familiar emotions.

But I did feel abandoned. My body began to shiver as it always had just before I burst out weeping.

However, what gushed out next was not a deluge of tears, but a stream of memories and dreamlike visions.



I had been hanging in that harness, looking down. Below, people were standing at the foot of the tree laughing and clapping.

They were shouting up at me trying to get my attention.

Then all of them made a sound in unison like a lion's roar, and left.

I knew that had been a dream.

But, I knew meeting Nelida had definitely not been a dream. I had her note in my hand to prove it.

What I was not certain of was why and how long I had been hanging from the tree.

Judging from the state of my clothes and how famished I was, I might have been there for days. But how did I get up there?

I grabbed some of my clothes from the closet and went to the outhouse to wash and change.

When I was clean again, it dawned on me that I had not looked in the kitchen.

I had a persistent hope that maybe Clara was there eating and had not heard me calling.

I pushed the door open, but the kitchen was deserted.

I poked around for food. I found a pot of my favorite stew on the stove and wanted desperately to believe that Clara had left it for me.

I tasted it and gasped with a tearless sob.

The vegetables were finely sliced, not diced, and there was hardly any meat.

I knew that Clara had not made it and that she was gone.

At first I did not want to eat the stew, but I was terribly hungry.

I took my bowl from the shelf, and filled it to the brim.

It was only after I had eaten and was assessing my present situation that it occurred to me there was one other place I had forgotten to look.

I hurried to the cave with the vague hope of finding Clara or the nagual there.

But I found no one; not even Manfred.

The solitude of the cave and the hills gave me such a feeling of sadness that I would have given anything in the world to be able to weep.

I crawled inside the cave feeling the despair of a mute that only yesterday knew how to talk.

I wanted to die there on the spot, but instead I fell asleep.



When I woke up, I returned to the house.

Now that everyone was gone, I thought, I may as well leave too.

I walked to the place where my car was parked.

Clara had driven it constantly and serviced it in a garage in the city.

I started it to charge the battery, and to my relief, it worked perfectly.

After stuffing some of my things into an overnight bag, I got as far as the back door when a strong pang of guilt stopped me.

I reread Nelida's note.

In it she had asked me to take care of the house. I could not just abandon it.

She had said to do my best. I felt that they had entrusted me with a particular task, and that I had to stay even if it was only to find out what that task was.

I put my things back in the closet, and lay down on the couch to take stock of myself.



All the screaming I had done had definitely irritated my vocal cords. My throat was terribly sore, but other than that, I seemed to be in good physical condition.

Shock, fear and self-pity had passed, and all that was left was the certainty that something monumental had happened to me in that left hallway.

But try as I did, I could not remember what happened after I had stepped over the threshold.

Aside from these fundamental concerns, I also had one serious immediate problem. I was not certain how to start the wood-burning stove.

Clara had demonstrated over and over how to do it, but I just could not get the knack of it; perhaps because I never expected that I would have to start it myself.

One solution that occurred to me was to keep the fire burning by feeding it all night. I rushed to the kitchen to place more wood on the fire before it went out.

I also boiled more water and washed my bowl with some of it.

The rest of the water I poured into the limestone filter, which looked like a thick, inverted cone.

The huge receptacle sat on a sturdy wrought-iron stand and, drop by drop, filtered the boiled water.

From the receptacle where the water collected under the filter, I poured a couple of ladles into my mug.

I drank my fill of the cool, delicious water, then decided to go back to the house.

Perhaps Clara or Nelida had left me other notes telling me more specifically what I had to do.

I looked for keys to the bedroom doors.

In a hall cabinet, I found a set that were marked with different names.

I picked one out that had Nelida's name on it. I was surprised to find that that key fit my bedroom.

Then I picked out Clara's key, and tried it in different doors until I found the lock that it fit.

I turned the key and the door opened, but when it came to going inside her room and snooping around, I could not do it.

I felt that even if she was gone, she was still entitled to her privacy.

I closed the door again, locked it and put the keys back where I had found them.

I returned to the living room and sat on the floor, leaning my back against the sofa the way Nelida had suggested I do when I was tense.

It definitely helped to calm my nerves. I thought of getting in my car again and leaving.

But I really had no desire to leave. I decided to accept the challenge and house-sit for as long as they were gone; even if it was forever.



Since I had nothing else in particular to do, it occurred to me that I could try reading.

I had recapitulated my early negative experiences with books, and I thought I would test myself to see if my attitude toward them had changed.

I went to browse through the bookshelves. I found that most of the books were in German, some were in English and a few were in Spanish.

I made a quick survey and saw that the majority of the German books were on botany; there were also some on zoology, geology, geography and oceanography.

On a different shelf, hidden from view, was a collection of astronomy books in English.

The Spanish books, on a separate bookshelf, were literature, novels and poetry.

I decided that I would first read the books on astronomy, since the subject had always fascinated me.

I picked out a thin book with plenty of pictures and began to leaf through it, but soon it put me to sleep.



When I woke up, it was pitch black in the house and I had to grope my way in total darkness to the back door.

On my way to the shed where the generator was housed, I noticed light coming from the kitchen.

I realized that someone must have already turned the generator on.

Elated that perhaps Clara had come back, I rushed toward the kitchen.

As I approached, I heard soft singing in Spanish.

It was a male voice, but not the nagual's.

I continued with great trepidation.

But before I reached the door, a man poked his head out, and upon seeing me he let out a loud scream.

I screamed at the same time.

Apparently I had frightened him as much as he had scared me.

He came out the door, and for a moment, we just stood there staring at each other.

He was slim but not skinny; wiry yet muscular. He was my height or perhaps an inch taller than I, about five eight. He was wearing blue mechanic's coveralls, like those worn by gas station attendants. He had a light pinkish complexion. His hair was gray. He had a pointed nose and chin, prominent cheek bones and a small mouth.

His eyes were like those of a bird, dark and round yet shining and animated. I could hardly see the whites of his eyes.

As I stared at him, I had the impression that I was not looking at an old man, but at a boy that had wrinkled due to an exotic disease.

There was something about him that was at once old and young; winning yet unsettling.

I managed to ask him in my best high school Spanish to please tell me who he was, and to explain his presence in this house.

He stared at me curiously, and with hardly an accent, said, "I speak English. I have lived for years in Arizona with Clara's relatives.

My name is Emilito. I am the caretaker. And you must be the tree dweller."

"I beg your pardon?"

Emilito moved with ease and agility as he took a few steps toward me, and said, "You are Taisha, are you not?"

"Yes, I am. But what was that you said about me being a tree dweller?"

"Nelida told me that you live in the big tree by the front door of the main house. Is that true?"

I nodded automatically, and it was only then that I became aware of something so obvious that only a thick-headed ape could have missed it.

The tree was on the forbidden front part of the house, the east; the part of the grounds that I could only see from my observation post in the hills.

That revelation sent a surge of excitement through me because I realized then that I was now free to explore terrain that had always been denied me.

My delight was cut short when Emilito shook his head as if he felt sorry for me. He patted my shoulder gently, and asked, "What did you do, you poor girl?"

The clear implication was that I had done something wrong for which I had been strung up in the tree as a form of punishment.

I took a step back, and said, "I did not do anything."

Emilito smiled, and said, "Now, now, I did not mean to pry.

"You do not have to fight with me. I am nobody important. I am merely the caretaker; a hired hand. I am not one of them."

I snapped, "I do not care who you are. I am telling you, I did not do anything."

Emilito turned his back to me, and as he reentered the kitchen, he said, "Well, if you do not want to talk about it, that is all right with me."

I wanted to get in the last word, so I yelled, "There is nothing to talk about."

Although I would not have dared to yell at him if he had been young and handsome, I seemed to have no problem yelling at him.

I surprised myself again by shouting, "Do not give me a hard time. I am the boss. Nelida asked me to take care of this house. She said so in her note."

He jumped as if struck by lightning, and muttered, "You are a weird one."

Then Emilito cleared his throat, and shouted at me, "Do not dare to come any closer. I might be old, but I am plenty tough. To work here does not include risking my neck, or being insulted by idiots. I will quit."

I did not know what had come over me.

I said apologetically, "Wait a minute. I did not mean to raise my voice, but I am extremely nervous. Clara and Nelida left me here without any warning or explanation."

Emilito used the same apologetic tone I had as he said, "Well, I did not mean to shout either. I was only trying to figure out why they strung you up before they left.

"That is the reason I asked if you had done something wrong. I did not mean to pry."

"But I assure you, sir, I did not do anything; believe me."

"Why are you a tree dweller, then? These people are very serious. They would not do this to you just for the hell of it.

"Besides, it's obvious that you are one of them. If Nelida leaves you notes saying to take care of the house, you have to be buddy-buddy with her. She does not give the time of the day to anyone."

"The truth is," I said, "that I do not know why they left me in the tree.

"I was with Nelida in the left side of the house, and then the next thing I knew, I woke up with my neck bent all out of shape as I was hanging from that tree. I was terrified."

I remembered my anguish upon finding myself alone, and I could not help becoming agitated again.

I began to shake and sweat right in front of this strange man.

Emilito's eyes widened, and the surprise on his face seemed genuine as he said, "You were in the left side of the house?"

I replied, "For an instant I was there, but then everything went black."

"And what did you see?"

"I saw people in the hallway. Lots of them."

"How many, would you say?"

"The hallway was full of people. Maybe twenty or thirty."

"That many, huh? How strange!"

"Why is that strange, sir?"

"Because there were not that many people in the whole house. There were only ten people here at that time. I know, because I am the caretaker."

"What does this all mean?"

"I will be damned if I know! But to me, it seems that there is something very wrong with you."

My stomach knotted as a familiar cloud of doom settled over me.

It was the exact sensation I had had as a child in the doctor's office when they found out I had mononucleosis.

I had no idea what that was, but I knew I was done for; and from the grim looks on everyone's face, they seemed to know it too.

When they were going to give me a shot of penicillin, I screamed so hard that I fainted.

Emilito said gently, "Now, now. There is no use in being so upset.

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings.

"Let me tell you what I know about that harness. Maybe it will make things clear for you.

"They use it when the person they are treating is... well... a bit off his or her rocker, if you know what I mean."

"What do you mean, sir?"

Smiling, he said, "You can call me Emilito, but please do not call me 'sir.'

"Or you can refer to me as the caretaker, just as everyone refers to John Michael Abelar as the nagual.

"Now, let us go into the kitchen, and sit at the table where we can talk more comfortably."

I followed him into the kitchen, and sat down.

He poured warm water he had heated on the stove into my mug and brought it to me.

Emilito sat down on the bench opposite me, and began, "Now, about the harness.

"It is supposed to cure mental maladies, and they usually put people in it after they have gone off the deep end."

I protested, "But I am not crazy. If you or anyone else is going to insinuate that I am, then I am leaving."

Emilito reasoned, "But you must be crazy."

"That does it. I am going back to the house. I stood up to leave.

Emilito stopped me by saying, "Wait, Taisha. I did not mean to say that you are crazy.

He said, in a conciliatory tone, "There may be another explanation. These people mean very well.

"They probably thought that you should reinforce your mental power while they are away; not cure you from a mental disease.

"That is why they put you in the harness. It is my fault for jumping to the wrong conclusion. Please accept my apologies."

I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones, and sat down at the table again.

Besides, I needed to be on good terms with the caretaker because he obviously knew how to light the stove.

Also, I did not have the energy to continue feeling offended.

And besides, I felt he was right. I was crazy. I just did not want the caretaker to know it.

I tried to sound at ease as I asked, "Do you live nearby, Emilito?".

"No. I live here in the house. My room is across the hall from your closet."

"You mean you live in that storage room full of sculptures and things?" I gasped. "And how do you know where my closet is?"

Emilito replied with a grin, "Clara told me."

"But if you live here, how come I have never seen you around?"

"Ah, that is because you and I obviously keep different hours. To tell you the truth, I have never seen you either."

"How is that possible, Emilito? I have been here for over a year."

"And I have been here for forty years, on and off."

We both laughed out loud at the absurdity of what we were saying.

What I found unsettling was that at a very deep level I knew that it was this person's presence I had so often sensed in the house.

I said bluntly, "I know, Emilito, that you have been watching me. Do not deny it, and do not ask me how I know it.

"What is more, I also know that you knew who I was when you saw me outside the kitchen door. Is that not so?"

Emilito sighed, nodded, and said, "You are right, Taisha. I did recognize you.

"But you still gave me a genuine fright."

"But how did you recognize me?"

"I have been watching you from my room.

"But do not get angry. I never thought that you would feel me watching you. My humble apologies if I made you feel uncomfortable."

I wanted to ask him why he had been watching me. I hoped that he would say that he found me beautiful or at least interesting, but Emilito cut our conversation short and said that since it was dark, he felt obliged to help me hoist myself up into the tree.

Emilito said, "Let me make a suggestion. Sleep in the tree house instead of the harness. It is a thrilling experience.

"Although it was quite a long time ago, I too was an occupant of that tree house for an extended stay."

Before we left the kitchen, Emilito served me a bowl of delicious soup and a stack of flour tortillas.

We ate in complete silence.

I had tried to talk to him, but he said that conversing while eating was bad for the digestion.

I told him that Clara and I always chatted endlessly during our meals.

Emilito muttered, "Her body and mine are not even remotely alike.

"She is made of iron, so she can do anything she wants to her body.

"I, on the other hand, can not take any chances with my puny little body. And neither can you."

I liked him for including me among the little bodies, although I had hoped what he meant was that I was frail rather than puny.

After dinner, Emilito walked me very solicitously through the main house to the front door.

I had never been in that section of the house, and I deliberately slowed my pace, trying to take in as much of it as I could.

I saw an enormous dining room with a long banquet table and a china cabinet full of crystal goblets, champagne glasses and dishes.

Next to the dining room was a study. As I passed, I got a glimpse of a massive mahogany desk and bookcases filled with books lining one wall.

Another room had electric lights on but I could not see inside because its door was only slightly ajar. I heard muffled voices coming from inside.

"Who is in there, Emilito?" I asked excitedly.

"Nobody," he said. "That whispering you heard is the wind. It plays strange tricks on the ears as it blows through the shutters."

I gave him a who-are-you-kidding stare, and he gallantly opened the door for me to look inside.

He was right. The room was empty. It was just another living room, similar to the one on the right side of the house.

However, when I looked closer I noticed something odd in the shadows cast on the floor.

A shudder went through me, for I knew the shadows were wrong. I could have sworn that they were agitated, shimmering, dancing, but there was no wind or movement in the room.

In a whisper, I told Emilito what I noticed.

He laughed and patted me on the back as he said, "You sound exactly like Clara. But that is good.

"I would be worried if you sounded like Nelida. Do you know that she has power in her pussy?"

The way he said that with his tone of voice and the curious birdlike wonder in his eyes struck me as so funny that I began to laugh, nearly to the point of tears.

Suddenly my laughter vanished as quickly as it had begun; as if a switch inside me had been turned off.

That worried me. And it worried Emilito too, for he looked at me warily as if questioning my mental stability.

He unlatched the main door, and led me out front where the tree was.

He helped me put on the harness and showed me how to use the pulleys to hoist myself up in a sitting position.

He gave me a small flashlight and I pulled myself up.

From the top branches, I could vaguely see a wooden tree house.

It was close to the place where I had first awakened in the harness, but I had not seen the tree house then because of my extreme fright, and because of all the foliage that surrounded it.

From the ground, the caretaker beamed his flashlight directly onto the structure and yelled up after me, "There is a maritime flashlight inside, Taisha, but do not use it too long. And in the morning before you come down, be sure to disconnect its batteries."

He held his flashlight in place until I crawled onto a small landing in front of the tree house and finished unhooking the harness.

Emilito called up, "Good night. I am leaving now. Pleasant dreams."

I thought I heard him chuckling as he moved his beam of light away, and headed for the main house.

I entered the tree house using my own weak flashlight and I searched for what he called the maritime flashlight.

It was a huge light that was fixed to a shelf. On the floor there was a large square battery in a casing nailed to the boards. I connected it to the light and turned it on.

The tree house was one tiny room with a small raised platform that served as both a bed and a low table. It had a sleeping bag rolled up on top of it.

The structure had windows all around, with hinged shutters that could be propped open by thick sticks that lay on the floor.

In the corner of the room was a chamber pot that fit inside a basket that had a lid attached to one side.

After this cursory examination of the room, I disconnected the big flashlight and crawled into the sleeping bag.

It was absolutely dark.

I could hear the crickets, and the hum of the stream in the distance.

Nearby, the wind rustled the leaves and gently rocked the whole house.

As I listened to the sounds, unknown fears began to enter my awareness and I fell prey to physical sensations I had never felt before.

Total darkness distorted and masked the sounds and movements so thoroughly that I felt them as if they were coming from inside my body.

Every time the house shook, the soles of my feet tingled.

Whenever the house creaked, the inner part of my knees twitched.

The back of my neck popped whenever a branch snapped.

Then fear entered my body as a tremor in my toes.

The vibration rose to my feet and then to my legs, until my entire lower body shook out of control.

I became drowsy and disoriented. I did not know where the door or the flashlight were.

I began to feel the house tilting. It was barely perceptible at first, but it became more noticeable until it seemed that the floor was inclined at a forty-five degree angle.

I let out a scream as I felt the platform tilt even more.

The thought of having to hoist myself down petrified me. I was certain I would die by falling from the tree.

On the other hand, the sensation of being tilted was so dramatic that I was sure I would slide off the platform and out the door.

At one point the incline was so acute that I felt as if I were actually standing up instead of lying down.

I screamed at every sudden movement, holding on to one of the beams on the side to keep from sliding.

The whole tree house seemed to be coming apart.

I became nauseous from the motion. The swaying and creaking grew so intense that I knew this would be my last night on earth.

Just when I had completely given up all hope of pulling through, something inconceivable came to my rescue.

A light spilled out from within me. It poured out through all the openings of my body.

The light was a heavy luminous fluid that fixed me to the platform by covering me like a shiny armor.

It constricted my larynx and subdued my screams, but it also opened my chest area so I could breathe easier.

The light soothed my nervous stomach and stopped the shaking of my legs.

It illuminated the entire room so I could see the door a few feet in front of me.

As I basked in its glow, I grew calm. All my fears and concerns vanished so that nothing mattered anymore.

I lay perfectly still and tranquil until the dawn broke.

Totally refreshed, I hoisted myself down and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 18.


You can either pack your junk and leave, or you can remain here with me, and settle down to work.

Version 2009.09.14


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 18.

I found a plate of tamales on the kitchen table.

I knew that Emilito had prepared them, but he was not anywhere in sight.

I poured some water into my mug and ate all the tamales, hoping that Emilito had already had his breakfast.

After I washed the plate, I went to work in the vegetable garden, but I tired easily.

I made myself a nest of leaves under a tree, the way Clara had showed me, and sat on it to rest.

For a while, I watched the swaying branches of the tree across from me, and the motion of those branches brought me back to my childhood.

It was not that I was just remembering it. I was actually there.

I must have been four or five years old and I grabbed onto a handful of willow branches.

My feet were dangling beneath me, barely touching the ground. I was swinging. I screamed with delight as my brothers took turns pushing me.

Then they jumped up to grab higher willow branches and brought their knees up. They swung back and forth, putting their feet down only to push off the ground to gain momentum for another ride.

As soon as the scene ended, I breathed in everything I had been reliving; the joy, the laughter, the sounds, and the feelings I had for my brothers.

I swept the past away with a turning motion of my head.

Gradually, my eyelids grew heavy.

I slumped down on my nest of leaves, and fell into a sound sleep.



I was awakened by a sharp poke in my ribs.

Emilito was nudging me with a walking stick.

He said, "Wake up. It is already afternoon. Did you not sleep well last night in the tree house?"

As I opened my eyes, a beam of light kindled the treetop with orange hues.

Emilito's face, too, was lit up by an eerie glow that made him look ominous.

He had on the same blue coveralls he had worn the day before, and tied to his belt were three gourds.

I sat up and watched as he carefully removed the stopper of the largest gourd, lifted it to his mouth, and took a gulp. Then he smacked his lips with satisfaction.

Emilito peered at me curiously, and asked again, "Did you not sleep well last night?"

I moaned, "Are you kidding? I can truthfully say it was one of the worst nights of my life."

A torrent of whining complaints began pouring out of me.

I stopped, horrified, when I realized that I sounded just like my mother.

Whenever I would ask her how she had slept, she would give me a similar discourse of discontent.

I had hated her for that, and to think I was doing the same thing!

I said, "Please, Emilito, forgive me for my petty outburst. It is true that I did not sleep a wink, but I am fine."

Emilito ventured, "I heard you screaming like a banshee. I thought you were either having nightmares, or were falling out of the tree."

I said, wanting sympathy, "I thought I was falling out of the tree. I nearly died of fright.

"But then a strange thing happened and I got through the night."

Emilito sat down on the ground a safe distance from me, and asked curiously, "What strange thing happened?"

I saw no reason not to tell him, so I described in as much detail as I could the events of the night, culminating with the light that came to save me.

Emilito listened with genuine interest, nodding at the appropriate times as if he understood the feelings I was describing.

He said, "I am very glad to hear that you are so resourceful. I really did not expect you to make it through the night. I thought you would faint.

What this all boils down to is that you are not as bad off as they said you were."

"Who said I was bad off?"

"Nelida and the nagual. They left me specific instructions not to interfere with your healing.

"That is why I did not come to help you last night, even though I was greatly tempted-- if for no other reason than to get some peace and quiet."

Emilito took another gulp from his gourd, and held it out to me and offered, "Do you want to take a swig?"

I wondered if it was liquor, in which case I would not have minded having a sip.

I asked, "What is in the gourd?"

He hesitated for a moment, then he turned the gourd upside down and gave it a few strong shakes.

I scoffed, "It is empty. You were trying to trick me."

Emilito shook his head and retorted, "It only seems empty.

"It is filled to the brim with the strangest drink of all.

"Now, do you or do you not want to drink from it?"

"I do not know," I said.

For an instant, I wondered if he was toying with me. Seeing him in his neatly ironed blue coveralls with gourds tied to his belt, I had the impression that he was an escapee from a mental institution.

He shrugged and stared at me wide-eyed.

I watched as he recorked the gourd, and securely tied it to his belt with a thin leather thong.

I was driven by curiosity, and a sudden urge to find out what his game was, and I said, "All right. Let me have a sip."

Emilito uncorked the gourd again, and handed it to me.

I shook it and peered inside. It was indeed empty.

But, when I put it to my lips, I had a most unfamiliar oral sensation.

Whatever flowed into my mouth was somehow liquid, but it was not anything like water. It was more like a dry, almost bitter pressure that suffocated me for an instant, and then filled my throat and my entire body with a cool warmth.

It occurred to me that the gourd had a fine powder that had gotten into my mouth. To find out if that was true, I shook it onto the palm of my hand, but nothing came out.

Emilito noted my surprise, and said, "There is nothing in the gourd that the eyes can see."

I took another imaginary sip, and was jolted nearly out of my shoes.

Something electric flowed through me and made my toes tingle.

The tingling went up my legs to my spine like a lightning bolt, and when it entered my head I nearly passed out.

I saw the caretaker jumping up and down laughing like a prankster.

I grabbed onto the ground to steady myself with my hands.

When I had somewhat regained my equilibrium, I confronted him angrily and demanded, "What the hell is in this gourd?"

In a serious tone, he said, "What is in it is called 'intent'.

"Clara told you a little about it. It is now up to me to tell you a bit more."

"What do you mean that it is now up to you, Emilito?"

"I mean that I am your new usher. Clara did part of that work and I must do the rest."

My first reaction was simply not to believe him.

He himself had said that he was merely a hired hand and not part of the group. It was obvious that this was a prank, and I was not going to fall for any more of his tricks.

I forced a laugh, and said, "You are just pulling my leg, Emilito."

He said, "I am now." Emilito then leaped over to me, and actually gave my leg a yank.

Before I could get up, he celebrated his own joke by tugging my leg again.

He was so animated that he hopped around in a squatting position like a rabbit and laughed playfully.

He giggled, and inquired, "You do not like your teacher to pull your leg?"

I did not like him to touch me, period, and definitely not my leg.

But I did not like Clara to touch me either.

I began to toy with the idea of why I did not like to be touched. Despite my having recapitulated all my encounters with people, my feeling regarding physical contact was as strong as ever.

I filed this problem away for future examination because the caretaker had settled down, and was beginning to explain something that needed all my attention.

I heard him saying, "I am your teacher. Besides, Clara, Nelida and the nagual, you have me to guide you."

I snapped at him, "You are a mass of misinformation, that is what you are. You yourself told me that you are merely a hired caretaker. So what is this business that you are my teacher?"

Emilito said seriously, "It is true. I really am your other teacher."

I disliked the prospect immensely and I shouted, "What could you possibly have to teach me?"

Emilito blinked like a bird as he said, "What I have to teach you is called 'stalking with the double."

I demanded, "Where are Clara and Nelida?"

"They are gone. Nelida said that in her note, did she not?"

"I know they are gone, but where exactly did they go?"

Emilito, with a grin that looked like a painfully supressed desire to burst out laughing, said, "Oh, they went to India."

I felt vicious and I said, "Then they will not be back for months."

Emilito replied, "Right. You and I are alone. Not even the dog is here.

"You have, therefore, two options open to you.

"You can either pack your junk and leave, or you can remain here with me and settle down to work.

"I do not advise you to do the former, because you do not have any place to go."

I informed him, "I do not have any intention of leaving. Nelida left me in charge to take care of the house and that is what I am going to do."

Emilito replied, "Good, I'm glad you've decided to follow the sorcerers' intent."

Then, since it must have been obvious to him that I had not understood, he explained that the intent of sorcerers differs from that of average people in that sorcerers have learned to focus their attention with infinitely more force and precision.

I stared at Emilito, and asked, "If you are my teacher, can you give me a concrete example to illustrate what you mean?"

He thought for a moment as he looked around.

His face lit up and he pointed at the house, and said, "This house is a good example.

"It is the result of the intent of countless sorcerers who amassed energy and pooled it over many generations.

"By now, this house is no longer just a physical structure, but a fantastic field of energy.

"The house itself could be destroyed ten times over, which it has been, but the essence of the sorcerers' intent is still intact because that is indestructible."

I asked, "What happens when the sorcerers want to leave? Is their power trapped here forever?"

Emilito said, "If the spirit tells them to leave, they are capable of lifting the intent from the present spot where the house stands, and can place it somewhere else."

I said, "I have to agree that the house is really spooky."

I told him how it had resisted my detailed measurements and calculations.

Emilito remarked, "What makes this house spooky is not the disposition of the rooms or walls or patios, but rather the intent that generations of sorcerers poured into it.

"In other words, the mystery of this house is the history of the countless sorcerers whose intent went into building it.

"You see, they not only intended it, but they constructed it themselves, brick by brick, stone by stone.

"Even you have already contributed your intent and your work to it."

I was sincerely taken aback by Emilito's statement, and I asked, "What could my contribution be? You can not possibly mean that crooked garden path I laid."

Emilito laughed as he said, "No one in his right mind could call that a contribution. No. But you have made a few others."

He remarked that on the mundane level of bricks and structures, he considered my contributions to be the careful electric wiring, the pipe fitting, and the cement casing for the water pump I had installed to pump water from the stream up the hill to the vegetable garden.

He went on, saying, "On the more ethereal level of energy flow, I can tell you in all sincerity that one of your contributions is that never before have we witnessed in this house anyone merging her intent with Manfred."

At that moment something popped into my mind and I asked, "Are you the one who can call him 'toad' to his face? Clara once told me that someone could do it."

The caretaker's face beamed as he nodded and said, "Yes. I am the one.

"I found Manfred when he was a puppy. He had been either abandoned or he had run away; perhaps from a motor home in the area.

"When I found him he was almost dead."

I asked, "Where did you find him?"

"On Highway 8, about sixty miles from Gila Bend, Arizona.

"I had stopped on the side of the road to go to the bushes, and I actually pissed on him.

"He was lying there almost dead from dehydration. I was impressed that he had not run onto the highway as he could have done so easily.

But what impressed me most was that he was lying right where I went to piss."

I was so overtaken with sympathy for poor Manfred's plight that I forgot all my anger at Emilito.

I asked, "Then what happened?"

"I took Manfred home and put him in water, but I did not let him drink.

"And then I offered him to the sorcerers' intent."

Emilito said that it was up to the sorcerers' intent to decide not only whether Manfred lived or died, but whether Manfred would be a dog or something else.

He lived and became something more than a dog.

Emilito explained, "The same thing happened to you. Maybe that is why the two of you got along so well.

"The nagual found you spiritually dehydrated, ready to make a shambles of your life.

"Since he was at the drive-in movie with Nelida, it was up to them to offer you to the sorcerers' intent, which they did."

I asked, "How did they offer me to the sorcerers' intent?"

Emilito asked surprised, "Did they not already tell you?"

I considered for a moment before I replied, "I do not think so."

Emilito explained, "The nagual and Nelida called intent out loud, no doubt right there by the concession stand, and announced that they were putting their lives on the line for you without hesitation or regrets and without holding anything back.

"And both of them knew at once that they could not take you with them at that time, but would have to follow you around wherever you went.

"The nagual's and Nelida's invocation worked.

"You can now say that the sorcerers' intent took you in.

"And look where you are! Talking to yours truly."

He looked at me to see if I was following his argument.

I stared back with a silent plea for a more precise elucidation of the sorcerers' intent.

Emilito shifted to a more personal level and said that in matters of intending, if he took all the things I had said to Clara about myself, he would conclude that my intent had been one of total self defeat.

He said that I had, in a sustained fashion, always intended to be a crazy, desperate loser.

Emilito clicked his tongue and said, "Clara told me everything you told her about yourself.

"For instance, I would say that you jumped into that arena in Japan, not to demonstrate your martial arts skills, but to prove to the world that your intent is to lose."

Emilito pounced on me, saying that everything I did was tainted by defeat.

Therefore the most important thing I had to do now was to set up a new intent.

He explained that this new intent was called the sorcerers' intent because it is not just the intent of doing something new, but the intent of joining something already established.

This intent reached out to us through thousands of years of human toil.

He said that in this sorcerers' intent there was not room for defeat. Sorcerers have only one path open to them; to succeed in whatever they do.

But in order to have such a powerful and clear view, sorcerers have to reset their total being, and that takes both understanding and power.

Understanding comes from recapitulating their lives, and power gathers from their impeccable acts.

Emilito looked at me and tapped his gourd.

He explained that in his gourd he had stored his impeccable feelings, and that he had given me that sorcerers' intent to drink in order to counteract my defeatist attitude and prepare me for his instruction.

Emilito said something else, but I could no longer pay attention to him. His voice began to make me feel drowsy.

My body got heavy all of a sudden.

As I focused on his face, I saw only a whitish haze, like fog in the twilight.

I heard him tell me to lie down, and cast out my ethereal net by gradually relaxing my muscles.

I knew what he wanted me to do and I automatically followed his instructions.

I lay down and began moving my awareness from my feet upward to my ankles, calves, knees, thighs, abdomen and back.

Then I relaxed my arms, shoulders, neck and head.

As I moved my awareness to the various parts of my body, I felt myself become more and more drowsy and heavy.

Then the caretaker ordered me to make small counterclockwise circles with my eyes allowing them to roll back and up into my head.

I continued relaxing until my breathing became slow and rhythmic. It expanded and contracted by itself.

I was concentrating on the lulling waves of my breathing, when he whispered that I should move my awareness out of my forehead to a place as far above me as I could, and there make a small opening.

I muttered, "What kind of opening?"

"Just an opening. A hole."

"A hole into what?"

Emilito replied, "A hole into the nothingness your net is suspended on.

"If you can move your awareness outside your body, you will realize that there is blackness all around you.

"Try to pierce that blackness. Make a hole in it."

I tensed up and said, "I do not think I can."

Emilito assured me, "Of course you can. Remember, sorcerers are never defeated. They can only succeed."

He leaned toward me and in a whisper said that after I had made the opening, I should roll my body up like a scroll and allow myself to be catapulted along a line extending from the crown of my head into the blackness.

I protested feebly, "But I am lying down. The crown of my head is nearly against the ground. Should I not be standing up?"

"The blackness is all around us," he said. "Even if we are standing on our heads, it is still there."

He changed his tone to a hard command, and ordered me to place my concentration on the hole I had just made, and let my thoughts and feelings flow through that opening.

Again my muscles tightened because I had not made any hole.

Emilito urged me to relax; to let go and act and feel as if I had made that hole.

He said, "Throw out everything that is inside you. Allow your thoughts, feelings and memories to flow out."

As I relaxed and released the tension from my body, I felt a surge of energy push through me.

I was being turned inside out. Everything was being pulled out from the top of my head and rushed along a line like an inverted cascading waterfall.

At the end of that line, I sensed an opening.

Emilito whispered in my ear, "Let yourself go even deeper. Offer your whole being to nothingness."

I did my best to follow his suggestions.

Whatever thoughts arose in my mind instantly joined the cascade at the top of my head.

I vaguely heard Emilito say that if I wanted to move, I only needed to give myself the directive and the line would pull me wherever I wanted to go.

Before I could give myself the command, I felt a gentle but persistent tugging on my left side.

I relaxed and allowed this sensation to continue.

At first, only my head seemed to be pulled to the left, then the rest of my body slowly rolled to the left.

I felt as if I were falling sideways, yet I sensed that my body had not moved at all.

I heard a dull sound behind my neck, and saw the opening grow larger.

I wanted to crawl inside; to squeeze through it and disappear.

I experienced a deep stirring inside me.

My awareness began moving along the line at the crown of my head and slipped through the opening.

I felt as if I were inside a gigantic cavern. Its velvety walls enveloped me.

It was dark, but my attention was caught by a luminescent dot. It flickered on and off like a beacon, appearing and disappearing whenever I focused on it.

The area in front of me became illuminated by an intense light, then gradually everything became dark again.

My breathing seemed to cease altogether and no thoughts or images disturbed the blackness.

I no longer felt my body. My last thought was that I had dissolved.

I felt a hollow popping sound.

My thoughts returned to me all at once, tumbling down on me like a mountain of debris, and with them came the awareness of the hardness of the ground, the stiffness of my body, and some insect biting my ankle.

I opened my eyes and looked around.

Emilito had taken my shoes and socks off, and was poking the soles of my feet with a stick to revive me.

I wanted to tell him what had happened, but he shook his head.

He warned, "Do not talk or move until you are solid again."

He told me to close my eyes and breathe with my abdomen.

I lay on the ground until I felt I had regained my strength, then I sat up and leaned my back against a tree trunk.

Before I asked Emilito anything, he said, "You opened a crack in the blackness and your double slid to the left and then went through it."

I admitted, "I definitely felt a force pulling me, and I saw an intense light."

"That force was your double coming out," he said, as if he knew exactly what I was referring to. "And the light was the eye of the double.

"Since you have been recapitulating for over a year, you have also been, at the same time, casting your energy lines. And now they are beginning to move by themselves.

"But because you are still involved in talking and thinking, those energy lines do not move as easily and completely as they are going to someday."

I had no idea what he meant when he said that I had been casting my energy lines as I recapitulated. I asked him to explain.

Emilito said, "What is there to explain? It is a matter of energy.

"The more energy you call back through recapitulating, the easier it is for that recovered energy to nourish your double.

"Sending energy to the double is what we call casting your energy lines.

"Someone who sees energy will see it as lines coming out of the physical body."

I asked, "But what does that mean to someone like me who does not see?"

"The greater your energy," he explained, "the greater your capacity to perceive extraordinary things."

I tried not to sound facetious as I said, "I think what has happened to me is that the greater my energy becomes, the crazier I get."

Emilito remarked, "Do not run yourself down in such a casual manner.

"Perception is the ultimate mystery because it is totally unexplainable.

"Sorcerers as human beings are perceiving creatures, but what they perceive is neither good nor evil. Everything is just perception.

"If human beings, through discipline, can perceive more than is normally permitted, more power to them. Do you see what I mean?"

He refused to say one more word about it.

Instead, he took me through the house then out the front door to my tree.

He pointed to the top branches and said that because this particular tree had living quarters in it, it was equipped with a lightning rod.

He said, "In this area, lightning is sudden and dangerous. There are lightning storms even without a drop of rain.

"So when it does rain, or when there are too many cumulonimbus clouds in the sky, go to the tree house."

I asked, "When there are too many what in the sky?"

Emilito laughed and gently patted me on the back.

He said, "When the nagual Julian put me in the tree house, he told me the same thing. But at that time I did not dare to ask him what he meant, and he did not tell me either.

"I found out much later that he meant thunderclouds."

Emilito laughed at my look of dismay.

I asked, "Is there any danger of lightning striking the tree?"

"Well, there is, but your tree is safe," he replied. "Now get up there while it is still light."

Before I hoisted myself up, Emilito gave me a sack of walnuts that were cracked, but not shelled.

He said that if I had to be a tree dweller, I had to eat like a squirrel; little bits at a time and nothing at night.

I told him that was fine with me because I never really liked to eat anyway.

Emilito asked, chuckling, "Do you like to shit?

"I hope not, because the worst part about living in a tree house is when you have to evacuate your bowels.

"Human excrement is difficult to deal with. My philosophy is that the less you have of it, the better off you are."

Emilito found his statements so utterly funny that he doubled over laughing.

Still chuckling, he turned around, and left me to ponder over his philosophy.





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 19.


What animals and infants sense has nothing to do with knowing, but rather with the fact that they have the equipment to sense the double; their open gates. Those gates are permanently receptive in animals, but human beings close theirs as soon as they begin to talk and think, and their rational side takes over.

Version 2009.09.14


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 19.

That night it rained, and there was thunder and lightning.

But there is no way on earth for me to explain what it was like to be in a tree house while bolt after bolt of lightning ripped through the sky and fell on the trees around me.

My fear was indescribable. I screamed even harder than I had the first night when I felt my platform bed tilting.

It was an animal fright, and it paralyzed me.

I did not regain consciousness until around noon the next day.

The only thought that occurred to me was that I am a natural coward, and when tension is too great I always pass out.

When I let myself down, I found Emilito waiting for me.

He was sitting on a low branch with his feet nearly touching the ground.

He commented, "You look like a bat from hell. What happened to you last night?"

I was not going to pretend toughness or play at being in control. I felt like I must have looked; like a living rag.

I said, "I nearly died of fright."

I told him that for the first time in my life, I had commiserated with soldiers in battle. I felt the same fear they must experience when bombs explode all around them.

Emilito said, "I disagree. Your fear last night was even more intense.

"Whatever was shooting at you was not human. So at the level of the double, it was a gigantic fear."

"Please, Emilito, explain to me what you mean by that."

"Your double is about to become aware. So under conditions of stress, like last night, it became partially aware.

"But your double not used to perceiving the world, so it was also totally frightened.

"Your body and your mind are accustomed to perceiving the world, but your double is not."

I was certain that if I had been prepared for the storm, I would have relaxed.

If my fear and my thoughts about the storm had not interfered, some force inside me would have come completely out of my body, and perhaps might even have stood up, moved around, or come down from the tree.

What frightened me most was the sensation of being cooped up; trapped inside my body.

Emilito said, "When we enter into absolute darkness where there are no distractions, the double takes over.

"It stretches its ethereal limbs, and opens its luminous eye and looks around.

"Sometimes experiencing it can be even more frightening than what you felt last night."

I assured him, saying, "The double will not be that frightening. I am ready for it."

Emilito retorted, "You are not ready for anything yet. I am sure your screams last night could have been heard all the way to Tucson."

His comment annoyed me.

There was something about him I did not like, but I could not pinpoint what it was.

Perhaps it was because he looked so odd. He was not manly. He seemed to be the mere shadow of a man, and yet he was deceptively strong.

But what really bothered me was that he did not let me push him around, and that irritated my competitive side no end.

In a surge of anger I asked Emilito belligerently, "How dare you run me down every time I say something you do not like!"

The moment I said that, I regretted it, and I apologized profusely for my aggressiveness.

I ended by confessing, "I do not know why I get so irritated with you."

"Do not feel bad," he said. "It is because you sense something about me that you can not explain. As you yourself put it, I am not manly."

I protested, "I did not say that."

From his look, he obviously did not believe me, and he insisted, "Of course you did. You said it to my double just a moment ago.

"My double never ever makes mistakes or misinterprets things."

My nervousness and embarrassment reached their peak.

I did not know what to say. My face was red and my body trembled. I could not understand what had caused my exaggerated reaction.

Emilito's voice broke into my thoughts as he said, "You are reacting like that because your double is perceiving my double."

"Your physical body is frightened because its gates are opening, and new perceptions are flowing in.

"If you think you feel bad now, imagine how much worse it well be when all your gates are open."

He spoke so convincingly that I wondered if he was right.

He continued, "Animals and infants have no problem perceiving the double, and they are often disturbed by it."

I mentioned that animals did not particularly like me and that, except for Manfred, the feeling was mutual.

Emilito clarified, "Animals do not like you because some of your body gates have never been completely closed and your double is struggling to come out.

"Be prepared. For now that you are deliberately intending it, they are going to fling open.

"One of these days your double is going to awake all at once, and you might find yourself across the patio without having walked over."

I had to laugh, mostly out of nervousness, but also at the absurdity of what he was suggesting.

Emilito asked, "And what about children, and especially infants? Do they not holler when you pick them up?"

They usually had. The few times I had been around infants, they had begun to cry as soon as I came near them.

I had always told myself that it was because I lacked a maternal instinct.

But I did not tell Emilito that. I lied, saying, "Babies like me."

He shook his head in disbelief.

Until Clara and the nagual had told me about the double, I never heard of such a thing. Nor had I ever met anyone who knew about the double.

I challenged Emilito to explain how animals and infants could sense the double when I had not known it existed myself.

Emilito rebuffed me by saying that what animals and infants sense has nothing to do with knowing, but rather with the fact that they have the equipment to sense the double; their open gates.

He added that those gates are permanently receptive in animals, but that human beings close theirs as soon as they begin to talk and think, and their rational side takes over.

I had thus far given Emilito my full attention because Clara had told me that no matter who might be talking to me and no matter what he or she might be saying, the exercise was to listen.

But the more I listened to Emilito, the more annoyed I became, until I found myself in the throes of a bona-fide rage.

I said, "I do not believe any of this. Why do you say that you are my teacher, anyway? You still have not made that clear."

Emilito laughed, and said, "I certainly did not volunteer for the post."

"Then who appointed you?"

After a thoughtful pause, Emilito said, "It is a long chain of circumstances.

"The first link of this chain was set when the nagual found you naked with your legs up in the air."

Emilito burst out laughing, with a shrill birdlike sound.

I resented immensely his insulting sense of humor, I yelled, "Get to the point, Emilito, and tell me what is going on."

Emilito explained, "I am sorry. I thought you would enjoy an account of your doings, but I see I was wrong. We, on the other hand, have enjoyed ourselves immensely with your antics.

"For years we have laughed at the tribulations and hardships John Michael Abelar inherited because he walked into the wrong room and found a naked girl when all he wanted to do was to piss."

Emilito doubled up laughing.

I did not see the humor of it. My fury was so gigantic that I wanted to lash out at him with a few punches and well-placed kicks.

He looked at me and moved back, undoubtedly sensing I was about to explode.

He asked, "Do you not find it hilarious that John Michael had to go through hell with the problem he inherited, just because he wanted to piss?

"The nagual and I have that in common. Whereas I only found a half-dead puppy, he found a completely crazed girl. And now we are responsible for both of you for the rest of our lives.

"Seeing what had happened to us, the other members of our party got so scared that they vowed never to take another leak again before they checked and rechecked the place."

Emilito burst out laughing so hard he had to pace back and forth to keep from choking.

Seeing that I was not even smiling, he quieted down.

He composed himself and said, "Well... let us continue then. Once the first link was cast and he found you with your legs up, it was the nagual's duty to mark you, which he promptly did.

"Then he had to keep track of you. He used Clara and Nelida to help him.

"The first time he and Nelida came to visit you was the summer you had graduated from high school, and worked as a camp counselor in a mountain resort."

I tried not to sound patronizing as I interupted him, asking, "Is it true that he found me through an energy channel?"

"Absolutely. He had marked your double with some of his energy so he could follow your movements."

I said, "I do not remember ever seeing them."

"That is because you always believed you were having recurring dreams. But the two of them actually came to see you in the flesh.

"They continued to visit you many times over the years, especially Nelida. Then, when you came to live in Arizona following Nelida's suggestions, all of us had a chance to visit you."

"Wait a minute. This is getting too bizarre. How could I follow her suggestion when I do not even remember meeting her?"

"Believe me, she kept telling you to live in Arizona, and you did, but of course you thought you were deciding it yourself."

As the caretaker talked, my mind flashed back to that period of my life.

I remembered thinking that Arizona was the place where I should be.

I did the southern horizon gazing technique to decide where to get a job and I received the strongest feeling that I should head for Tucson.

I even had a dream in which someone was telling me I should work in a bookstore.

When I got to Tucson, I went directly to a bookstore with a 'Help Wanted' sign. I took the job typing up order forms, working the cash register, and shelving books. I was not fond of books and it was odd that I should be working with them.

Emilito went on, "Whoever came to see you, always pulled your double, so you have only a vague dreamlike memory of us with the exception of Nelida. You know her as you know the back of your hand."

So many people had come into that bookstore, but I vaguely remembered an elegantly dressed, beautiful woman who came in once and talked to me in a friendly way.

It was so unusual because no one else paid any attention to me. She might very well have been Nelida.

At a deep level everything Emilito had said made sense, but to my rational mind it seemed so far-fetched that I would have to be crazy to believe him.

I said, more defensively than I had intended, "What you are saying is pure horse manure."

My harsh reaction did not perturb Emilito in the least. He stretched his arms above his head and rotated them in circles. He challenged with a grin, saying, "If what I said is really just a pile of manure, then I dare you to explain what is happening to you.

"And do not try to be a little girl with me, and get all weepy and flustered."

I heard my cracking voice yell, "You are full of shit, you God damn-". But my burning fury ended right then.

I could not believe I was shouting profanities.

I immediately began to apologize, saying that I was not accustomed to shouting or using foul language. I assured him that I had been reared in a most civil way, by a well-mannered mother who would not dream of raising her voice.

Emilito laughed and lifted a hand to stop me. He said, "Enough apologizing.

"It is your double that is talking. It is always direct and to the point, and since you have never allowed it expression, it is full of hatred and bitterness."

He explained that at that moment my double was extremely unstable due to being bombarded by thunder and lightning, but especially due to the events of five days ago when Nelida pushed me into the left hallway so I could begin the sorcerers' crossing.

I gasped, "Five days ago! You mean I was hanging in the tree for two days and two nights?"

"You were there exactly two days and three nights," he said with a malevolent smirk. "We took turns hoisting ourselves up there to see if you were all right. You were out but doing fine, so we left you alone."

"But why was I strapped that way?"

"You failed miserably trying to accomplish a maneuver we call the abstract flight or the sorcerers' crossing," he said. "The attempt depleted your energy reserves."

He clarified that it was not actually a failure on my part, but rather a premature attempt that had ended in complete disaster.

I asked, "What would have happened if I had succeeded?"

He assured me that success would have put me in a more advantageous position because it would have served as a point of departure, or a sort of lure, or a beacon that would have accurately marked the way for a future time when I would have to make the final flight all by myself.

"You are now using the energy of all of us," he went on. "We are all compelled to help you.

"In fact, you are using the energy of all the sorcerers that have preceded us and once lived in this house. You are living off their magic.

"It is exactly as if you were lying on a magic carpet that takes you to incredible places; places that exist only in the magical carpet's path."

"But I still do not understand why I am here," I said. "Is it just because the nagual John Michael Abelar made a mistake and found me?"

Emilito looked at me squarely, and said, "No. It is not quite that simple.

"In fact, John Michael is not really your nagual.

"There is a new nagual and a new era. You are a member of the new nagual's party."

"What are you saying, Emilito? What new party? Who decides that?"

"Power. The spirit. That boundless force out there decides all that.

"For us, the proof that you belong to the new era is your total similarity with Nelida.

"She was in her youth just like you are now. In fact, she too used up all her reserve energy when she first attempted the abstract flight.

"And just like you, she nearly died."

"You mean I could have actually died attempting it, Emilito?"

"Certainly. Not because the sorcerers' flight is so dangerous, but because you are so unstable.

"Someone else doing the same thing would have merely gotten a bellyache, but not you.

"You, like Nelida, have to exaggerate everything, so you nearly died.

"After that, the only way to restore you was by leaving you up in the tree off the ground for whatever time it took for you to come to your senses. There was nothing else we could have done."

Incredible as it sounded, what had happened to me gradually began making sense.

Something had gone dreadfully wrong during my encounter with Nelida. Something in me had been out of control.

Emilito explained, "I let you drink from my intent gourd yesterday to find out if your double is still unstable.

"It is! The only way to buttress your double is with activity, and like it or not, I am the only one who can guide your double in this activity.

"This is the reason I am your teacher; or rather, I am the teacher of your double."

I was still uncertain as to what exactly went wrong, so I asked, "What do you think happened to me with Nelida?"

"You mean what did not happen," he corrected me. "You were supposed to cross the chasm gently and harmoniously and wake up your double to full awareness in the left hallway."

He went into a convoluted explanation of what they had hoped would happen.

Under Nelida's direction I was supposed to shift my awareness back and forth between my body and my double.

This shifting was to have erased all the natural barriers developed through life; barriers that separate the physical body from the double.

The sorcerers' plan, he said, was to allow me to get acquainted with all of them in person since my double already knew them.

But because of my craziness, I did not cross gently and harmoniously.

In other words, the awareness my double acquired had nothing to do with the daily awareness of my body.

This resulted in a sensation that I was flying and could not stop. All my reserve energy drained out of me without any restraint and my double went berserk.

I said, "I regret to tell you this, Emilito, but I do not understand what you are talking about."

He replied, "The sorcerers' crossing consists of shifting the awareness of daily life, which the physical body possesses, to the double."

"Listen carefully. The awareness of daily life is what we want to shift from the body to the double. The awareness of daily life!"

"But what does that mean, Emilito?"

"It means that we are after sobriety, measure, and control. We are not interested in craziness and helter-skelter results."

I insisted, "But what does it mean in my case?"

"You indulged in your excesses and did not shift your awareness of daily life to your double."

"What did I do?"

"You imbued your double with an unknown, uncontrollable awareness."

"Regardless of what you say, Emilito, it is impossible for me to believe all this," I said. "In fact, it is really inconceivable."

"Naturally, it is inconceivable," he agreed. "But, you do not have to sit here holding on to your doubts shouting at me if you are after something conceivable.

"Something conceivable for you is to be naked and with your legs up."

He flashed a lecherous smile that gave me the chills.

But before I could defend myself, he changed his expression to one of utter seriousness.

He said softly, "To draw out the double gently and harmoniously, and shift to it our awareness of daily life is something without parallel. To do that is something inconceivable.

"Now let us do something thoroughly conceivable. Let us go and eat breakfast."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 20.


The important point is to know that normally we are limited because our physical body controls our awareness. But if we can turn it around so that our double controls our awareness, practically speaking, we can do anything we can imagine.

Version 2009.09.15


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 20.

My third night in the tree house was like camping out.

I simply slipped into the sleeping bag, fell into a sound sleep and woke up at dawn.

Lowering myself down was easier too. I had gotten the knack of moving the ropes and pulleys without straining my back and shoulders.

"This is the last day of your transition phase," Emilito announced after we had eaten breakfast. "You have much work to do. But you are fairly industrious, so it will not be too difficult."

"What do you mean by a transition phase?"

"Yours is a six-day transition from the last time you talked to Clara untill now.

"Do not forget, you have spent six nights in the tree, three during which you were unconscious, and the other three nights you were aware.

"Sorcerers always count events in sets of threes."

I asked, "Do I also have to do things in sets of threes?"

"Certainly," he said, "You are Nelida's heir, are you not? You are the continuation of her line."

He gave me a sly grin, and added, "But for now you have to do whatever I do. Remember, for however long it takes, I am your guide."

Hearing Emilito say that made me swallow hard.

Whereas I had felt a twitch of pride whenever Nelida included me with her in any of her statements, I did not like it one bit when the caretaker joined me with him.

Noticing my discomfort, he assured me that forces beyond anyone's control had placed us together to fulfill a specific task.

Therefore, we had to abide by the rule because that was the way things were done in his sorcery tradition.

Emilito explained, "Clara prepared your physical side by teaching you to recapitulate, and by loosening your gates with the sorcery passes."

"My job is to help solidify your double, and then teach it 'stalking'."

He assured me that no one else could teach me how to stalk with the double except himself.

I asked, "Can you explain what stalking with the double is?"

"Of course I can, but it would not be wise to talk about it because stalking means doing, not talking about doing.

"Besides, you already know what it means since you have done it."

"Where and when have I done it?"

"The first night you slept in the tree house," Emilito said, "when you were about to die of fright.

"On that occasion your reason was at a loss as to how to handle the situation, so circumstances forced you to depend on your double.

"It was your double that came to your rescue. It flowed out of the gates that your fear had thrown wide open. I call that stalking with the double.

"The nagual and Nelida are the masters of the double and they will give you the finishing touches," he went on, "provided I do the rough work.

"So it is up to me to get you ready for them, just like it was up to Clara to get you ready for me.

"And unless I get you ready, they will not be able to do anything at all with you."

"Why could Clara not continue being my teacher?" I asked, taking a sip of water.

Emilito peered at me. Then he blinked like a bird, and said, "It is the rule to have two ushers. Every one of us had two ushers, including myself.

"But, my final teacher was a nagual. That is also the rule."

Emilito explained that the nagual Julian Grau was not only his teacher, but the teacher of each of the sixteen members of the household.

The nagual Julian, together with his own teacher-- another nagual by the name of Elias Abelar-- found each of the members one by one, and helped them on their way to freedom.

I asked, "Why is it that the names Grau and Abelar keep on recurring?"

Emilio explained, "Those are power names.

"Every generation of sorcerers uses them, with each nagual's name following an alternate-generation rule.

"That means that John Michael Abelar inherited the name from Ellas Abelar. But the new nagual, the one that will come after John Michael Abelar, will inherit the name Grau from Julian Grau. That is the rule for the naguals."

"Why did Nelida say that I am an Abelar?"

"Because you are just like her, and the rule says that you will inherit her last name or her first name; or, if you wish, you can inherit both names. She herself inherited both names from her predecessor."

I asked, "Who decided on that rule and why have it in the first place?"

"The rule is a code by which sorcerers live to keep from becoming arbitrary or whimsical.

"They have to adhere to the precepts set up for them because the precepts were made by the spirit itself.

"This is what I was told and I have no reason to doubt it."

Emilito said that his other teacher was a woman named Talia. He described her as the most exquisite woman anyone could ever imagine existing on this earth.

I blurted out, "I think Nelida is the most exquisite being." I stopped myself from saying more because I did not want to sound like Emilito; totally overcome with absolute devotion.

Emilito leaned across the kitchen table and with the air of a conspirator about to reveal a secret said, "I agree with you.

"But wait until Nelida really gets hold of you. Then you will love her as if there is no tomorrow."

His words did not surprise me for he had correctly assessed something I already felt. I loved Nellda as if I had known her forever, and as if she were the mother I never really had.

I told him that she was to me the kindest, most beautiful and impeccable being I had ever encountered, and that was in spite of the fact that until a few days ago I did not even know she existed.

Emilito protested, "But of course you knew her. Every one of us came to see you, and Nelida saw you more often than anyone.

"When you came here with Clara, Nelida had taught you endless things already."

I asked uneasily, "What do you think she has taught me?"

He scratched the top of his head for a moment, and then said, "She taught you, for example, to call your double for advice."

"You say that I did that during my first night in the tree house, but I do not know what I did."

"Of course you do. You have always done it.

"What about your technique of relaxing and looking at the southern horizon to ask for advice?"

The moment he said this, something cleared in my mind.



I told Emilito I had remembered some completely forgotten dreams I had over the years in which a beautiful, mysterious lady used to talk to me and leave gifts for me on my bedside table.

Once I dreamt that she left an opal ring, and another time a gold bracelet with a tiny heart charm.

Sometimes she would sit on the edge of my bed and tell me things that upon awakening I would begin to do; like gazing at the southern horizon, or wearing certain colors, or even styling my hair a certain way that was more becoming.

When I felt sad or alone, she would soothe and comfort me, and whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

The thing I remember most vividly was that she told me that she loved me for what I was. She used those exact words, "I love you for what you are."

She would rub my back where I was tense, or stroke my head and tousle my hair.

I realized that it was because of her that I did not want my mother to touch me. I did not want anyone to touch me except that lady.

When I woke up after any of these dreams, my feeling was that nothing in the world mattered as long as that lady held me in her heart.

I always thought that those were my fantasy dreams.

I had attended Catholic schools so I thought perhaps she was the Blessed Virgin, or even one of the saints who kept on appearing to me. I had been taught that all good things come from the saints.

At one time, I even thought she was my fairy godmother.

But never in my wildest imagination did I think that such a being really existed.



Emilito laughed, and said, "That was not the Virgin or a saint, you idiot," "That was our Nelida.

"And she really did give you those jewels. You will find them in the box under the platform in the tree house.

"They were given to her by her predecessor, and now she passed them on to you."

"You mean that opal ring really exists?" I gasped.

Emilito nodded, and said, "Go see for yourself. Nelida told me to tell you--"

Before he could finish his statement, I ran out of the kitchen to the front of the house.

With record speed, I hoisted myself up to the tree house.

There, in a silk box hidden under the platform, were exquisite jewels. I recognized the opal ring that had red fire in it, and the gold charm bracelet. There were other rings, a gold watch, and a diamond necklace.

I took out the gold bracelet with the heart and put it on, and for the first time since Clara left, I found my eyes filled with tears.

They were not tears of self-pity or sadness, but of sheer joy and elation because now I knew beyond a doubt that the beautiful lady had not been merely a dream.

I called out Nelida's name and thanked her at the top of my voice for all her favors.

I promised to change, to be different and do whatever Emilito told me, anything, as long as I could see and talk to her again.

When I let myself down I found Emilito standing by the door in the kitchen.

I showed him the bracelet and rings and asked him how it was possible for me to have seen the same jewels years ago in my dreams.

"Sorcerers are extremely mysterious beings," Emilito said, "because most of the time they act from the energy of their double.

"Nelida is a great stalker. She stalks in dreams.

"Her power is so unique that she can not only transport herself, but bring things with her.

"That is how she could visit you, and that is why her name is Abelar.

"Abelar to us means stalker, and Grau means dreamer. All the sorcerers in this house are either dreamers or stalkers."

"What's the difference, Emilito?"

"Stalkers plan and act out their plans. They connive and invent, and change things whether they are awake or in dreams.

"Dreamers move onward without any plan or thought. They jump into the reality of the world or into the reality of dreams."

I examined the opal ring in the light, and said, "All this is incomprehensible to me, Emilito."

"I am guiding you so it will become comprehensible," Emilito replied. "And to help me guide you, you must do what I tell you.

"Everything I will say, do, or recommend that you do is either the exact replica of what my two teachers told me or it is something patterned on what they said."

He leaned closer to me, and whispered, "You may not believe this, but you and I are basically alike."

"In what way, Emilito?"

With a most serious face, he said, "We are both a bit insane.

"Pay close attention and remember this. In order for you and me to be sane, we have to work like demons at balancing, not the body or the mind, but the double."

I saw no point in arguing or agreeing with him, but as I sat down at the kitchen table again, I asked him, "How can we be sure that we are balancing the double?"

"By opening our gates," he replied. "The first gate is in the sole of the foot, at the base of the big toe."

He reached under the table and grabbed my left foot and in one incredibly swift maneuver, he removed my shoe and sock.

Then using his index finger and thumb as a vise, he pressed the round protuberance of my big toe at the sole of my foot and the toe joint at the top of my foot.

The sharp pain and the surprise made me scream. I yanked my foot away so forcefully that I bumped my knee on the underside of the table.

I stood up and yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing!"

He ignored my angry outburst and said, "I am pointing out the gates to you according to the rule, so pay close attention."

He stood up and moved around to my side.

"The second gate is the area that includes the calves and the inner part of the knee," he said bending over and stroking my legs.

"The third is at the sexual organs and tailbone."

Before I could move away, he slid his warm hand into my crotch and lifted me up a bit as he gave me a firm squeeze.

I fought him off but he grabbed my lower back.

He said, "The fourth and the most important is in the area of the kidneys."

Unconcerned with my vexation, he pushed me down on the bench again.

He moved his hands up my back. I cringed, but for Nelida's sake I let him.

He said, "The fifth point is in between the shoulder blades."

"The sixth is at the base of the skull, and the seventh is at the crown of the head."

To isolate the last point, his knuckles descended hard on the very top of my head.

He moved back to his side of the table and sat down. He went on, "If our first or second centers are open, we transmit a certain kind of force that people may find intolerable."

"On the other hand, if the third and fourth gates are not as closed as they are supposed to be, we transmit a certain force that people will find most appealing."

Half jokingly I thought that the caretaker's lower centers must be wide open because I found him as obnoxious and intolerable as anyone could be.

Partly out of guilt for feeling the way I did toward him I admitted that people did not take to me easily. I had always thought it was a lack of social grace for which I felt I had to compensate by being extra accommodating.

Emilito agreed, saying, "It is only natural. You have had the gates in your feet and calves partially open all your life.

"Another consequence of those lower centers being open is that you have trouble walking."

"Wait just a moment," I said, "there is nothing wrong with the way I walk. I practice martial arts. Clara told me that I move smoothly and gracefully."

At that Emilito burst out laughing, and retorted, "You can practice whatever you please. Yyou still drag your feet when you walk. You have an old man's shuffle."

Emilito was worse than Clara. At least she had the grace to laugh with me, not at me. He had absolutely no sympathy for my feelings. He picked on me the way older children pick on younger, weaker ones who have no defenses.

He peered at me and asked, "You are not offended, are you?"

I was seething as I said, "Me, offended? Of course not."

"Good. Clara assured me that you have rid yourself of most of your self-pity and self-importance through your recapitulation.

"Recapitulating your life, especially your sex life, loosens some of your gates even more.

"The cracking sound you hear at the back of your neck is the moment when your right and left sides have separated.

"This leaves a gap directly in the middle of your body from where the energy rises to your neck at the place where the sound is heard. Hearing that pop means that your double is about to become aware."

"What should I do when I hear it?"

Emilito said, "To know what to do is not that important because there is very little we can do. We can either remain seated with our eyes shut, or we can get up and move about.

"The important point is to know that normally we are limited because our physical body controls our awareness.

"But if we can turn it around so that our double controls our awareness, practically speaking we can do anything we can imagine."

Emilito stood up, came toward me, and said, "Now, you are not going to trick me into talking about things the way you did Clara and Nelida." said:

"You can only learn about the double by doing. I am talking to you only because your transition phase has not ended yet."

He took me by the arm and without another word, he practically dragged me to the back of the house.

There he positioned me under a tree, with the top of my head a few inches below a low, thick branch.

He said that with the help of the tree he was going to see if I could project out my double again in full awareness.

I seriously doubted I would be able to project out anything, and I told him so.

He insisted that if I intended it, my double would push out from inside me and expand beyond the boundaries of my physical body.

I hoped he would show me a procedure that was part of the sorcerers' rule as I asked, "What am I supposed to do, exactly?"

He told me to close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing.

And as I relaxed, I was to intend a force to flow upward until I could touch the top branches with a feeling that came out of the gate in the crown of my head.

He said that this was going to be fairly easy for me because I was going to use my friend the tree for support.

The tree's energy would form a matrix for my awareness to expand.

I concentrated on my breaths, and after a time I felt a vibrating energy rising up my back; trying to push out of the top of my head.

Then something opened inside me.

Every time I inhaled, a line elongated to the top of the tree. When I exhaled, the line was pulled down into my body again.

The feeling of reaching the top of the tree became stronger with my every breath until I truly believed that my body expanded, becoming as tall and voluminous as the tree.

At one point, a profound affection and empathy for the tree enveloped me. It was at that same moment that something surged up my back and out my head, and I found myself viewing the world from the top branches.

This sensation lasted only an instant, for it was disrupted by the caretaker's voice commanding me to come down and flow inside my body again.

I felt something like a waterfall as an effervescence flowing downward entered the top of my head and filled my body with a familiar warmth.

When I opened my eyes, Emilito told me, "You do not want to stay mixed with the tree too long."

I had an overwhelming desire to embrace the tree, but Emilito pulled me by the arm to a large boulder some distance away, where we sat down.

He pointed out that aided by an outside force, in this case uniting my awareness with the tree, one can easily make the double expand.

However, because it is easy, we run the risk of staying merged with the tree too long in which case we might sap the tree of the vital energy it needs to maintain itself in a strong and healthy state; or we might leave some of our own energy behind by becoming emotionally attached to the tree.

Emilito explained, "You can merge with anything."

"If whatever or whomever you merge with is strong, your energy will be enhanced as it was whenever you merged with the magician, Manfred.

"But if it is sick or weak, stay away.

"In any case, you must do the exercise sparingly because like everything else, it is a double-edged sword. Outside energy is always different from our own, and is often antagonistic to it."

I listened attentively to what Emilito said.

One thing stood out from everything else, and I asked, "Tell me, Emilito, why did you call Manfred a magician?"

"That is our way of acknowledging his uniqueness.

"Manfred to us can not be anything else but a magician.

"He is more than a sorcerer. He would be a sorcerer if he had lived among his kind. However, he lives among human beings, and human sorcerers at that.

And since he is par with us we say that only a consummate magician could accomplish that feat."

I Emilito if I would ever see Manfred again.

He crossed his index finger over his lips in such an exaggerated fashion that I kept quiet, and I did not press him for an answer.



Emilito picked up a twig and drew an oval shape on the soft ground.

Then he added a horizontal line that transected it midway.

Pointing to the two partitions he explained that the double is divided into a lower and an upper section which correspond roughly in the physical body to the abdomen and chest cavities.

Two different currents of energy circulate in these two sections.

In the lower one circulates the original energy we had while still in the womb.

In the upper section circulates the thought energy which enters the body at birth with the first breath.

He said that energy is enhanced by experience and rises upward into the head.

The original energy sinks down into the genital area.

Usually in life these two energies become separated in the double, causing weaknesses and unbalance in the physical body.

Emilito drew another line down the center of the elliptical shape, dividing it lengthwise into two. He said that the two divisions corresponded to the right and left sides of the body.

These two sides also have two specific patterns of energy circulation.

In the right side, energy circulates up on the frontal part of the double, and down on the back of it.

On the left side, energy circulates down on the frontal part of the double, and up on the back.

He explained that an error many people make when trying to seek their double is to apply to it the rules of the physical body, and they mistakenly seek to train their double as if, for example, it were made of muscle and bone.

He assured me that there is no way to condition the double through physical exercises.

Emilito explained, "The easiest way to resolve this problem is to consider the your body and your double as separate."

"Only when they are undeniably separate can awareness flow from one to the other.

"When modern sorcerers consider them as separate, they can dispense with the nonsense of rituals, incantations and elaborate breathing techniques that are supposed to unify them."



"But what about the breaths and sorcery passes that Clara taught me? Are they nonsense too?"

"No. She taught you only things that would help you separate your body and your double. Therefore, the breaths and sorcery passes are all useful for our purpose."

Emilito said that perhaps our greatest human fallacy is to believe that our health and well-being is in the realm of the body when, in essence, the control of our lives is in the realm of the double.

This fallacy stems from the fact that our bodies control our awareness.

Ordinarily our awareness is placed on the energy that circulates in the right side of the double, which results in our ability to think and reason and be effective in dealing with ideas and people.

Sometimes accidentally but more often due to training awareness can shift to the energy that circulates in the left side of the double which results in behavior not so conducive to intellectual pursuits or dealing with people.

Emilito said, "When awareness is turned steadily to the left side of the double, the double is fleshed out and emerges.

"Then we are capable of performing inconceivable feats.

"This should not be surprising because the double is our energy source. The physical body is merely the receptacle where that energy has been placed."

I asked him if there are some people who can focus their awareness on either side of the double at will.

Emilito nodded, and said, "Sorcerers can do that.

"The day you can do that, you will be a sorceress yourself."

He said that people can shift their awareness to the right or the left side of the double after they have successfully completed the abstract flight simply by manipulating the flow of their breath.

Such people can practice sorcery or martial arts as readily as they can manipulate intricate academic constructs.

Emilito emphasized, however, that because of the mystery and power inherent on the left, our urge to turn our awareness steadily to the left is a petential trap infinitely more deadly than the attractions of the world of everyday life.

Emilito touched my forehead and the center of my chest, and he said, "The real hope for us lies in the center because in the wall that divides the two sides of the double is a hidden door that opens into a third, thin, secret compartment.

"Only when this door opens can one experience true freedom."

Emilito grabbed my arm, pulled me off the rock and while hurrying me back into the house, he said, "Your transition time is nearly up. No more time for explanations.

"We will leave the transition phase behind us with one hell of a bang. Come. Let us go to my room."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

I was no longer merely ill at ease, I felt threatened.

No matter how eccentric Emilito might be, and no matter how much he talked about the ethereal double, he was still a male, and the memory of his hand grasping my private parts in the kitchen was much too vivid.

I knew that it had not been an impersonal touch merely for the purpose of demonstration either for I had clearly sensed his lust when he touched me.

Emilito peered at me with cold eyes, and said, "What the hell do you mean that you sensed my lust when I touched you?"

He had voiced my thought verbatim, and I could only stare back at him with my mouth gaping.

A surge of shame went through me, accompanied by a cold shiver that spread over my entire body.

I blurted out some lame apologies. I told him that I used to fantasize that I was so beautiful that all men found me irresistible.

Emilito said, "To recapitulate means to burn all that. You have not done a thorough job.

"This, no doubt, is the reason you cracked while attempting the sorcerers' crossing."

Emilito walked away from the house, then turned around and said, "It is not time yet to show you what I had in mind.

"No. You need to do much more work to clean up your act. Much more.

"And from now on, you will have to be twice as careful, and work twice as hard because you can not afford any more slip-ups."





The Sorcerers' Crossing: Chapter 21.


The recapitulation is the key. It releases trapped energy and 'voilà'. You see infinity right in front of your eyes.

Version 2011.05.12


The Sorcerers' Crossing - A Woman's Journey ©1992 by Taisha Abelar:

Chapter 21.

Emilito ended my transition period right then. He switched tactics with me following my having misinterpreted his thoughts.

From then on he dropped his whimsical air of a prankster and he became a most demanding taskmaster.

No more did Emilito give me lengthy explanations of the double, or other aspects of sorcery-- hence I got no more solace stemming from intellectual understanding.

For me there was only pragmatic and demanding work.

Every day for months from morning until night I would be steeped in activity until I was exhausted and I went to sleep in the tree house.

In addition to my kung fu practice and my working in the garden, I was put in charge of cooking lunch and dinner.

Emilito showed me how to light the stove. He also taught me how to prepare some simple dishes which was a thing that my mother had tried but failed to do.

Because I had other duties, I would usually put all the ingredients into one pot on the stove to cook, then come back later when it was time to eat.

After several weeks of making the same stew, I got a perfect blend of flavors.

Emilito said that I turned out to be, if not a fairly good cook, at least one whose food is edible.

I took this as a compliment because nothing I had made in my entire life, from poundcake to meatloaf, had been edible.

We ate our meals in a total silence that he would only break if he wanted to tell me something.

But, if I wanted to converse, he would tap his stomach to remind me of his delicate digestion.



Most of my time was still devoted to recapitulating.

Emilito had instructed me to go over the same events and people I had recapitulated before, except that this time I was to do it in the tree house.

Hoisting myself up to the tree house every day made me lose my initial fear of heights.

I relished being outdoors and especially in the late afternoons so this was the time I set aside for recapitulating.

Under Clara's supervision, I had recapitulated in a dark cave. The mood of that recapitulation was heavy, earthy, somber and often terrifying.

My recapitulation under Emilito's guidance in the tree house was dominated by a new mood. It was light, airy, and transparent.

With my newly added energy and the influence of being off the ground, I was able to remember infinitely more details, and with an unprecedented clarity.

Everything was more vivid and pronounced, and less charged with the self-pity, moroseness, fear and regret that had characterized my previous recapitulation.

Clara had asked me to write on the ground the names of each person I had encountered in my life, then erase it with my hand after I had breathed in the memories associated with that person.

Emilito, on the other hand, had me write the names of people on dry leaves. After I had finished breathing in everything I had recollected about an individual, I then lit a match to that leaf.

Emilito had given me a special device to incinerate the leaves.

It was a twelve-inch metal cube with neatly perforated, round, small holes on all sides. Half of one side of the box was fitted with a glass, like a tiny window. There was a sharp pin in the center of the underside of the lid. On the side with the window, there was a lever that slid in and out where one could fasten a match and strike it from the outside against a rough surface inside the box after the lid was closed.

Emilito had explained, "In order to avoid starting a blaze, you have to pierce the dry leaf with the pin on the lid so when you close the lid, it will be suspended in the middle of the box.

"Then look inside the box through its little glass window and, using the handle, strike your match and place it under the leaf and watch it burn to cinders."

As I gazed at the flames consuming each leaf, I was to draw in the energy of the fire with my eyes, and always be careful not to inhale the smoke.

He instructed me to put the ashes from the leaves into a metal urn, and the used matches into a paper sack.

Each of the matchsticks represented the husk of the person whose name had been written on the dry leaf that had been disintegrated by that particular match.

When the urn was full, I was to empty it from the top of the tree, letting the wind scatter the ashes in all directions.

I was instructed when to lower the burnt matchsticks in the paper bag on a separate rope. Emilito then handled the bag with a pair of tongs, and put the bag in a special basket he always used for that purpose.

He was careful never to touch the matches or the bag. My best guess was that he buried them somewhere in the hills, or perhaps tossed them in the stream to let the water disintegrate them.

Disposing of the matches, he had assured me, was the final act in the process of breaking the ties with the world.

After about three months of recapitulating in the afternoons, Emilito abruptly changed my work schedule.

One morning he hoisted up some food he had prepared for me, and said, "I am tired of eating your boring stew."

I was overjoyed, not only because I might have extra time to spend in the tree house, but because I genuinely liked eating food cooked by someone else.

I tasted his cooking, and I had the total certainty that Clara had never cooked the food she served me. The real cook had always been Emilito.

He made things with a special zest that always made whatever he cooked a delight to eat.

Every morning around seven, Emilito would be standing at the foot of the tree ready to hoist up some food he had packed in a basket.

After eating breakfast in the tree house, I usually went back to my recapitulation, which, once I had been freed from the dread of uncovering something unpleasant, was now more than ever like an exciting adventure of examination and insight.

The more of my past I breathed in, the lighter and freer I felt.

As I broke off old links, I began forming new ones.

In this instance, my new links were with Emilito; the unique being that was guiding me.

Although he was stern and determined to make sure that I kept my nose to the grindstone, Emilito was in essence as light as a feather.

The first time we had met, Emilito said to me that his name was Emilito, the Spanish diminutive for Emilio.

It seemed ridiculous to me to call a mature man 'little Emilio,' so I did it reluctantly.

But as I got to know him better, I could not conceive of addressing him in any other way.

At first, I had been surprised that both he and Clara had claimed that I was like them.

But upon a deeper examination, I had to agree that I was as ponderous as Clara, and as flighty, if not as insane, as Emilito.

Once I became accustomed to his oddity, I found no difference between Emilito and Clara, or the nagual, or even Manfred.

My feelings for them overlapped so that I began to feel affection for Emilito. And very naturally one day I began to rejoice in calling him Emilito.

Although whenever I thought about Emilito, Clara, the nagual, or Manfred, they merged in my mind, I could never merge them with Nelida.

She was special to me and I held her forever apart and above everyone else even though I had seen her only once in the real world.

I felt that on that day, as I focused my eyes on her, the bond that already existed between us became formalized.

That single encounter in my daily world awareness, no matter how fleeting, had been enough to make that bond indestructible and everlasting.



One day after we had our lunch in the kitchen, Emilito handed me a package.

As I held it against me, I knew it was from Nelida.

I tried to find a return address on it but there was none.

Attached to the package was a cartoon drawing of a woman puckering up her lips to kiss.

With the drawing and written in Nelida's handwriting were these words.

'Kiss the tree.'

I ripped open the package and found a pair of soft leather ankle-high shoes that laced up the front. The soles were fitted with rubber cleats.

I held them up for Emilito to see. I could not conceive what they were used for.

Emilito nodded in recognition, and said, "Those are your tree-climbing shoes.

"Nelida knew you have an affinity for trees in spite of your fear of falling.

"The cleats are made of rubber so you will not damage the tree bark."

The arrival of the package seemed to be the signal for Emilito to give me detailed instructions on tree climbing.

So far, I had only used the harness to hoist myself up to the tree house, although sometimes I dozed off or slept in the harness as if I were lying strapped in a hammock.

I had never actually climbed the tree except for one very low branch from which I had hung while propping my feet on another branch.

Emilito said in a no-nonsense tone, "Now is the time to find out what you are made of. Your new task will not be difficult, but if you do not give it your total concentration, it could prove to be fatal.

"You need to apply all your newly stored energy to learn what I have to show you."

He told me to wait for him by the grove of tall trees in front of the house.

Moments later, Emilito met me, carrying a long flat box.

He opened it and took out several safety belts and lengths of soft rock-climbing rope.

He strapped a belt to my waist and affixed another, longer belt to it by means of safety catches used in mountaineering.

Putting a similar belt around himself, he showed me how to climb a tree by hooking the longer belt around the tree trunk and using it as a support to move up along the trunk.

He climbed with swift and precise movements.

Along the way, he looped ropes on the branches to secure his position.

The end result was a web of ropes that allowed him to move safely around the tree from one side to the other.

He came down as agilely as he had climbed up.

"Be sure all the ropes and knots are secure," he said. "You can not afford any major mistakes here.

"Little mistakes are correctable. Big ones are fatal."

I was really astonished, and asked, "My goodness. Am I supposed to do what you just did?"

It was not that I was any longer afraid of heights.

I simply did not feel I had the patience to tie all the hooks and ropes in place. It had taken me quite a while just to get used to going up and down the tree in the harness.

Emilito nodded and laughed cheerfully.

He admitted, "This is a real challenge, but once you get the hang of it, I am sure you will agree it is worth it. You will see what I mean."

He handed me a length of rope and he patiently showed me how to tie and untie knots.

He showed me how to use pieces of rubber hose with my climbing rope pulled through them in order not to bruise the tree bark when I looped a rope around a branch to set up a new rope line to climb.

He showed me how to maneuver my feet to maintain my balance, and how to avoid disturbing birds' nests in the process of climbing.

For the following three months I worked under his constant supervision, confining myself to the lower branches.

I achieved a respectable control of the equipment, and enough calluses on my hands so that I no longer needed to wear gloves.

I aquired enough maneuverability and balance in my movements so that Emilito let me venture into the higher branches.

I meticulously practiced the same maneuvers I had learned on the lower branches on the higher ones.

One day I reached the top of the tree I was climbing without having been trying to do that.

Later that day, Emilito presented me with what he told me was his most meaningful gift to me.

It was a set of three green jungle camouflage overalls and matching caps that I assumed were bought in an army surplus store in the States.

Dressed in jungle fatigues, I lived in the grove of tall trees clustered by the front of the house.

I came down only to go to the bathroom and, occasionally, to have a meal with Emilito.

I climbed any tree I wanted, provided it was high enough.

There were only a few trees I would not climb; the ones that were very old and would find my presence an intrusion, or the really young ones that were not strong enough to tolerate my ropes and movement.

I preferred youthful, vigorous trees, for they made me happy and optimistic.

Yet, some of the older ones were desirable too, for they had so much more to tell.

The only tree that Emilito allowed me to sleep in overnight was the one with the tree house because it was fitted with a lightning rod.

I slept on my platform bed, or slept secured in the leather harness.

Or, at times I slept on a branch of my choosing while strapped in a simple way.

Some of my favorite branches were thick and free from protuberances.

I would lie on one face down.

Resting my head on a small pillow I always brought with me, I embraced the branch with my arms and legs, and maintained a precarious but exhilarating balance.

Of course I always made certain that a rope was tied to my waist and secured to a higher branch, just in case I lost my balance while asleep.



The feeling I developed for the trees was beyond words.

I had the certainty that I was able to absorb their moods, know their age and their insights, and what they sensed.

I could communicate with a tree directly through a sensation that came out from the inside of me.

Often, communication began with a spilling forth of pure affection almost as intense as what I felt for Manfred.

This affection always came out of me unexpectedly and unsolicited.

It was then that I could feel the tree's roots descending into the earth.

I knew whether they needed water and which roots were extending toward the underground water source.

I could tell what it felt like to live seeking light, and anticipating it. I learned what it felt like to feel heat or cold, and what it felt like to be ravaged by lightning and storms.

I learned what it was like never to be able to move off one's destined spot; to be silent; to sense through the bark, and the roots; and to intake light through the leaves.

I knew beyond the shadow of doubt that trees feel pain.

And I also knew that once communication is engaged, trees pour themselves out in affection.

As I sat on a sturdy limb with my back resting on the tree trunk, my recapitulation took on an altogether different mood.

I could remember the minutest details of my life experiences without fear of any coarse emotional involvement.

I would laugh my head off at things that at one time had been deep traumas for me.

I found that my obsessions were no longer capable of evoking self-pity.

I saw everything from a different perspective, and not as the urbanite I had always been, but as the carefree and abandoned tree dweller that I had become.

One night, while we were still eating a rabbit stew I had made, Emilito surprised me by talking to me animatedly.

He asked me to remain seated after dinner because he had something to tell me.

This was so out of the ordinary that I grew excited with anticipation.

The only beings I had talked to for months had been the trees and the birds. I prepared myself for something monumental.

Emilito began, "You have been a tree dweller for over six months now. It is time to find out what you have accomplished up there.

"Let us go into the house. I have something to show you."

I remembered the time he had wanted to show me something in his room and I had refused to follow him.

I asked, "What do you have to show me, Emilito?"

I thought that the name Emilito suited him to perfection.

He had become a most cherished being to me, just like Manfred.

One of the lofty insights I had received while perched in the high branches of a tree was that Emilito was not human at all.

Whether he had once been a human being and the recapitulation had wiped all that away, I could only speculate.

His nonhumanness was a barrier that impeded anyone from crossing over to him for a subjective exchange.

No average person could ever enter into what Emilito thought, felt or witnessed.

But if Emilito so desired, he could cross over to any of us and share with us our subjective states.

His nonhumanness was something I had sensed from the first time I encountered him at the kitchen door.

Now I was able to be at ease with him; and although I was still separated by that barrier, I could marvel at his achievement.

Since he had not answered me, I again asked Emilito what he was going to show me.

He said, "What I have to show is of ultimate importance.

"But how you will see it will depend on you. It will depend on whether you have acquired the silence and balance of the trees."

We hurriedly walked across the dark patio to the house.

I followed him through the hallway to the door of his room.

It made me doubly nervous to see him stand there for a long moment and take deep breaths as if to compose himself for what was to come.

He gently tugged the sleeve of my shirt, and said, "All right. Let us go in.

"A word of caution.

"Do not stare at anything in the room. Look at whatever you want, but scan the things lightly, using only quick glances."

He opened the door and we entered his extravagant room.

Living in the trees had made me completely forget the first time I had walked into that room the day Clara and Nelida had left.

So I was again startled by the bizarre objects that filled it.

The first things I saw were four floor lamps, one at the center of each wall.

I could not even begin to conceive what kind of lamps they were.

The room and everything in it was illuminated by an eerie, mellow, amber light.

I was familiar enough with electrical equipment to know that no standard light bulb, even if it were seen through a lampshade made of the most unusual tissue, could ever give off that kind of light.

I felt Emilito take my arm to help me step over a foot-high fence that bordered a small square area in the southwest corner of the room.

As we stepped into the partitioned area, Emilito said with a grin, "Welcome to my cave."

In that square there was a long table half hidden by a black curtain, and a row of four most unusual looking chairs.

Each chair had a high solid oval back that curved around the body, and instead of legs had a seemingly solid round base.

All four chairs were facing the wall.

As Emilito helped me sit down on one of the chairs, he reminded me, "Do not stare."

I noticed that the chairs were made of some sort of plastic material. The round seat was cushioned, although I could not tell how.

It was hard as wood, but it had a springiness that gave way when I moved up and down on the seat.

The chair also swiveled as I moved sideways.

The oval back, which seemed to wrap itself around my back, was also cushioned but equally hard.

All the chairs were painted with a vivid cerulean blue.

Emilito sat in the chair next to me.

He swiveled his chair around to face the center of the room, and in an unusually strained voice, he told me to swivel around also.

When I did, I let out a gutteral gasp.

The room I had crossed a moment ago had disappeared.

Instead, I was staring at a vast flat space, illuminated by a peach-colored glow.

The room now extended out into seemingly infinite space right before my very eyes.

The horizon in my view was jet black.

I gasped again for I had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I felt the floor was moving out from under my feet and I was being pulled into that space.

I no longer felt the swivel chair underneath me, although I was still sitting on it.

I heard Emilito say, "Let us swivel back again."

However, I had no strength to make the chair turn.

Emilito must have done it for me, for I suddenly found myself looking at the corner of the room again.

Emilito asked, smiling, "Incredible, would you not say?"

I was incapable of uttering a single word or of asking questions I knew had no answers.

After a minute or two, Emilito made my chair swivel around once more, to give me another eyeful of infinity.

I found the immensity of that space so terrifying that I closed my eyes.

I felt him turning the chair around again.

Emilito said, "Now get off the chair."

Automatically I obeyed him, and stood shaking involuntarily while I tried to get my voice back.

He bodily turned me around to make me face the room.

Gripped with fear, I stubbornly or wisely refused to open my eyes.

Emilito gave me a sound rap on the top of my head with his knuckle which made my eyes pop open.

To my relief, the room was not black endless space, but the way it had been when I walked in.

Discarding his admonitions to only look in glances, I stared at every one of those unidentifiable objects.

I asked, "Please, Emilito, tell me. What is all this?"

Emilito said, "I am merely the caretaker."

He swept his hand over the room, and said, "All this is under my care, but I will be damned if I know what it is.

"In fact, none of us knows what this is. We inherited it with the house from my teacher, the nagual Julian, and he inherited it from his teacher, the nagual Ellas, who had also inherited it."

I said, "This looks like some sort of backstage prop room, but this is an illusion, is it not, Emilito?"

He said, "This is sorcery!

"You can perceive it now, because you have freed enough energy to expand your perception.

"Anyone can perceive it provided they have stored enough energy.

"The tragedy is that most of our energy is trapped in nonsensical concerns.

"The recapitulation is the key.

"It releases that trapped energy and 'voilà'. You see infinity right in front of your eyes."

I laughed when Emilito said 'voilà' because it was so incongruous and unexpected.

Laughing alleviated some of my tension.

All I could say was, "But is all this real, Emilito, or am I dreaming?"

"You are dreaming, but all this is real.

It is so real that it can kill us by disintegrating us."

I could not rationally account for what I was seeing, thus there was no way I could either believe or doubt my perception.

My dilemma was insurmountable and so was my panic.

Emilito moved closer to me.

He whispered, "Sorcery is more than black cats and naked people dancing in a graveyard at midnight putting hexes on other people."

"Sorcery is cold, abstract, and impersonal.

"That is why we call the act of perceiving it 'the sorcerers' crossing,' or 'the flight to the abstract'.

"To withstand its awesome pull we have to be strong and determined.

"It is not for the timid or weak-hearted. This is what the nagual Julian used to say."

My interest was so intense that it forced me to listen with unequalled concentration to every word Emilito was saying.

All the while, my eyes were riveted to those objects in the room.

My conclusion was that none of them was real.

Yet, since I was obviously perceiving them, it made me wonder if I too was not real, or if I was concocting them.

It was not that they were indescribable. They were simply unrecognizable to my mind.

Emilito said, "Now prepare yourself for the sorcerers' flight.

"Hold on to me for dear life.

"Grab my belt if you have to or climb on my back piggyback fashion, but whatever you do, do not let go."

Before I could even ask him what he intended next, he maneuvered me by walking me around the chair, and made me sit down facing the wall.

Then he swiveled the chair ninety degrees so that I was once again looking at the center of the room; at that terrifying infinite space.

He helped me stand up by holding my waist, and he made me take a few steps into infinity.

I found it almost impossible to walk.

My legs seemed to weigh a ton. I felt Emilito pushing and lifting me up.

Suddenly an immense force sucked me in and I was no longer walking but gliding in space.

Emilito was gliding alongside me.

I remembered his warning and I grabbed onto his belt and in the nick of time too, because just then another surge of energy made me accelerate at top speed.

I yelled at him to stop me.

Quickly he eased me onto his back and I held on for dear life.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but that made no difference.

I saw the same vastness before me whether my eyes were open or closed.

We were soaring in something that was not air. It was not over the earth, either.

My greatest fear was that a monumental burst of energy was going to make me lose my hold on Emilito's back.

I fought with all my might to hang on, and maintain my grip and my concentration.

It all ended as abruptly as it had begun.

I was jolted by another blast of energy, and I found myself drenched in perspiration standing by the blue chair.

My body trembled uncontrollably.

I was panting and gasping for air. My hair was over my face, damp and tangled.

Emilito pushed me onto the seat, and swiveled me around to face the wall.

He warned harshly, "Do not dare to piss in your pants while sitting on this chair."

I was beyond bodily functions. I was empty of everything including fear. It all had drained out of me while soaring in that infinite space.

Nodding, Emilito said, "You are able to perceive as I do, but you do not have any control yet in the new world you are perceiving.

"That control comes with a lifetime of discipline and storing power."

I swiveled on my own to face the center of the room hoping to take another peek at that pinkish infinity and I said, "I will never be able to explain this to myself."

Now the objects I saw in the room were tiny, like chess pieces on a chess board.

I had to deliberately seek them out to notice them.

On the other hand, the coldness and awesomeness of that space filled my soul with unmitigated terror.

I remembered what Clara had said about the seers that had sought infinity, and how they had stared at that immensity and how it had stared back at them with a cold and unyielding indifference.

Clara never told me that she herself had stared at it, which I now knew she had.

So, what would have been the point of her telling me then? I would only have laughed or found her fanciful.

Now it was my turn to stare at infinity with no hope of comprehending what I was looking at.

Emilito was right. It would take me a lifetime of discipline and of storing power to understand that I was gazing at the boundless.



Emilito said, "Now let us look at the other side of infinity." He gently made my chair swivel to face the wall.

He ceremoniously lifted the black curtain while I stared vacantly, trying to control my chattering teeth.

Behind the curtain there was a long narrow blue table.

It had no legs, and seemed to be attached to the wall although I could not see any hinges or braces holding it up.

He ordered me, "Prop your forearms on the table, and rest your head on your fists by placing them under your chin the way Clara showed you.

"Put pressure under your chin.

Hold your head gently and do not become tense. Gentleness is what we need now."

I did as he instructed.

Instantly a small window opened on the black wall, about six inches away from my nose.

Emilito was sitting to my right apparently also looking through another small window.

He said, "Look inside. What do you see?"

I was looking at the house.

I saw the front door and the dining room on the left side of the house.

I had glanced into dining room briefly as I had passed it with Emilio the first time I used the main entrance.

The room was well lit and filled with people.

They were laughing and conversing in Spanish.

Some of them were helping themselves to food from a sideboard set with an assortment of tempting dishes, beautifully laid out on silver platters.

I saw the nagual.

Then I saw Clara. She was radiant and happy.

Clara was playing the guitar and singing a duet with another woman who could easily have been her sister. The other woman was as large as Clara, but but had a dark complexion.

The other woman had fiery eyes, but not Clara's fiery green eyes. Her eyes were were dark and sinister.

Then I saw Nelida dancing by herself to the hauntingly beautiful tune. She was somehow different from the way I remembered her, although I could not pinpoint what the difference was.

For a while I watched them, enchanted as if I had died and gone to heaven.

The scene was so ethereal, so joyous, and so untouched by daily concerns.

But I was suddenly jolted out of my enjoyment when I saw a second Nelida entering the dining room from a side door.

I could not believe my eyes, but there were two of them.

I turned to Emilito, and confronted him with a silent question.

He said, "The one that is dancing is Florinda. She and Nelida are exactly alike, except that Nelida is a bit softer looking." He peered at me, winked, and said, "But Nelida is far more ruthless."

I counted the people in the room. Besides the nagual, there were fourteen people; nine women and five men.

There were the two Nelidas, and Clara and her dark sister, and five other women who were unknown to me. Three were definitely old, but like Clara, Nelida, the nagual, and Emilito, they were of an indeterminate age. The other two women were only a few years older than I, perhaps in their mid-twenties.

Four of the five men were older, and looked as fierce as the nagual.

But one of the men was young. He had a dark complexion. He was short and seemed very strong. His hair was black and curly. He gesticulated in an animated way as he talked, and his face was energetic and full of expression.

There was something about him that made him stand out from all the rest.

My heart leaped, and I was instantly drawn to him.

Emilito said, "That one is the new nagual."

As we looked into the room, he explained that every nagual imbues his sorcery with his particular temperament and experience.

The nagual John Michael Abelar, being a Yaqui Indian, had brought to his group the pathos of the Yaquis as a characterizing mark of all their actions.

Emilito said that their sorcery was soaked in the somber mood of those Indians.

And all of the sorcerers, myself included, were bound by the rule to familiarize ourselves with the Yaquis, and to follow their ups and downs.

Emilito said in my ear, "This perspective will prevail for you until the new nagual takes over.

"Then you will have to soak yourself in his temperament and experience. That is the rule. You will have to go to college, as he is lost in academic pursuits."

I whispered, "When will this take place?"

He replied softly, "Whenever all the members of my group together face that infinity in the room behind us, and we allow it to dissolve us."

A cloud of fatigue and desperation was beginning to envelop me.

The strain of trying to understand the inconceivable was too great.

Emilito again spoke in my ear, saying, "This room, of which I am the caretaker, is the accumulated intent and range of temperament of all the naguals that preceded John Michael Abelar.

"There is no way on earth I can explain what this room is.

"To me, just as it is to you, it is incomprehensible."

I moved my eyes away from the dining room with all its ebullient people and looked at Emilito.

I finally understood that Emilito was as solitary as Manfred. He was a being capable of inconceivable awareness, yet burdened by the solitude that that awareness brings.

I wanted to weep, but my desire to weep was momentary because I realized that sadness is such a base emotion when in its place I could feel awe.



Emilito pulled my attention back into the dining room by saying, "The new nagual will take care of you.

"He is your final teacher, and the one who will take you to freedom.

"He has many names; one for each of the different facets of sorcery he is involved with. For the sorcery of infinity, his name is Dilas Grau.

"Someday you will meet him and the others.

"You could not do it the day you were with Nelida in the left hallway, nor can you do it now here with me.

"But, you will cross over soon. They are waiting for you."

A nameless longing took hold of me.

I wanted to slip through that viewing hole into the room to be with them.

There was warmth and affection there, and they were waiting for me.





Thee End - “The Sorcerers' Crossing: A Woman's Journey” - ©1992 by Taisha Abelar.



Being in Dreaming. ©1991 by Florinda Donner.

Version 2009.04.22


Being In Dreaming - Book Cover

Being in Dreaming: An Initiation into the Sorcerers' World. ©1991 by Florinda Donner.


Being-In-Dreaming.

Copyright © 1991 by Florinda Donner.

Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

FIRST EDITION

This edition is printed on acid-free paper that meets the American National Standards Institute Z39.48 Standard.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Donner, Florinda.

Being-in-dreaming / Florinda Donner. - 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-06-250192-5 (alk. paper)

1. Witchcraft-Mexico.

2. Donner, Florinda.

I. Title. BF1584.M6D66 1991

133.4'3'0972-dc20

90-56444 CIP r91

04 05 RRD H 20 19 18 17



For all those who dream sorcerers' dreams.


And for the few who dreamt them with me.



Contents.


  • Author's Note.

  • Chapter 1.
  • Chapter 2.
  • Chapter 3.
  • Chapter 4.
  • Chapter 5.
  • Chapter 6.
  • Chapter 7.
  • Chapter 8.
  • Chapter 9.
  • Chapter 10.
  • Chapter 11.
  • Chapter 12.
  • Chapter 13.
  • Chapter 14.
  • Chapter 15.
  • Chapter 16.
  • Chapter 17.
  • Chapter 18.
  • Chapter 19.




Being in Dreaming: Author's Note.

Version 2009.10.22


Being in Dreaming ©1992 by Florinda Donner:

Author's Note.

My first contact with the sorcerers' world was not something I planned or sought out. It was rather a fortuitous event.

I met a group of people in northern Mexico, in July of 1970, and they turned out to be the strict followers of a sorcerers' tradition belonging to the Indians of pre-Columbian Mexico.

That first meeting had a long-range, overpowering effect on me.

It introduced me to another world that coexists with ours.

I have spent twenty years of my life committed to that world.

This is the account of how my involvement began, and how it was spurred and directed by the sorcerers who were responsible for my being there.

The most prominent of them was a woman named Florinda Matus. She was my mentor and guide. She was also the one who gave me her name, Florinda, as a gift of love and power.



To call them sorcerers is not my choice.

Brujo or bruja, which mean sorcerer or witch, are the Spanish terms they themselves use to denote a male or a female practitioner.

I have always resented the negative connotation of those words, but the sorcerers themselves put me at ease, once and for all, by explaining that what is meant by sorcery is something quite abstract; the ability, which some people develop, to expand the limits of normal perception.

The abstract quality of sorcery automatically voids any positive or negative connotation of terms used to describe its practitioners.

Expanding the limits of normal perception is a concept that stems from the sorcerers' belief that our choices in life are limited due to the fact that they are defined by the social order.

Sorcerers believe that the social order sets up our lists of options, but we do the rest. By accepting only these choices, we set a limit to our nearly limitless possibilities.

This limitation fortunately applies only to our social side and not to the other side of us; a practically inaccessible side, which is not in the realm of ordinary awareness.

Therefore, sorcerers main endeavor is to uncover that other side.

They do this by breaking the frail, yet resilient, shield of human assumptions about what we are and what we are capable of being.

Sorcerers acknowledge that in our world of daily affairs there are people who probe into the unknown in pursuit of alternative views of reality.

The sorcerers contend that the ideal consequences of such probings should be the capacity to draw from our findings the necessary energy to change, and to detach ourselves from our definition of reality.

But the sorcerers argue that unfortunately such probings are essentially mental endeavors. New thoughts and new ideas hardly ever change us.

One of the things I learned in the sorcerers' world was that without retreating from the world, and without injuring themselves in the process, sorcerers do accomplish the magnificent task of breaking the agreement that has defined reality.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 01.

Version 2010.01.18


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 01.

On an impulse after attending the baptism of a friend's child in the city of Nogales, Arizona, I decided to cross the border into Mexico.

As I was leaving my friend's house, one of her guests, a woman named Delia Flores, asked me for a ride to Hermosillo.

She was a dark-complexioned woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, of medium height and stout build.

She was powerfully big, with straight black hair arranged into a thick braid.

Her dark, shiny eyes highlighted a shrewd, yet slightly girlish, round face.

Certain that she was a Mexican born in Arizona, I asked her if she needed a tourist card to enter Mexico.

"Why should I need a tourist card to enter my own country?" she retorted, widening her eyes with exaggerated surprise.

"Your mannerism and speech inflection made me think you were from Arizona," I said.

"My parents were Indians from Oaxaca," she explained, "but I am a ladina."

"What's a ladina?"

"Ladinos are sharp Indians who grow up in the city," she elucidated. There was an odd excitement in her voice.

I was at a loss to understand as she added, "They take up the ways of the white man, and they are so good at it that they can fake their way into anything."

"That's nothing to be proud of," I said judgingly. "It's certainly not too complimentary to you, Mrs. Flores."

The contrite expression on her face gave way to a wide grin.

"Perhaps not to a real Indian or to a real white man," she said cheekily, "but I am perfectly satisfied with it myself."

She leaned toward me, and added, "Do call me Delia. I have the feeling we are going to be great friends."

Not knowing what to say, I concentrated on the road.

We drove in silence to the check point.

The guard asked for my tourist card, but did not ask for Delia's. He did not seem to notice her, and no words or glances were exchanged between them.

When I tried to talk to Delia, she forcefully stopped me with an imperious movement of her hand.

Then the guard looked at me questioningly. Since I did not say anything, he shrugged his shoulders and waved me on.

"How come the guard did not ask for your papers?" I asked when we were some distance away.

"Oh, he knows me," she lied, and knowing that I knew she was lying, she burst into a shameless laughter.

"I think I frightened him, and he did not dare to talk to me," she lied again.

And again she laughed.

I decided to change the subject, if only to save her from escalating her lies.

I began to talk about topics of current interest in the news; but mostly we drove in silence.

It was not an uncomfortable or strained silence. It was like the desert around us; wide and stark, and oddly reassuring.

"Where shall I drop you?" I asked as we drove into Hermosillo.

"Downtown," she said. "I always stay in the same hotel when I am in the city.

"I know the owners well, and I am sure I can arrange for you to get the same rate I get."

I gratefully accepted her offer.

The hotel was old and run down.

The room I was given opened to a dusty courtyard.

A double, four-poster bed and a massive, old-fashioned dresser shrunk the room to claustrophobic dimensions.

A small bathroom had been added, but a chamber pot was still under the bed. It matched the porcelain washing set on the dresser.

The first night was awful.

I slept fitfully, and in my dreams I was conscious of whispers and shadows moving across the walls.

Shapes of things, and monstrous animals rose from behind the furniture.

People materialized from the corners; pale, ghostlike.

The next day I drove around the city and its surroundings; and that night, although I was exhausted, I stayed awake.

When I finally fell asleep into a hideous nightmare, I saw a dark, amoeba-shaped creature stalking me at the foot of the bed.

Iridescent tentacles hung from its cavernous crevices.

As the creature leaned over me, it breathed, making short, raspy sounds that died out into a wheeze.

My screams were smothered by its iridescent ropes tightening around my neck.

Then all went black as the creature-- which somehow I knew to be female-- crushed me by lying on top of me.

That timeless moment between sleep and wakefulness was finally broken by the insistent banging on my door, and the concerned voices of the hotel guests out in the hall.

I turned on the light, and mumbled some apologies and explanations through the door.

With the nightmare still sticking to my skin like sweat, I went into the bathroom.

I stifled a scream as I looked into the mirror. The red lines across my throat and the evenly spaced red dots running down my chest looked like an unfinished tattoo.

Frantically, I packed my bags. It was three o'clock in the morning when I walked out into the deserted lobby to pay my bill.

"Where are you going at this hour?" Delia Flores asked, emerging from the door behind the desk.

"I heard about your nightmare. You had the whole hotel worried."

I was so glad to see her I put my arms around her, and began to sob.

"There, there," she murmured soothingly, stroking my hair.

"If you want to, you can come and sleep in my room. I will watch over you."

"Nothing in this world will make me stay in this hotel," I said. "I am returning to Los Angeles this very instant."

"Do you often have nightmares?" she casually asked, leading me toward the creaky old couch in the corner.

"Off and on," I said. "I have suffered from nightmares all my life. I have gotten sort of used to them.

"But tonight it was different. It was the most real, and the worst nightmare I have ever had."

She gave me an appraising, long look and then slowly dragging her words said, "Would you like to get rid of your nightmares?"

As she spoke, she gave a half glance over her shoulder toward the door, as if afraid that someone might be listening there. "I know someone who could truly help you."

"I would like that very much," I whispered, untying the scarf around my neck to show her the red marks.

I told her the explicit details of my nightmare.

I asked, "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"Looks pretty serious," she pronounced, carefully examining the lines across my throat. "You really should not leave before seeing the healer I have in mind.

"She lives about a hundred miles south of here; about a two-hour ride."


The possibility of seeing a healer was most welcome to me. I had been exposed to them since birth in Venezuela.

Whenever I was sick, my parents called a doctor, and as soon as he left, our Venezuelan housekeeper would bundle me up and take me to a healer.

As I grew older and no longer wanted to be treated by a witchdoctor-- none of my friends were-- she convinced me that it could not possibly do any harm to be twice protected.

The habit was so ingrained in me that, when I moved to Los Angeles, I made sure to see a doctor as well as a healer whenever I was ill.


"Do you think she will see me today?" I asked.

Seeing her uncomprehending expression, I reminded her that it was already Sunday.

"She will see you any day," Delia assured me. "Why don't you just wait for me here, and I will take you to her. It will not take me but a minute to get my belongings together."

"Why would you go out of your way to help me?" I asked, suddenly disconcerted by her offer. "After all, I am a perfect stranger to you."

"Precisely!" she exclaimed, rising from the couch.

She gazed down at me indulgently, as though she could sense the nagging doubts rising within me.

"What better reason could there be?" she asked rhetorically. "To help a perfect stranger is an act of folly or one of great control.

"Mine is one of great control."

At a loss for words, all I could do was to stare into her eyes, which seemed to accept the world with wonder and curiosity.

There was something strangely reassuring about her.

It was not only that I trusted her, but I felt as if I had known her all my life. I sensed a link between us; a closeness.

And yet, as I watched her disappear behind the door to get her belongings, I considered grabbing my bags and bolting for the car.

I did not want to end up in a predicament by being daring as I had done so many times before.

But some inexplicable curiosity held me back despite my familiar nagging feeling of alarm.



I had waited for nearly twenty minutes when a woman, wearing a red pantsuit and platform shoes, stepped out of the door behind the clerk's desk.

She paused underneath the light.

With a studied gesture, she threw her head back so that the curls of her blond wig shimmered in the light.

"You did not recognize me, did you?" she laughed gleefully.

"It is really you, Delia," I exclaimed, and stared at her, open-mouthed.

She asked, "What do you think?"

Still cackling, she stepped out with me onto the sidewalk toward my car parked in front of the hotel.

She flung her basket and duffel bag in the back seat of my small convertible, then sat beside me.

Delia said, "The healer I am taking you to see says that only the young and the very old can afford to look outrageous."

Before I had a chance to remind her that she was neither, she confided that she was much older than she appeared to be.

Her face was radiant as she turned toward me and exclaimed, "I wear this outfit because I like to dazzle my friends!"

Whether she meant me or the healer, she did not say. I certainly was dazzled.

It was not only her clothes that were different. Her whole demeanor had changed.

There was not a trace of the aloof, circumspect woman who had traveled with me from Nogales to Hermosillo.

"This will be a most enchanting trip," she pronounced, "especially if we put the top down."

Her voice was happy and dreamy. "I adore traveling at night with the top down."

I readily obliged her.



It was almost four o'clock in the morning by the time we left Hermosillo behind.

The sky was soft and black, and was speckled with stars. It seemed higher than any sky I had ever seen.

I drove fast, yet it seemed we were not moving.

The gnarled silhouettes of cactus and mesquite trees appeared and disappeared endlessly under the headlights. They seemed to be all the same shape; all the same size.

"I packed us some sweet rolls and a full thermos of champurrado," Delia said as she reached for her basket in the back seat. "It will be morning before we get to the healer's house."

She poured me half a cup of the thick hot chocolate made with cornmeal, and fed me, bite by bite, a sort of Danish roll.

"We are driving through a magical land," she said as she sipped the delicious chocolate. "A magical land populated by warring people."

"What warring people are they?" I asked, trying not to sound patronizing.

"The Yaqui people of Sonora," she said and kept quiet, perhaps measuring my reaction.

"I admire the Yaqui Indians because they have been in constant war," she continued.

"The Spaniards first; and then the Mexicans-- as recently as 1934-- have felt the savagery, cunning, and relentlessness of the Yaqui warriors."

"I do not admire war or warlike people," I said.

Then, by way of apologizing for my belligerent tone, I explained that I came from a German family that had been torn apart by the war.

"Your case is different," she maintained. "You do not have the ideals of freedom."

"Wait a minute!" I protested. "It is precisely because I espouse the ideals of freedom that I find war so abhorrent."

"We are talking about two different kinds of war," she insisted.

"War is war," I interjected.

"Your kind of war," she went on, ignoring my interruption, "is between two brothers who are both rulers and are fighting for supremacy."

She leaned toward me, and in an urgent whisper added, "The kind of war I am talking about is between a slave and the master who thinks that he owns people. Do you see the difference?"

"No. I do not," I insisted stubbornly, and repeated that war is war no matter what the reason.

"I can not agree with you," she said, and sighing loudly she leaned back in her seat.

"Perhaps the reason for our philosophical disagreement," she continued, "is that we come from different social realities."

Astonished by her choice of words, I automatically slowed the car.

I did not mean to be rude, but to hear her spout academic concepts was so incongruous and unexpected that I could not help but laugh.

Delia did not take offense. She watched me, smiling, thoroughly pleased with herself, and said, "When you get to know my point of view, you may change your mind."

She said this so seriously, and yet so kindly, that I felt ashamed of myself for laughing at her.

"You may even apologize for laughing at me," she added as if she had read my thoughts.

"I do apologize, Delia," I said and I truly meant it. "I am terribly sorry for my rudeness.

"I was so surprised by your statements that I did not know what to do." I glanced at her briefly, and added contritely, "So I laughed."

"I do not mean social apologies for your conduct," she said, shaking her head in disappointment. "I mean apologies for not understanding the plight of man."

"I do not know what you are talking about," I said uneasily. I could feel her eyes boring through me.

"As a woman, you should understand that plight very well," she said. "You have been a slave all your life."

"What are you talking about, Delia?" I asked, irritated by her impertinence.

But then I immediately calmed down. I was certain that the poor Indian, no doubt, had an insufferable, overwhelming husband.

"Believe me, Delia, I am quite free. I do as I please."

"You might do as you please, but you are not free," she persisted.

"You are a woman, and that automatically means that you are at the mercy of men."

"I am not at the mercy of anybody!" I yelled.

Delia burst into loud guffaws, but I could not tell whether it was because of my assertion, or my tone of voice. She laughed at me as hard as I had laughed at her before.

"You seem to be enjoying your revenge," I said, peeved. "It is your turn to laugh now, is it not?"

Suddenly serious, Delia said, "It is not the same at all.

"You laughed at me because you felt superior.

"A slave that talks like a master always delights the master for a moment."

I tried to interrupt her and tell her that it had not even crossed my mind to think of her as a slave, or of me as a master, but she ignored my efforts.

In the same solemn tone she said that the reason she had laughed at me was because I had been rendered stupid and blind to my own womanhood.

"What is with you, Delia?" I asked, puzzled. "You are deliberately insulting me."

"Certainly," she readily agreed and giggled, completely indifferent to my rising anger.

She slapped my knee with a resounding whack.

"What concerns me," she went on, "is that you do not even know that by the mere fact that you are a woman you are a slave."

Mustering up all the patience I was capable of, I told Delia that she was wrong by my saying, "No one is a slave nowadays."

But Delia insisted, saying, "Women are slaves. Men enslave women.

"Men befog women.

"Men's desire to brand women as their property befogs us," she declared.

"That fog hangs around our necks like a yoke."

My blank look made her smile.

She lay back on the seat, clasping her hands on her chest.

"Sex befogs women," she added softly, yet emphatically.

"Women are so throughly befogged that they can not consider the possibility that their low status in life is the direct end result of what is done to them sexually."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," I pronounced.

I then, rather ponderously, went into a long diatribe about the social, economic, and political reasons for women's low status.

At great length I talked about the changes that have taken place in the last decades; how women have been quite successful in their fight against male supremacy.

Peeved by her mocking expression, I could not refrain from remarking that she was no doubt prejudiced by her own experiences; by her own perspective in time.

Delia's whole body shook with suppressed mirth.

She made an effort to contain herself and said, "Nothing has really changed.

"Women are slaves. We have been reared to be slaves.

"The slaves who are educated are now busy addressing the social and political abuses committed against women.

"None of the slaves, though, can focus on the root of their slavery-- the sexual act-- unless it involves rape or is related to some other form of physical abuse."

A little smile parted her lips as she said that religious men, philosophers, and men of science have for centuries maintained, and of course still do, that men and women must follow a biological, God-given imperative having to do directly with their sexual reproductive capabilities.

"We have been conditioned to believe that sex is good for us," she stressed.

"This inherent belief and acceptance has incapacitated us to ask the right question."

"And what question is that?" I asked, trying hard not to laugh at her utterly erroneous convictions.

Delia did not seem to have heard me. She was silent for so long I thought she had dozed off.

I was startled when she said, "The question that no one dares ask is, what does it do to us women to get laid?"

"Really, Delia," I chided in mock consternation.

"Women's befogging is so total, we will focus on every other issue of our inferiority except the one that is the cause of it all," she maintained.

"But, Delia, we can not do without sex," I laughed. "What would happen to the human race if we do not..."

She checked my question and laughter with an imperative gesture of her hand.

"Nowadays, women like yourself, in their zeal for equality, imitate men," she said.

"Women imitate men to such an absurd degree that the sex they are interested in has nothing to do with reproduction.

"They equate freedom with sex, without ever considering what sex does to their physical and emotional well-being.

We have been so thoroughly indoctrinated, we firmly believe that sex is good for us."

She nudged me with her elbow, and then, as if she were reciting a chant, she added in a sing-song tone, "Sex is good for us. It is pleasurable. It is necessary.

"It alleviates depression, repression, and frustration.

"It cures headaches, low and high blood pressure. It makes pimples disappear.

"It makes your tits and ass grow. It regulates your menstrual cycle.

"In short, it is fantastic! It is good for women.

"Everyone says so. Everyone recommends it."

She paused for an instant, and then pronounced with dramatic finality, "A fuck a day keeps the doctor away."

I found her statements terribly funny, but then I sobered abruptly as I remembered how my family and friends, including our family doctor, had suggested-- not so crudely to be sure-- sex as a cure for all the adolescent ailments I had had growing up in a strictly repressive environment.

The doctor had said that once I was married, I would have regular menstrual cycles. I would gain weight. I would sleep better. I would be sweet tempered.

"I do not see anything wrong with wanting sex and love," I said defensively.

"Whatever I have experienced of it, I have liked very much.

"And no one befogs me. I am free! I choose whom I want and when I want it."

There was a spark of glee in Delia's dark eyes when she said, "Choosing your partner in no way alters the fact that you are being fucked."

Then with a smile, as if to mitigate the harshness of her tone, she added, "To equate freedom with sex is the ultimate irony.

"Men's befogging is so complete, so total, it has zapped us of the needed energy and imagination to focus on the real cause of our enslavement."

She stressed, "To want a man sexually or to fall in love with one romantically are the only two choices given to the slaves.

"And all the things we have been told about these two choices are nothing but excuses that pull us into complicity and ignorance."

I became indignant with her. I could not help but think that she was some kind of repressed, man-hating shrew.

"Why do you dislike men so much, Delia?" I asked in my most cynical tone.

"I do not dislike them," she assured me.

"What I passionately object to is our reluctance to examine how thoroughly indoctrinated we are.

"The pressure put upon us is so fierce and self-righteous that we have become willing accomplices.

"Whoever dares to differ is dismissed and mocked as a man-hater or as a freak."

Blushing, I glanced at her surreptitiously. I decided that she could talk so disparagingly about sex and love because she was, after all, old. Physical desires were all behind her.

Chuckling softly, Delia put her hands behind her head.

"My physical desires are not behind me because I am old," she confided, "but because I have been given a chance to use my energy and imagination to become something different than the slave I was raised to be."

I felt thoroughly insulted rather than surprised that she had read my thoughts.

I began to defend myself, but my words only triggered more laughter.

As soon as she stopped, she turned toward me.

Her face was as stern and serious as that of a teacher about to scold a pupil.

"If you are not a slave, how come they reared you to be a Hansfrau?" she asked. "And how come all you think about is to heiraten, and about your future Herr Gemahl who will Dich mitnehmen?"

I laughed so hard at her use of German I had to stop the car lest we have an accident.

More interested in finding out where she had learned German so well, I forgot to defend myself from her unflattering remarks that all I wanted in life was to find a husband who would whisk me away.

Regardless of how hard I pleaded, however, she disdainfully ignored my interest in her German.

"You and I will have plenty of time to talk about my German later," she assured me.

She regarded me mockingly and added, "Or about your being a slave."

Before I had a chance to retort, she suggested that we talk about something impersonal.

"Like what?" I asked, starting the car again.

Adjusting her seat to an almost reclining position, Delia closed her eyes.

"Let me tell you something about the four most famous leaders of the Yaquis," she said softly.

"I am interested in leaders; in their successes or their failures."

Before I had a chance to grumble that I really was not that interested in war stories, Delia said that Calixto Muni was the first Yaqui leader who had attracted her attention.

Delia was not a gifted storyteller. Her account was straightforward, almost academic, yet I was hanging on her every word.

Calixto Muni had been an Indian who had sailed for years under the pirates' flag in the Caribbean.

On his return to his native Sonora, he led a military uprising against the Spaniards in the 1730s. Betrayed, he was captured and executed by the Spaniards.

Then Delia gave me a long and sophisticated elucidation of how during the 1820s, after the Mexican independence was achieved and the Mexican government attempted to parcel out the Yaqui lands, a resistance movement turned into a widespread uprising.

It was Juan Bandera, she said, who, guided by the spirit itself, organized military units among the Yaquis.

Often armed only with bows and arrows, Bandera's warriors fought the Mexican troops for nearly ten years. In 1832, Juan Bandera was defeated and executed.

Delia said that the next leader of renown was Jose Maria Leyva, better known as Cajeme-- the one who does not drink.

He was a Yaqui from Hermosillo. He was educated, and had acquired vast military skills fighting in the Mexican army.

Thanks to those skills, he unified all the Yaqui towns. From his first uprising in the 1870s, Cajeme kept his army in an active state of revolt.

He was defeated by the Mexican army in 1887 in Buatachive; a fortified mountain stronghold. Although Cajeme managed to escape and hide in Guay-mas, he was eventually betrayed and executed.

The last of the great Yaqui heroes was Juan Maldonado, also known as Tetabiate-- rolling stone.

He reorganized the remnants of the Yaqui forces in the Bacatete Mountains from which he waged ferocious and desperate guerrilla warfare against Mexican troops for more than ten years.

"By the turn of the century," Delia wrapped up her stories, "the dictator Porfirio Diaz had inaugurated a campaign of Yaqui extermination.

"Indians were shot down as they worked in the fields.

"Thousands were rounded up and shipped to Yucatan to work in the henequen plantations, and to Oaxaca to work in the sugar cane fields."

I was impressed by her knowledge, but I still could not figure out why she had told me all this.

I said admiringly, "You sound like a scholar; a historian in the Yaqui way of life. Who are you really?"

For an instant she seemed to be taken aback by my question, which was purely rhetorical, then she quickly recovered and said, "I have told you who I am.

"I just happen to know a great deal about the Yaquis. I live around them, you know."

She was silent for a moment, then nodded as if she had reached some conclusion and added, "The reason I have told you about the Yaqui leaders is because it is up to us women to know the strength and the weakness of the leader."

"Why?" I asked, puzzled. "Who cares about leaders? They are all nincompoops as far as I am concerned."

Delia scratched her head under the wig, then sneezed repeatedly, and said with a hesitant smile, "Unfortunately, women must rally around men, lest women want to lead themselves."

"Whom are they going to lead?" I asked sarcastically.

She looked at me, astonished, then rubbed her upper arm. This gesture, like her face, was girlish.

"It is quite difficult to explain," she murmured. A peculiar softness had entered her voice; part tenderness, part indecision, part lack of interest.

Delia continued, saying, "I had better not. I might lose you completely.

"All I can say, for the time being, is that I am neither a scholar nor a historian. I am a storyteller, and I have not told you the most important part of my tale yet."

I was intrigued by her desire to change the subject and I asked, "And what might that be?"

Delia said, "All I have given you so far is factual information. What I have not mentioned is the world of magic from which those Yaqui leaders operated.

"To them, the actions of wind and shadows, and of animals and plants were as important as the doings of men.

"That is the part that interests me the most."

I repeated mockingly, "The actions of wind and shadows, and of animals and plants?"

Unperturbed by my tone, Delia nodded.

She pushed herself up in the seat, pulled off the blond curly wig and let the wind blow through her straight black hair.

"Those are the Bacatete Mountains," she said, pointing to the mountains to the left of us, barely outlined against the semidarkness of the dawn sky.

"Is that where we are going?" I asked.

"Not this time," she said, sliding down into her seat again.

A cryptic smile played around her lips as she half turned toward me.

"Perhaps one day you will have a chance to visit those mountains," she mused, closing her eyes.

"The Bacatetes are inhabited by creatures of another world; of another time."

"Creatures of another world, of another time?" I echoed her in mock seriousness. "Who or what are they?"

"Creatures," she said vaguely. "Creatures that do not belong to our time nor to our world."

"Now, now, Delia. Are you trying to scare me?" I could not help laughing as I turned to glance at her.

Even in the dark, Delia's face shone. She looked extraordinarily young, and her skin was molded without wrinkles over curving cheeks, chin, and nose.

"No. I am not trying to scare you," she said matter-of-factly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I am simply telling you what is common knowledge around here."

I replied, "Interesting," and I bit my lip to suppress my giggles as I inquired, "And what kind of creatures are they? And have you seen them?"

"Of course I have seen them," she said indulgently. "I would not be talking about them if I had not."

Delia smiled sweetly, without a trace of resentment.

She said, "They are beings that populated the earth at another time and now have retreated to isolated spots."

At first I could not help laughing out loud at her gullibility.

Then I saw how serious and how convinced she was that these creatures indeed existed, so I decided that rather than make fun of her I should accept her credulousness.

After all, she was taking me to a healer, and I did not want to antagonize her with my rational probes.

"Are those creatures the ghosts of the Yaqui warriors who lost their lives in battle?" I asked.

She shook her head negatively, then, as if afraid someone might overhear, she leaned closer and whispered in my ear, "It is a well-known fact that those mountains are inhabited by enchanted creatures-- birds that speak, bushes that sing, stones that dance-- creatures that can take any form at will."

Delia sat back, and regarded me expectantly, and then she said, "The Yaquis call these beings surem.

"They believe that the surem are ancient Yaquis who refused to be baptized by the first Jesuits who came to Christianize the Indians."

She patted my arm affectionately, and continued, saying, "Watch out. They say that the surem like blond women."

She cackled with delight. "Maybe that is what your nightmare was all about-- a surem trying to steal you."

I was unable to keep my annoyance in check as I asked derisively, "You do not really believe what you are saying, do you?"

Delia replied soothingly, "No. I have just made it up that the surem like blonds. They do not like blonds at all."

Although I did not turn to glance at her, I could feel her smile and the humorous twinkle in her eyes.

Delia irked me to no end. I thought her to be either very candid, very coy, or, even worse, very mad.

I snapped ill-humoredly, "You do not believe that creatures from another world really exist, do you?"

Then, afraid I had offended her, I glanced at her with a word of half-anxious apology ready.

But before I could say anything, she answered in the same loud, ill-tempered tone of voice I had used.

"Of course I believe they exist. Why should they not exist?"

"They just do not!" I snapped sharply and authoritatively.

Then I quickly apologized. I told her about my pragmatic upbringing, and how my father had guided me to realize that the monsters in my dreams and the invisible playmates I had as a child-- invisible to everyone, but me, of course-- were nothing but the product of my overactive imagination.

Stressing, I said to her, "From an early age I was reared to be objective and to qualify everything. In my world, there are only facts."

Delia remarked, "That is the problem with people. They are so reasonable that just hearing about it lowers my vitality."

I ignored her comment, and continued, saying, "In my world, there are no facts anywhere about creatures from another world, but only speculations and wishful thinking. And fantasies of disturbed minds."

"You can not be that dense!" she cried out delightedly in between fits of laughter, as if my explanation had surpassed all her expectations.

"Can it be proven that those creatures exist?" I challenged.

"What would the proof consist of?" she inquired with an air of obvious false diffidence.

"If someone else can see them, that would be a proof," I said.

"You mean that if, for instance, you can see them, that will be proof of their existence?" she inquired, bringing her head close to mine.

"We can certainly begin there."

Sighing, Delia leaned her head against the backrest of her seat and closed her eyes.

She was silent for such a long time I was certain she had fallen asleep, and I was thus startled when she sat up abruptly and urged me to pull over to the side of the road. She had to relieve herself, she said.

To take advantage of our stop, I, too, went into the bushes.

As I was about to pull up my jeans, I heard a loud male voice just behind me say, "How delicious," and he sighed.

With my jeans still unzipped I dashed to where Delia was.

I cried out, "We had better get out of here fast! There is a man hiding in the bushes."

Delia brushed my words aside, saying, "Nonsense. The only thing behind the bushes is a donkey." Wide Eyed Burro

I pointed out, "Donkeys do not sigh like lecherous men." Then I repeated what I had heard the man say.

Delia collapsed into helpless laughter.

Then seeing how distressed I was, she held up her hand in a conciliatory gesture, and asked me, "Did you actually see the man?"

"I did not have to," I retorted. "It was enough to hear him."

She lingered for a moment longer, then headed toward the car.

Right before we climbed up the embankment to the road, she stopped abruptly, turned toward me, and whispered, "Something quite mysterious has happened. I must make you aware of it."

She led me by the hand back to the spot where I had squatted, and right there, behind the bushes, I saw a donkey.

"It was not there before," I insisted.

Delia regarded me with apparent pleasure, then shrugged her shoulders and turned to the animal.

Friendly Donkey

"Little donkey," she cooed in a baby voice, "did you look at her butt?"

I thought to my self, "She is a ventriloquist, and she is going to make the beast talk."

However, all the donkey did was to bray loudly and repeatedly.

I tugged at her sleeve as I pleaded, Let us get out of here. It must have been the owner who is lurking in the bushes."

"But this little darling has no owner," she cooed in that same silly baby voice, and scratched the animal's soft, long ears.

"It certainly has an owner," I snapped. "Can you not see how well fed and groomed it is?"

My voice was getting hoarse with nervousness and impatience as I stressed again how dangerous it was for two women to be out alone on a deserted road in Sonora.

Delia regarded me silently, seemingly preoccupied.

Then she nodded as if in agreement and motioned me to follow her.

The donkey walked close behind me, nudging my buttocks repeatedly with its muzzle.

Mumbling an imprecation, I turned around, but the donkey was gone.

"Delia!" I cried out in sudden fright. "What happened to the donkey?"

Startled by my cry, a flock of birds rose in raucous flight.

The birds circled around us, then flew east toward that fragile crack in the sky that marked the end of the night and the start of the day.

"Where is the donkey?" I asked again in a barely audible whisper.

"Right here in front of you," she said softly, pointing to a gnarled, leafless tree.

"I can not see it."

donkey-white_flowers

"You need glasses."

"There is nothing wrong with my eyes," I said tartly. "I can even see the lovely flowers on the tree."

Astonished at the beauty of the glowing, snow-white morning glory-shaped blossoms, I moved closer. "What kind of a tree is it?"

"Palo Santo."

For one bewildering second I thought that the donkey, which was emerging from behind the satiny, silver-gray trunk, had spoken.

I turned to look at Delia.

"Palo Santo!" she laughed.

Then the thought crossed my mind that Delia was playing a joke on me. The donkey probably belonged to the healer, who, no doubt, lived nearby.

"What is so funny?" Delia asked, catching the all-knowing smirk on my face.

"I have got a most horrible cramp," I lied.

Holding my hands against my stomach I squatted, and said, "Please wait for me in the car."

The instant she turned to go, I took off my scarf and tied it around the donkey's neck. I enjoyed anticipating Delia's surprise upon discovering, once we were at the healer's place, that I had known about her joke all along.

However, any hope of seeing the donkey or my scarf again were soon dashed. It took us almost two more hours to reach the healer's house.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 02.

Version 2010.01.18


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 02.

It was around eight o'clock in the morning when we arrived at the healer's house in the outskirts of Ciudad Obregon.

It was a massive old house with whitewashed walls and a tile roof grayed with age. It had wrought-iron windows and an arched doorway.

The heavy door to the street was wide open.

With the confidence of someone familiar with her surroundings, Delia Flores led me across the dark hall, down a long corridor, toward the back, and to a sparsely furnished room with a narrow bed, a table, and several chairs.

What was most unusual about the room was that it had a door in each of the four walls. They were all closed.

"Wait here," Delia ordered me, and pointing with her chin toward the bed she said, "Take a little nap while I get the healer. It might take me some time," she added, closing the door behind her.

I waited for her footsteps to fade down the corridor before I inspected the most unlikely healing room I had ever seen.

The whitewashed walls were bare. The light brown tiles of the floor shone like a mirror.

There was no altar, no images or figurines of saints, the Virgin, or Jesus, which I had always assumed were customary in healing rooms.

I poked my head through all four doors. Two opened into dark corridors. The other two led to a yard enclosed by a high fence.

As I was tiptoeing down a dark corridor, toward another room, I heard a low, menacing snarl behind me.

Slowly, I turned around.

Barely two feet away there stood an enormous, ferocious-looking black dog.

It did not attack me but stood its ground growling, showing its fangs.

Without directly meeting the animal's eyes, yet not letting it out of my sight, I walked backward to the healing room.

The dog followed me all the way to the door.

I closed the door softly, right on the beast's nose, and leaned against the wall until my heartbeat was back to normal.

Then I lay down on the bed, and after a few moments-- without the slightest intention of doing so-- I fell into a deep sleep.



I was roused by a soft touch on my shoulder.

I opened my eyes and looked up into an old woman's wrinkled pink face.

"You are dreaming," she said. "And I am part of your dream."

Automatically, I nodded in agreement. However, I was not convinced that I was dreaming.

The woman was extraordinarily small. She was not a midget or a dwarf, but rather she was the size of a child, with skinny arms and narrow, fragile-looking shoulders.

"Are you the healer?" I asked.

"I am Esperanza," she said. "I am the one who brings dreams."

Her voice was smooth and unusually low. She spoke Spanish fluently, yet her voice had a curious, exotic quality, as though Spanish was a language to which the muscles of her upper lip were not accustomed.

Gradually, the sound of her voice rose until it became a disembodied force filling the room. The sound made me think of running water in the depths of a cave.

I mumbled to myself, "She is not a woman. She is the sound of darkness."

"I will remove the cause of your nightmares now," she said, and she fixed me with an imperious gaze as her fingers closed lightly around my neck:

She promised, "I will get them out; one by one."

Her hands moved across my chest like a soft wave.

She smiled triumphantly, then motioned me to examine her opened palms. "See? They came out so easily."

She was gazing at me with an expression of such accomplishment and wonder, I could not bring myself to tell her that I did not see anything in her hands.

Certain that the healing session was over, I thanked her and sat up.

She shook her head in a gesture of reproach and gently pushed me back on the bed. "You are asleep," she reminded me. "I am the one who brings dreams, remember?"

I would have loved to insist that I was wide awake, but all I managed to do was to grin foolishly as sleep pulled me into a comforting slumber.

Laughter and whispers crowded around me like shadows.

I fought to wake myself. It took me a great effort to open my eyes and sit up, and to look at the people gathered around the table.

The peculiar dimness in the room made it difficult to see them clearly. Delia was among them.

I was about to call out her name when an insistent scratching sound behind me made me turn around.

A man, precariously squatting on a high stool, was noisily shelling peanuts.

At first sight he seemed to be a young man, but somehow I knew him to be old. He was slight of body, with a smooth, beardless face. His smile was a mixture of cunning and innocence.

He asked, "Want some?"

Before I could so much as nod, my mouth dropped open.

All I could do was stare at him as he shifted his weight to one hand and effortlessly lifted his small, wiry body into a handstand.

From that position he threw a peanut at me, and it went straight into my gaping mouth.

I choked on it.

A sharp tap between my shoulder blades immediately restored my breathing.

I was grateful and I wondered who had reacted so swiftly. I turned to the people who were now all standing by me.

The man who had tapped my back said, "I am Mariano Aureliano." He shook my hand.

His gentle tone and the charming formality of his gesture mitigated the fierce expression in his eyes and the severity of his aquiline features. The upward slant of his dark brows made him look like a bird of prey.

His white hair and his weathered, copperish face bespoke of age, but his muscular body exuded the vitality of youth.

There were six women in the group, including Delia.

All of them shook my hand in that same eloquent formality.

They did not tell me their names. They simply said that they were glad to meet me.

Physically, they did not resemble each other, and yet there was a striking alikeness about them.

They shared a contradictory blend of youth and age, and a blend of strength and delicacy that was most baffling to me-- accustomed as I was to the roughness and directness of my male-oriented, patriarchal, German family.

Just as with Mariano Aureliano and the acrobat on the stool, I could not tell the women's ages. They could have been as much in their forties as in their sixties.

I experienced a fleeting anxiety as the women kept staring at me.

I had the distinct impression they could see inside me and were reflecting on what they saw.

Their amused and contemplative smiles did little to reassure me.

Anxious to break that disturbing silence in any way I could, I turned away from them and faced the man on the stool. I asked him if he was an acrobat.

"I am Mr. Flores," he said. He did a back flip from the stool and landed in a cross-legged position on the floor.

He pronounced, "I am not an acrobat. I am a wizard."

There was a smile of unmistakable glee on his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out my silk scarf; the one I had tied around the donkey's neck.

"I know who you are. You are her husband!" I exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Delia. "You two sure played a clever trick on me."

Mr. Flores did not say a word. He simply gazed at me in polite silence. He finally pronounced, "I am nobody's husband."

Then he cartwheeled out of the room through one of the doors that led to the yard.

On an impulse, I jumped off the bed and went after him.

Blinded momentarily by the brightness outside, I stood for a few seconds dazed by the glare, then crossed the yard and ran down the side of a dirt road into a recently ploughed field partitioned off by tall eucalyptus trees.

It was hot. The sun bore down like flames. The furrows shimmered in the heat like effervescent giant snakes.

I called out, "Mr. Flores." But there was no answer.

I was certain that he was hiding behind one of the trees, and I crossed the field in a run.

"Watch those bare feet!" warned a voice coming from above me.

Startled, I looked up, straight into Mr. Flores' upside-down face. He was hanging from a branch, dangling from his legs.

He admonished sternly, "It is dangerous and utterly foolish to run about without shoes." He swang back and forth like a trapeze artist.

"This place is infested with rattlesnakes. You had better join me up here. It is safe and cool."

Knowing that the branches were far too high to reach, I nonetheless held up my arms with childish trust.

Before I realized what he intended to do, Mr. Flores had grabbed my wrists and whisked me up into the tree with no more effort than if I had been a rag doll.

Dazzled, I sat beside him staring at the rustling leaves that glimmered in the sunlight like slivers of gold.

"Do you hear what the wind is telling you?" Mr. Flores asked after a long silence.

He moved his head this way and that so I could fully appreciate the astounding manner in which he wiggled his ears.

I exclaimed in a whisper, "Zamurito!," as memories flooded my mind.

'Zamurito', little buzzard, was the nickname of my childhood friend from Venezuela.

Mr. Flores had the same delicate, birdlike features, jet-black hair, and mustard-colored eyes.

And most astounding, Mr. Flores, like Zamurito, could wiggle his ears one at a time or both together.

I told Mr. Flores about my friend, whom I had known since kindergarten.

In the second grade, we had shared a desk.

Instead of eating our lunch at the school grounds, during the long midday recess we used to sneak outside, and climb to the top of a nearby hill to eat in the shade of what we believed was the largest mango tree in the world.

Its lowest branches touched the ground and its highest swept the clouds. In the fruit season, we used to gorge ourselves on mangoes.

The hilltop was our favorite place until the day we found the body of the school janitor hanging from a high branch.

Neither of us wanted to lose face in front of the other, so we did not dare to move or to cry.

We did not climb up the branches that day but tried to eat our lunch on the ground, practically under the dead man, wondering which of us would break down first.

Zamurito asked me in a whisper, "Have you ever thought of dying?"

I looked up at the hanged man, and at that same instant the wind rustled through the branches with an unfamiliar insistence.

In the rustle I had distinctly heard the dead man whispering to me that death was soothing.

It was so uncanny that I got up, and ran away screaming-- indifferent to what Zamurito might have thought of me.

"The wind made those branches and leaves speak to you," Mr. Flores said as I finished my story.

His voice was soft and low. His golden eyes shone with a feverish light as he went on to explain that at the moment of his death, in one instantaneous flash, the old janitor's memories, feelings, and emotions were released and absorbed by the mango tree.

Mr. Flores repeated, "The wind made those branches and leaves speak to you; for the wind is yours by right."

Dreamily, he glanced through the leaves, his eyes searching beyond the field stretching away in the sun.

"Being a woman enables you to command the wind," he went on. "Women do not know it, but they can have a dialogue with the wind any time."

I shook my head uncomprehendingly, and my tone betrayed my mounting unease as I said, "I really do not know what you are talking about.

"This is like a dream. If it were not that it goes on and on, I would swear this is one of my nightmares."

His prolonged silence annoyed me, and I could feel my face flush with irritation.

I pondered aloud to myself, "What am I doing here; sitting in a tree with a crazy old man?"

I was apprehensive that I may have offended him, so I opted for apologizing for my bluntness.

Then Mr. Flores admitted, "I realize that my words do not make much sense to you. That is because there is too much crust on you. It prevents you from hearing what the wind has to say."

Puzzled, I asked suspiciously, "Too much crust? Do you mean that I am dirty?"

He said, "That, too," and I blushed.

He smiled, and repeated that I was enveloped by too thick a crust and that this crust could not be washed away with soap and water, regardless of how many baths I took.

He explained, "You are filled with judgments, and they prevent you from understanding what I am telling you; that the wind is yours to command."

He regarded me with narrowed, critical eyes.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently. Before I knew what was happening he had taken hold of my hands and in one swift, fluid motion had swung me around and gently dropped me to the ground.

I thought I saw his arms and legs stretch like rubber bands. It was a fleeting image, which I immediately explained to myself as a perceptual distortion caused by the heat.

I did not dwell upon it, for at that precise moment I was distracted by the sight of Delia Flores and her friends spreading a large canvas cloth under the next tree.

I was baffled that I had failed to see or hear the group approach, and I asked Delia, "When did you get here?"

Delia said, "We are going to have a picnic in your honor."

And one of the women added, "Because you joined us today."

I had failed to see who had spoken, and ill at ease I asked them, "How did I join you?"

I gazed from one to the other, expecting one of them to explain the statement.

Indifferent to my growing unease, the women busied themselves with the canvas cloth, making sure it was spread out smoothly.

The longer I watched them, the more concerned I became. It was all so strange to me.

I could easily explain why I had accepted Delia's invitation to see a healer, but I could not at all understand my subsequent actions.

It was as if someone else had taken over my rational faculties, and was making me stay there and react and say things I did not mean to.

And now they were going to have a celebration in my honor. It was disconcerting to say the least.

No matter how hard I thought about it, I could not figure out what I was doing there.

My Germanic upbringing got the better of me, and I mumbled, "I certainly have not merited any of this. People do not just do things for others for the hell of it."

Only upon hearing Mariano Aureliano's exuberant laughter did I realize that all of them were staring at me.

As he tapped me on the shoulder, Mariano Aureliano said, "There is no reason to ponder so heavily what is happening to you today. We are having a picnic because we like to do things on the spur of the moment.

"And since you have been healed by Esperanza today, my friends here like to say the picnic is in your honor."

He spoke casually, almost indifferently, as if he were talking of some trifling matter.

Yet his eyes said something else.

They were hard and serious as though it were vital I listen to him carefully.

He continued, "It is a joy for my friends to say that the picnic is in your honor. Accept it, just as they say it; in simplicity and without premeditation."

His eyes became soft as he gazed at the women, then he turned to me and added, "The picnic is not in your honor at all, I assure you.

"And yet," he mused, "it is in your honor.

"It is a contradiction that will take you quite some time to understand."

I became inordinately ponderous-- the way I always had when threatened, and sullenly I said, "I did not ask anyone to do anything for me.

"Delia brought me here, and I am thankful." I then felt compelled to add, "And I would like to pay for any services rendered to me."

I was certain I had offended them, and I knew that any minute now I would be asked to leave. Other than hurting my ego, it would not have bothered me much.

I was frightened, and I had had enough of them.

To my surprise and annoyance, they did not take me seriously.

They laughed at me. But the angrier I became, the greater was their mirth.

Their shiny, laughing eyes were fixed on me, as if I were an unknown organism.

Wrath made me forget my fear. I lashed out at them, accusing them of taking me for a fool.

I charged that Delia and her husband-- whom I did not know why I insisted on pairing together-- had played a disgusting joke on me.

I turned to Delia and said, "You brought me here, so you and your friends can use me as your clown."

The more I ranted, the more they laughed.

I was about to weep with self-pity, anger, and frustration when Mariano Aureliano came to stand beside me.

He began to talk to me as if I were a child.

I wanted to tell him that I could take care of myself, that I did not need his sympathy, and that I was going home.

But something in his tone and in his eyes appeased me so thoroughly that I was certain he had hypnotized me as he spoke.

And yet, I knew he had not.

What was so unknown and disturbing to me was the suddenness and completeness of my change. What would have ordinarily taken days had happened in an instant.

All my life I had indulged in brooding over every indignity or affront I had suffered whether real or imagined. With systematic thoroughness, I would mull them over until every detail was explained to my satisfaction.

As I now looked at Mariano Aureliano, I felt like laughing at my earlier outburst.

I could hardly remember what it was that had infuriated me to the point of tears.

Delia pulled me by the arm and asked me to help the other women.

As we unpacked the china plates, crystal goblets, and ornate silverware from the various baskets they had brought, the women did not talk to me or to each other.

And only little sighs of pleasure escaped their lips as Mariano Aureliano opened the serving dishes.

There were tamales, enchiladas, a hot chili stew, and hand-made tortillas-- not flour tortillas as was customary in northern Mexico and which I did not much care for, but corn tortillas.

Delia handed me a plate with a little bit of everything on it.

I ate so greedily I was finished before anyone else. I gushed, hoping for seconds, "This is the most delicious food I have ever tasted."

No one offered them, so to hide my disappointment, I commented on the beauty of the antique lace trim around the canvas cloth we were sitting on.

The woman sitting at Mariano Aureliano's left said, "I did that."

She was old-looking, with disheveled gray hair that hid her face. In spite of the heat, she wore a long skirt, a blouse, and a sweater.

"It is authentic Belgian lace," she explained to me in a gentle, dreamy voice. Her long slender hands, glinting with exquisite jeweled rings, lingered lovingly on the broad trim.

In great detail, she told me about her handiwork, showing me the kinds of stitches and threads she had used to sew on the trim.

Occasionally, I caught a fleeting glimpse of her face through all that mass of hair, but I could not tell what she looked like.

She repeated, "It is authentic Belgian lace. It is part of my trousseau."

She picked up a crystal goblet, took a sip of water and added, "These, too, are part of my trousseau: They are Baccarat."

I did not doubt that they were.

The lovely plates-- each one was different-- were of the finest porcelain.

I was wondering whether a discreet peek under mine would pass unnoticed, when the woman sitting to Mariano Aureliano's right encouraged me to do so.

She urged me, saying, "Do not be shy. Take a look. You are among friends."

Grinning, she lifted her own plate. "Limoges," she pronounced, then lifted mine briefly and noted that it was a Rosenthal.

This woman had childlike, delicate features. She was small, with round, thickly lashed black eyes. Her hair was black, except for the crown of her head, which had turned white, and was combed back into a tight little chignon.

There was a force and an edge to her that was quite chilling as she then besieged me with direct, personal questions.

But I did not mind her inquisitor's tone since I was accustomed to having been bombarded with questions by my father and brothers when I went on a date; or when I embarked on any kind of activity on my own.

I had resented that, but this had been the norm for my interactions at home. As a result, I never learned how to converse.

Conversation for me was parrying verbal attacks, and defending myself at any cost.

I was surprised when this woman's coercive interrogation did not immediately make me feel like defending myself.

But then she asked, "Are you married?"

I wished that she would change the subject as I softly but firmly said, "No."

She insisted, "Do you have a man?"

I was beginning to feel the stirring of my old defensive self as I retorted, "No. I do not."

She went on, "Is there a type of man you are partial to? Are there any personality traits you prefer in a man?"

For an instant I wondered whether she was making fun of me, but she seemed to be genuinely interested, as did her companions.

Their curious, anticipating faces put me at ease, and so I forgot my belligerent nature; and forgot that these women might be old enough to be my grandmothers.

I spoke to them as if they were friends of my age, and we were discussing men.

I began, "He has to be tall and handsome. He has to have a sense of humor. He has to be sensitive without being wishy-washy. He has to be intelligent without being an intellectual."

I lowered my voice and in a confidential tone added, "My father used to say that intellectual men are weak to the core, and traitors; all of them. I think I agree with my father."

The woman inquired, "Is that all you want in a man?"

I hastened to say, "No. Above all, the man of my dreams has to be athletic."

One of the other women interjected, "Like your father."

I responded defensively, saying, "Naturally.

"My father was a great athlete; a fabulous skier and swimmer."

The first woman asked, "Do you get along with him?"

I enthused, "Marvelously.

"I adore him. Just the thought of him brings tears to my eyes."

She inquired, "Why are you not with him?"

I explained, "I am too much like him. There is something in me that I can not quite understand nor control which pulls me away."

"What about your mother?"

I sighed, "My mother."

I paused for a moment to find the best words to describe her.

I said, "She is very strong. She is the sober part in me. The part that is silent and does not need reinforcement."

"Are you very close to your parents?"

I said softly, ""In spirit, I am. In practice, I am a loner. I do not have many attachments."

Then, as if something inside me was pushing to come out, I revealed a personality flaw that not even in my most introspective moments would I have admitted to myself.

I said, "I use people rather than nourish or cherish them."

But then I immediately amended that statement by saying, "But I am quite capable of feeling affection."

I gazed from one person to the other, first with a mixture of relief, and then with disappointment as I saw none of them seemed to attach any importance to my confession.

One of the women went on to ask me if I would describe myself as a courageous being or as a coward.

I stated, "I am a confirmed coward. But unfortunately my cowardice never stops me."

The woman who had first questioned me inquired, "Stops you from what?"

Her black eyes were serious, and the wide span of her brows, like a line drawn with a piece of charcoal, was concentrated in a frown.

I said, "From doing dangerous things."

I was pleased to notice that they seemed to be hanging on my every word as I explained that another one of my serious flaws was my great facility to get into trouble.

The first woman's face, which had been grave all this time, broke into a brilliant, almost malicious smile as she asked, "What trouble have you gotten into that you can tell us about?"

"How about the trouble I am in now?" I said half in jest, yet fearing that they might take my comment the wrong way.

To my surprise and relief they all laughed and yelled the way rural people are wont to do when something strikes them as daring or funny.

When they had all calmed down the first woman asked, "How did you end up in the United States?"

I shrugged, not really knowing what to say. I finally mumbled, "I wanted to go to school. I was in England first, but I did not do much except have a good time.

"I really do not know what I want to study. I think I am in search of something, although I do not know exactly what."

"That brings us back to my first question," the woman said.

Her thin, pert face and her dark eyes were animated and peering like an animal's as she asked, "Are you in search of a man?"

I admitted, "I suppose I am," but then I added impatiently, "What woman isn't?

"And why do you ask me so insistently about it? Do you have someone in mind? Is this some kind of a test?"

"We do have someone in mind," Delia Flores interjected. "But he is not a man." She and the others laughed and shrieked with such abandon I could not help but giggle, too.

"This is definitely a test," the first woman assured me as soon as everyone was quiet.

She was silent for a moment; her eyes watchful and considering. Then she continued, "From what you told me, I can conclude that you are thoroughly middle class."

She flung her arms wide in a gesture of forced acceptance, and said, "But then, what else can a German woman, born in the New World, be?"

She saw the anger in my face and, with a barely suppressed grin on her lips she added, "Middle-class people have middle-class dreams."

Seeing that I was about to explode, Mariano Aureliano explained that she was asking all these questions because they were simply curious about me. Only seldom did they have visitors and hardly ever any young ones.

I complained, "That does not mean that I have to be insulted."

As though I had not said anything, Mariano Aureliano continued to make excuses for the women.

His gentle tone and his reassuring pat on my back melted my anger, just as it had before.

His smile was so touchingly angelic I did not for a moment doubt his sincerity when he then began to flatter me.

He said that I was one of the most extraordinary and remarkable persons they had ever met.

I was so moved that I encouraged him to ask anything he wanted to know about me.

He inquired, "Do you feel important?"

I nodded and stated, "All of us are very important to ourselves. Yes, I think I am important, not in a general sense, but specifically, just to myself."

At great length I talked about a positive self-image, self-worth, and how vital it was to reinforce our importance in order to be psychically healthy individuals.

"And what do you think about women?" he asked. "Do you think they are more or less important than men?"

"It is quite obvious that men are more important," I said. "Women do not have a choice. They have to be less important in order for family life to roll on smooth wheels, so to speak."

"But is it right?" Mariano Aureliano insisted.

I declared, "Well, of course, it is right. Men are inherently superior. That is why they run the world.

"I have been brought up by an authoritarian father, who, although he raised me as freely as my brothers, nevertheless let me know that certain things are not so important for a woman.

"That is why I do not know what I am doing in school or what I want in life."

I looked at Mariano Aureliano, then in a helpless, defeated tone I added, "I suppose I am looking for a man who is as sure of himself as my father."

One of the women interjected, "She is a simpleton!"

Mariano Aureliano assured everyone, "No. No, she is not. She is just confused, and as opinionated as her father."

Mr. Flores descended from the tree like a leaf, softly and without a sound.

He then stressed the word 'German' as he corrected Mariano Aureliano emphatically saying, "Her 'German' father."

Mr. Flores served himself an immoderate amount of food.

Mariano Aureliano agreed and grinned. "How right you are.

"Being as opinionated as her German father, she is simply repeating what she has heard all her life."

My anger, which rose and fell like some mysterious fever, was not only due to what they were saying about me, but also because they were talking about me as if I were not present.

"She is unredeemable," another woman said.

Mariano Aureliano defended me with conviction, saying, "She is fine for the purpose at hand."

Mr. Flores backed Mariano Aureliano.

Then the only woman who had not spoken so far said in a deep, husky voice that she agreed with the men; that I was fine for the purposes at hand.

She was tall and slender. Her pale-complexioned face was gaunt and severe, was crowned by braided white hair, and was highlighted by large, luminous eyes.

In spite of her worn, drab clothes, there was something innately elegant about her.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I shouted, "What are you all doing to me? Do you not realize how horrible it is for me to hear you talk about me as if I were not here?"

Mariano Aureliano fixed his fierce eyes on me, and in a tone that was devoid of all feeling, he said, "You are not here. At least not yet.

"And most important, you do not count. Not now or ever."

I almost fainted with wrath. No one had ever spoken to me so harshly and with such indifference to my feelings.

I yelled, "I puke and piss and shit on all of you, goddamned, cocksucking farts!"

Mariano Aureliano exclaimed, "My God! A German hick!" and they all laughed.

I was about to jump up and stomp away when Mariano Aureliano tapped me repeatedly on my back.

"There, there," he murmured as if burping a baby.

And as before, instead of resenting being treated like a child, my anger vanished. I felt light and happy.

Shaking my head uncomprehendingly, I looked at them, giggled, and said, "I learned to speak Spanish in the streets of Caracas with the riffraff. I can cuss horribly."

Delia asked, "Did you not just love the sweet tamales?" She closed her eyes in delicate appreciation.

Her question seemed to be a password, and the interrogation was over.

Mr. Flores responded for me, "Of course she did! She only wishes she had been served more. She has an insatiable appetite."

He came to sit beside me then said, "Mariano Aureliano outdid himself and cooked a delight."

I asked in disbelief, "You mean he cooked the food? He has all these women, and he cooks?"

Mortified by how my words might be interpreted, I hastened to apologize. I explained that it surprised me to no end that a Mexican male would cook at home when there were women.

Their laughter made me realize that I had not meant to say that either.

Mr. Flores, with his words interspersed by everybody's laughter, asked, "Especially if the women are his women. Is that not what you meant?"

He continued, "You are quite right in that they are Mariano's women. Or to be more precise, Mariano belongs to them."

He slapped his knee gleefully, then turned to the tallest of the women-- the one who had only spoken once-- and said, "Would you tell her about us."

I was still mortified by my gaffe as I said, "Obviously, Mr. Aureliano does not have that many wives."

The woman retorted, "Why not?"

Everyone laughed again. It was a joyful, youthful laughter, yet it did not put me at ease.

She said, "All of us here are bound together by our struggle, by our deep affection for one another, and by the realization that without one another nothing is possible."

I, in a voice that betrayed my growing apprehension, asked, "You are not part of a religious group, are you? You do not belong to some kind of a commune, do you?"

The woman replied, "We belong to power. My companions and I are the inheritors of an ancient tradition. We are part of a myth."

I did not understand what she was saying.

I glanced uneasily at the others. Their eyes were fixed on me and they watched me with a mixture of expectation and amusement.

I shifted my attention back to the tall woman. She, too, was observing me with that same bemused expression. Her eyes were so shiny they sparkled.

She leaned over her crystal goblet, and daintily sipped her water.

She explained softly, "We are essentially dreamers. We are all dreaming now, and by the fact that you were brought to us, you are also dreaming with us."

She said that so smoothly that I really did not realize what she had said.

I asked in mock incredulity, "You mean I am sleeping and having a dream with you?" I bit my lip to suppress the laughter bubbling up within me.

She admitted, "That is not exactly what you are doing, but it is close enough."

Unperturbed by my nervous giggles, she went on to explain that what was happening to me was more like an extraordinary dream where all of them were helping me by dreaming my dream.

I started to say, "But that's idio--," but she silenced me with a wave of her hand.

She assured me, "We are all dreaming the same dream."

She seemed to be transported by a joy that I was at a loss to understand.

I looked for the chili sauce that had dribbled on my blouse as I asked, "What about the delicious food I just ate?"

I showed her the spots, and insisted in a loud, agitated tone, "That can not be a dream. I ate that food! I did! I ate it myself."

She regarded me with a cool composure, as though she had been expecting just such an outburst. She asked equably, "But what about Mr. Flores lifting you up to the top of the eucalyptus tree?"

I was on the verge of telling her that he had not lifted me to the top of the tree but only to a branch when she whispered, "Have you thought about that?"

I snappishly said, "No. I have not."

"Of course, you have not," she agreed, nodding her head knowingly as if she were aware that I had only that instant remembered that even the lowest branch of any of the trees around us was impossible to reach from the ground.

She said then that the reason I had not thought about it was because in dreams we are not rational. She then stressed, "In dreams we can only act."

I interrupted her, saying, "Wait a minute. I may be a little dizzy, I admit. After all, you and your friends are the strangest people I have ever met. But I am as awake as I can be."

Seeing that she was laughing at me, I yelled, "This is not a dream!"

With an imperceptible nod of her head she motioned to Mr. Flores, who in one swift movement reached for my hand and propelled himself, with me in tow, to a branch of the nearest eucalyptus tree.

We sat there for an instant, and before I could say anything, he pulled me back to the ground, to the same spot where we had been sitting.

The tall woman asked, "Do you see what I mean?"

"No, I don't," I screamed, knowing that I had had a hallucination.

My fear turned to rage, and I let out a stream of the foulest imprecations.

My rage spent, I was engulfed by a wave of self-pity, and I began to weep. In between sobs I asked, "What have you people done to me? Have you put something in the food? In the water?"

The tall woman said kindly, "We have done nothing of the sort. You do not need anything..."

But I could barely hear her. My tears were like some dark, gauzy veil that blurred her face and also her words.

Although I could no longer see her or her companions, I heard her say, "Hold on. Hold on. Do not wake up yet."

There was something so compelling about her tone that I knew that my very life depended on seeing her again.

I broke through the veil of my tears with some unknown and totally unexpected force.

I heard a soft clapping sound, and then I saw them. They were smiling, and their eyes shone so intensely their pupils seemed to be lit by some inner fire.

I apologized first to the women, and then to the two men for my silly outburst; but they would not hear of it.

They said that I had performed exceptionally well.

Mariano Aureliano said, "We are the living parts of a myth."

He puckered his lips, blew into the air, and said, "I will blow you to the the person who now holds the myth in his hands. He will help you clarify all this."

I asked flippantly, "And who might he be?"

I was going to ask whether he would be as opinionated as my father, but I was distracted by Mariano Aureliano.

He was still blowing into the air. His white hair stood on end, and his cheeks were red and distended.

As if in answer to his effort, a soft breeze began to rustle through the eucalyptus trees.

He nodded, apparently aware of my unspoken thought and confusion.

Gently, he turned me until I faced the Bacatete Mountains.

The breeze turned into a wind; a wind so harsh and cold it hurt to breathe.

With a seemingly boneless, uncoiling movement, the tall woman rose, grabbed my hand, and pulled me with her across the ploughed furrows.

We came to a sudden halt in the middle of the field.

I could have sworn that with her outstretched arms she was luring a spiral of dust and dead leaves spinning in the distance.

She whispered, "In dreams, everything is possible."

Laughing, I opened my arms to beckon the wind.

Dust and leaves danced around us with such force that everything blurred before my eyes.

Suddenly, the tall woman was far away. Her body seemed to be dissolving in a reddish light until it completely vanished from my field of vision.

And then blackness filled my head.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 03.


"The sorcerers reared me as one rears a child. It does not matter how old you are. In their world, you are a child."

...

Esperanza claimed that originally the sorcerers she had told me about used to pass their knowledge on to their biological descendants or to people of their private choice, but the results had been catastrophic.

Instead of enhancing this knowledge, these new sorcerers, who had been selected by arbitrary favoritism, confabulated to enhance themselves.

They were finally destroyed, and their destruction nearly obliterated their knowledge.

The few sorcerers who were left then decided that their knowledge should never again be passed on to their descendants or to people of their choice but to those selected by an impersonal power which they called the spirit.

Version 2010.01.18


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 03.


It was impossible for me to determine whether the picnic had been a dream or had actually taken place.

I was incapable of remembering, in a sequential order, all the events I had participated in from the moment I fell asleep on the bed in the healing room.

My next clear recollection was that I found myself talking with Delia at the table in that same room.

Familiar with such lapses of memory which used to occur in my childhood, I did not at first make much of this discrepancy.

As a child, eager to play, I would often get out of my bed half asleep and sneak out of my house through the window grill. Many times, I did indeed wake up in the plaza, playing with other children who were not put to bed as early as I had been.

There was no doubt in my mind that the picnic had been real, although I could not immediately place it in a time sequence.

I tried to think and to reconstruct the events, but it frightened me to bring forth the idea of my childhood memory lapses.

Somehow, I was reluctant to ask Delia about her friends, and she did not volunteer any information either.

However, I did ask about the healing session, which I knew had been a dream.

I began cautiously by saying, "I had such an elaborate dream about a healer. Not only did she tell me her name, but she also assured me that she had made all my nightmares vanish."

Delia, her tone clearly revealing her displeasure, stated, "It was not a dream."

She stared at me with an intensity that made me want to fidget and move away. Delia went on, saying, "The healer did tell you her name, and she certainly did cure you from your sleep maladies."

I insisted, "But it was a dream. In my dream, the healer was the size of a child. She could not have been real."

Delia reached for the glass of water on the table, but she did not drink. She turned it around, on and on, without spilling a drop.

Then she looked at me with glittering eyes, and said, "The healer gave you the impression of being little, that is all."

Delia nodded to herself as though the words had just occurred to her, and as if she had found them satisfactory.

She sipped her water with slow, slurping noises, and her eyes grew soft and reflective.

Delia said, "She had to be little in order to cure you."

I asked, "She had to be little? You mean I only saw her as being little?"

Delia nodded repeatedly, then leaning toward me she whispered, "You see, you were dreaming. Yet it was not a dream.

"The healer really came to you and cured you, but you were not in the place in which you are now."

I objected, "Come on, Delia. What are you talking about? I know it was a dream. I am always totally aware that I am dreaming, even though the dreams are completely real to me. That is my malady, remember?"

Delia proposed, "Maybe now that she has cured you, it is no longer your malady but your talent."

She smiled and said, "But going back to your question, the healer had to be small, like a child, because you were quite young when your nightmares first began."

Her statement was so outlandish, I could not even laugh. I asked facetiously, "And now I am cured?"

Delia assured me, "You are. In dreaming, cures are accomplished with great ease, almost effortlessly. What is difficult is to make people dream."

I asked with a voice harsher than I had intended, "Difficult? Everybody has dreams. We all have to sleep, do we not?"

Delia rolled her eyes derisively to the ceiling, then gazed at me and said, "Those are not the dreams I am talking about.

"Those are ordinary dreams. Dreaming has purpose. Ordinary dreams do not."

I emphatically disagreed with her, and said, "They certainly do!"

I then went into a lengthy diatribe about the psychological importance of dreams. I cited works on psychology, philosophy, and art.

Delia was not in the least impressed with my knowledge.

She agreed with me that ordinary dreams must indeed help maintain the mental health of individuals, but she insisted that she was not concerned with that.

She reiterated, "Dreaming has a purpose. Ordinary dreams do not."

I said condescendingly, "What purpose, Delia?"

She turned her head sideways, as if she wanted to hide her face from me.

An instant later she looked back at me. Something cold and detached showed itself in her eyes, and the change of expression was altogether so ruthless that I was frightened.

Delia declared, "Dreaming always has a practical purpose. It serves the dreamer in simple or intricate ways.

"It has served you to get rid of your sleeping maladies.

"It served the witches at the picnic to know your essence.

"It served me to screen myself out of the awareness of the immigration guard patrol asking to see your tourist card."

I mumbled, "I am trying to understand what you are saying, Delia."

Then I asked forcefully, "Do you mean that you people can hypnotize others against their wills?"

"Call it that if you wish," she said.

On her face was a look of calm indifference that bore little sympathy as she said, "What you can not see yet is that you, yourself, can enter quite effortlessly into what you would call a hypnotic state.

"We call it dreaming; a dream that is not a dream; a dream where we can do nearly anything our hearts desire."

Delia almost made sense to me, but I had no words with which to express my thoughts and my feelings.

I stared at her, baffled.

Suddenly, I remembered an event from my adolescence.

When I was finally allowed driving lessons in my father's jeep, I surprised my family by showing them that I already knew how to shift. I had been doing it for years in my dreams.

With an assurance that was even baffling to me, on my first venture I took the jeep on the old road from Caracas to La Guayra, the port by the sea.

I deliberated whether I should tell Delia about this episode, but instead I asked her about the healer's size.

Delia said, "She is not a tall woman, but neither is she as small as you saw her.

"In her healing dream, she projected her smallness for your benefit, and in doing so, she was small.

"That is the nature of magic. You have to be what you want to give the impression of."

The thought that they all worked in a circus, and that they were part of some magic show had passed my mind at various times. I believed it would explain so many things about them.

I asked Delia expectantly, "Is she a magician?"

"No," Delia said. "She is not a magician. She is a sorceress."

Delia gazed at me so scornfully I was ashamed of my question.

She gazed at me pointedly and explained, "Magicians are in a show. Sorcerers are in the world without being part of the world."

She was silent for a long time, then a sigh escaped her lips. She asked, "Would you like to see Esperanza now?"

I eagerly said, "Yes. I would like that very much."

The possibility that the healer had been real and not a dream made my head spin.

I did not quite believe Delia, and yet I wanted to believe her in the worst way. My thoughts ran wild.

Suddenly I realized that I had not mentioned to Delia that the healer of my dream had told me her name was Esperanza.

I was so absorbed in my thoughts I failed to notice that Delia as speaking.

I said, "I am sorry, but what did you say?"

Delia told me, "The only way you can make sense of all this is to call back dreaming."

Laughing softly, she waved her hand as she were signaling someone to come.

Her words were of no importance to me. I was already pondering another train of thought.

Esperanza was real, and I was certain she was going to clarify everything for me. Besides, she had not been at the picnic. And she had not treated me as abominably as all the other women had.

I harbored the vague hope that Esperanza had liked me, and this thought somehow restored my confidence.

To disguise my feelings from Delia, I told her that I was anxious to see the healer.

I said, "I would like to thank her, and of course, pay her for all she did for me."

Delia stated, "It is already paid."

The mocking glint in her eyes easily revealed that she was privy to my thoughts.

I asked in an involuntarily high-pitched voice, "What do you mean it is already paid? Who paid for it?"

"It is hard to explain," Delia began with a distant kindness that put me momentarily at ease.

She continued, "It all began at your friend's party in Nogales. I noticed you instantly."

I was eager to hear some compliment on my tasteful and carefully chosen wardrobe, and I asked expectantly, "You did?"

There was an uncomfortable silence. I could not see Delia's eyes, veiled under her half-closed lids.

There was something quiet yet oddly disturbing about her voice as she said that what she had noticed about me was that every time I had to talk to my friend's grandmother, I seemed to be absentminded as if I were asleep.

I responded, "Absentminded is putting it mildly. You have no idea what I went through and what I had to do to convince that old lady that I was not the devil incarnate."

Delia seemed not to have heard me as she said, "I knew in a flash that you had great facility to dream.

"So I followed you around through the house and saw you in action.

"You were not fully aware of what you were doing or saying. And yet you were doing fine; talking and laughing, and lying your head off to be liked."

I asked in jest but betraying my hurt, "Are you calling me a liar?"

I felt an impulse to get angry, so I stared at the pitcher of water on the table until the threatening feeling had passed.

Delia pronounced rather pompously, "I would not dare call you a liar. I would call you a dreamer."

Delia's eyes sparkled with mirth and genial malice, but there was a heavy solemnity in her voice as she said, "The sorcerers who reared me told me that it does not matter what one may say as long as one has the power to say it."

Her voice conveyed such enthusiasm and approval, that I was sure someone was behind one of the doors listening to us.

She continued, "And the way to get that power, is from dreaming.

"You do not know this because you do it so naturally, but when you are in a pinch, your mind goes instantly into dreaming."

In order to change the subject I asked, "Were you reared by sorcerers, Delia?"

She declared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "Of course I was."

"Were your parents sorcerers?"

"Oh, no," she said and chuckled. "The sorcerers found me one day and reared me from then on."

"How old were you? Were you a child?"

Delia laughed, as if with my question I had reached the height of humor.

She said, "No, I was not a child. I was perhaps your age when they found me and began to rear me."

"What do you mean they began to rear you?"

Delia gazed at me but without focusing her eyes on me. For a moment I thought she had not heard me or, if she had, that she was not going to answer me.

I repeated my question.

She only shrugged and smiled. But then she said, "The sorcerers reared me as one rears a child. It does not matter how old you are. In their world, you are a child."

Suddenly afraid we might be overheard, I glanced over my shoulder, and whispered, "Who are these sorcerers, Delia?"

"That is a very tough question," she mused. "At the moment, I can not even begin to answer it.

"All I can tell you about them is that they are the ones who said to me that one should never lie to be believed."

I asked, "Why should one lie then?"

Delia promptly retorted, "For the sheer pleasure of it,"

She then rose from the chair, and walked toward the door that led to the yard.

Before stepping outside, she turned and with a grin on her face asked, "Do you know the saying, 'If you are not lying to be believed, you can say anything you want, regardless of what anybody thinks of you.'"

"I have never heard such a saying."

I suspected she had made it up. It had her stamp.

I added primly, "Besides, I do not understand what you are trying to say."

She looked sidelong at me through the strands of her black hair and said, "I am sure you do."

Gesturing with her chin, she motioned me to follow her. "Let us go and see Esperanza now."

I jumped up and dashed after her, only to come to an abrupt halt by the door.

Momentarily blinded by the brightness outside, I stood there, wondering what had happened.

It seemed that no time had elapsed since I had run after Mr. Flores across the field. The sun, as it had been then, was still at the zenith.

I caught a glimpse of Delia's red skirt as she turned a corner.

I rushed after her across a stone archway that led to a most enchanting patio.

At first I saw nothing; so strong was the contrast between the dazzling sunlight and the intense shadows of the patio.

Breathlessly, I simply stood there, perfectly still, inhaling the humid air. It was fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms, honeysuckle, and sweet peas.

The sweet peas hung like a brightly colored tapestry amidst the foliage of trees, shrubs, and ferns. They climbed up strings that seemed to be suspended from the sky.

The healer I had seen before in my dream was sitting on a rocking chair in the middle of the patio.

She was much older than Delia and the women at the picnic, although how I knew this, I could not say.

She was rocking to and fro with an air of dreamy abandon.

I felt an anguishing pain that gripped my whole being, for I had the irrational certainty that her rocking movement was taking her farther and farther away from me.

A wave of agony and an indescribable loneliness engulfed me as I kept staring at her.

I wanted to cross the patio and hold her, but something about the patio's dark tiles, which were laid out in a most intricate pattern, held my feet in place.

"Esperanza," I finally managed to whisper in a voice so feeble it was barely audible even to myself.

She opened her eyes and smiled quite without surprise as if she had been expecting me.

She rose and walked toward me.

She was not the size of a child, but about my height; five feet and two inches.

She was thin and fragile-looking, yet exuded a vitality that made me feel puny and shrunken.

She sincerely voiced, "How happy I am to see you again."

She motioned me to grab one of the rush chairs and sit beside her.

As I looked about me, I discovered the other women, including Delia.

They were sitting on rush chairs, half hidden by shrubs and trees. And they, too, were watching me curiously.

Some of them smiled, while the others kept on eating tamales from the plates on their laps.

In the shady, green light of the patio-- in spite of the mundane task of eating-- the women appeared insubstantial; imaginary.

Each one of them was unnaturally vivid without being distinct.

They seemed to have absorbed the patio's greenish light, which had settled all around us like a transparent fog.

The awesome but fleeting idea crossed my mind that I was in a house populated by ghosts.

Esperanza asked me, "Would you like to eat something? Delia has made the most delicious food you can imagine."

I murmured, "No, thank you." in a voice that did not sound like my own.

Seeing her questioning expression, I added feebly, "I am not hungry."

I was so nervous and agitated that even if I had been starving I would not have been able to swallow a bite.

Esperanza must have sensed my fear. She leaned toward me, patted my arm reassuringly, and asked, "What is it that you want to know?"

I blurted out, "I thought I had seen you in a dream." Then I noticed the laughter in her eyes, and I added, "Am I dreaming now?"

Esperanza replied enunciating her words slowly and precisely, "You are, but you are not asleep."

"How can I be dreaming and not be asleep?"

Esperanza explained, "Some women can do that with great ease. They can be dreaming and not be asleep.

"You are one of those women. Others have to work a lifetime to accomplish that."

I sensed a tinge of admiration in her voice, yet I was not in the least flattered.

On the contrary. I was more worried than ever.

I insisted, "But how is it possible to dream without sleeping?"

Esperanza pronounced, "If I explain to you how it is possible, you will not understand it. Take my word on this. It is much better to postpone the explanations for the time being."

Again she patted my arm, and a gentle smile lit up her face as she said, "For the moment it is enough for you to know that, for you, I am the one who brings dreams."

I did not think it was enough, but I did not dare to tell her so.

Instead, I asked her, "Was I awake when you cured me of my nightmares? And was I dreaming when I sat outside in the field with Delia and all the others?"

Esperanza regarded me for a long moment then nodded sagely, as if she had decided to reveal some monumental truth. "You are too dumb to see the mystery of what we do."

She said this so matter-of-factly and so nonjudgmentally that it did not occur to me to take offense, or to attempt any kind of rebuttal.

I pleaded eagerly, "But you could make me see it, could you not?"

The other women giggled. It was not a mocking sound, but rather was a murmuring that echoed all around me like a muffled chorus.

And the sound seemed to come not only from the women, but from the shadows of the patio.

And more than a giggle, it seemed to whisper a delicate warning that not only made me lose my thrust, but erased my troubling doubts and my nagging desire to know.

And then I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that I had been awake and dreaming both times.

It was a knowledge that I could not explain, however. It was something beyond words.

Yet, after a few moments, I felt compelled to dissect my realization, and to put it all into some kind of logical framework.

Esperanza regarded me with apparent pleasure.

Then she said, "I am going to explain to you who we are and what we do."

Esperanza prefaced her elucidation with an admonition. She warned me that whatever she had to tell me was not easy to believe. Therefore, I had to suspend judgment and hear her out without interruptions and without questions.

She asked, "Can you do that?"

I shot back a word, "Naturally."

Esperanza was silent for a moment. Her eyes appraised me thoughtfully.

She must have sensed my uncertainty and the question that was about to burst from my lips.

She explained, "It is not that I do not want to answer your questions. It is rather that at this time it will be impossible for you to understand the answers."

I nodded, but not in agreement. I was afraid that if so much as a peep came out of me she would stop talking altogether.

In a voice that was but a soft murmur, she told me something that was both incredible and fascinating.

She said that she was the spiritual descendant of sorcerers who lived in the valley of Oaxaca millennia before the Spanish conquest.

Esperanza was silent for a long time.

Her eyes fixed on the bright, multicolored, sweet peas, and her gaze seemed to reach nostalgically into the past.

Esperanza continued, "As it is for me, the part of those sorcerers' activities pertinent to you is called dreaming."

"Those sorcerers were men and women who possessed extraordinary dreaming powers, and performed acts that defied the imagination."

Hugging my knees, I listened to her.

Esperanza was a brilliant raconteuse and a most gifted mimic. Her face changed with each turn of her explanation.

Her's was at times the face of a young woman, or that of old woman's, or it was the face of a man, or that of an innocent and impish child.

Esperanza said that millennia ago, men and women were the possessors of a knowledge that allowed them to slip in and out of our normal world.

And thus they divided their lives into two areas-- the day and the night.

During the day they conducted their activities like everyone else. They engaged in normal, expected, everyday behavior.

During the night, however, they became dreamers.

They systematically dreamed dreams that broke the boundaries of what we consider to be reality.

Again she paused, as though giving me time to let her words sink in.

She went on, "Using the darkness as a cloak, they accomplished an inconceivable thing. They were able to dream while they were awake."

Anticipating the question I was about to voice, Esperanza explained that to be dreaming while they were awake meant that they could immerse themselves in a dream that gave them the energy necessary to perform mind staggering feats while they were perfectly conscious and awake.



Because of the aggressive mode of interaction I had grow up with at home, I never developed the ability to listen for very long. If I could not meddle with direct, belligerent questions, any verbal exchange, no matter how interesting, became meaningless to me.

So now, unable to argue, I became restless. I was dying to interrupt Esperanza.

Truly I had questions. But to get answers and to have things explained to me was not the thrust of my urge to interrupt.

What I wanted to do was to give in to my compulsion to have a shouting match with her in order to feel normal again.

As if privy to my turmoil, Esperanza stared at me for an instant and then signaled me to speak. Or I thought she had given me such a command.

I opened my mouth to say, as usual, anything that came to my mind even if it was not related to the subject. But I could not say a word.

I struggled to speak and made gargling sounds to the delight of the women in the background.

Esperanza resumed talking, as if she had not noticed my futile efforts.

It surprised me to no end that she had my undivided attention.

She said that the origins of the sorcerers' knowledge could be understood only in terms of a legend.

A superior being commiserating with the terrible plight of man-- driven as if animals by food and reproduction-- gave man the power to dream, and taught him how to use his dreams.

Esperanza elucidated, "Legends, of course, tell the truth in a concealed fashion."

"But the truths behind a legend only remains hidden while a man is conviced that they are simply stories.

"Legends of men changing into birds or angels are accounts of a concealed truth which appears to be simply the fantasizing or the delusions of primitive or deranged minds.

"And so it has been the task of sorcerers for thousands of years to discover the concealed truth of old legends; and to make new ones.

"This is where dreamers come into the picture.

Women are best at dreaming. They have the facility to abandon themselves; the facility to let go.

"The woman who taught me to dream could maintain two hundred dreams."

Esperanza regarded me intently as if she were appraising my reaction, and my reaction was was complete stupefaction for I had no idea what she meant.

She explained that to maintain a dream meant that one could dream something specific about oneself and one could enter into that dream at will. Her teacher, she said, could enter at will into two hundred specific dreams about herself.

"Women are peerless dreamers," Esperanza assured me.

"Women are extremely practical. In order to sustain a dream one must be practical, because the dream must pertain to practical aspects of oneself.

"My teacher's favorite dream was to dream of herself as a hawk. Another was to dream of herself as an owl.

"So depending on the time of the day, she could dream about being either one, and since she was dreaming while she was awake, she was really and absolutely a hawk or an owl."

There was such sincerity and conviction in her tone and in her eyes, I was entirely under her spell.

And not for a moment did I doubt her. Nothing she could have said would have seemed outlandish to me at that moment.

She further explained that in order to accomplish a dream of that nature, women need to have an iron discipline.

She leaned toward me and in a confidential whisper, as though she did not want the others to overhear her, she said, "By iron discipline I do not mean any kind of strenuous routine, but rather I mean that women have to break the routine of what is expected of them.

"And they have to do it in their youth," she stressed, "And most important, with their strength intact.

"Often, when women are old enough to be done with the business of being women, they decide it is time to concern themselves with nonworldly or other-worldly thoughts and activities.

"Little do they know or want to believe that hardly ever do such women succeed."

Esperanza gently slapped my stomach as if she were playing on a drum, and said, "The secret of a woman's strength is her womb."

Esperanza nodded emphatically, as if she had actually heard the silly question that popped into my mind, "Her womb?"

She continued, "Women must begin by burning their matrix.

"They cannot be the fertile ground that has to be seeded by men following the command of God himself."

Still watching me closely, she smiled and asked, "Are you religious by any chance?"

I shook my head.

I could not speak. My throat was so constricted I could scarcely breathe.

I was dumbstruck with fear and amazement not so much by what she was saying, but by a change in her.

All of a sudden I noticed her face was young and radiant. Inner life seemed to have been fired up in her.

Yet if I were asked, I would not have been able to tell when she had changed.

Responding to my nod, Esperanza exclaimed, "That is good! This way you do not have to struggle against beliefs." She pointed out that beliefs are very hard to overcome.

Esperanza sighed, saying, "I was reared a devout Catholic. I nearly died when I had to examine my attitude toward religion."

Her voice, turned wistful and soft as she added, "But that was nothing compared to the battle I had to wage before I became a bona fide dreamer."

I waited expectantly, hardly breathing, while a quite pleasurable sensation spread like a mild electrical current through my entire body.

I anticipated a tale of a gruesome battle between herself and terrifying creatures.

I could barely disguise my disappointment when she revealed that she had to battle herself.

Esperanza explained, "In order to be a dreamer, I had to vanquish the self, and nothing, but nothing, is as hard as that.

"We women are the most wretched prisoners of the self. The self is our cage.

"Our cage is made out of commands and expectations poured on us from the moment we are born.

"You know how it is. If the first born child is a boy, there is a celebration. If it is a girl, there is a shrug of the shoulders and the statement, 'It is all right. I still will love her and do anything for her.'"

Out of respect for the old woman, I did not laugh out loud.

Never in my life had I heard statements of that sort. I considered myself an independent woman, but obviously, in light of what Esperanza was saying, I was no better off than any other woman.

And contrary to the manner in which I would have normally reacted to such an idea, I agreed with her.

I had always been made aware that the precondition of my being a woman was to be dependent. I was taught that a woman was indeed fortunate if she could be desirable so men would do things for her. I was told that it was demeaning to my womanhood to endeavor to do anything myself if that thing could be given to me. It was drilled into me that a woman's place is in the home with her husband and her children.

Esperanza went on, "Like you, I was reared by an authoritarian yet lenient father.

"I thought, like yourself, that I was free. For me to understand the sorcerers' way, and that freedom did not mean to be myself-- nearly killed me.

"To be myself had been to assert my womanhood, and doing that had taken all my time, effort, and energy.

"The sorcerers, on the contrary, understand freedom as the capacity to do the impossible and the unexpected-- to dream a dream that has no basis and no reality in everyday life."

Her voice again became but a whisper as she added, "The knowledge of sorcerers is what is exciting and new.

"Imagination is what a woman needs to change the self and become a dreamer."

Esperanza said that if she had not succeeded in vanquishing the self, she would have only led a woman's normal life; the life her parents had designed for her; a life of defeat and humiliation; a life devoid of all mystery; a life that had been programmed by custom and tradition.

Esperanza pinched my arm.

I cried put in pain.

Esperanza reprimanded me, saying, "You had best pay attention."

I had been certain that no one would notice my waning interest. "I am," I mumbled defensively, and rubbed my arm.

Esperanza warned me, "You will not be tricked or enticed into the sorcerer's world. You have to choose while knowing what awaits you."

The fluctuations of my mood were astonishing to me because they were quite irrational. I should have been afraid, and yet I was as calm as if my being there were the most natural thing in the world.

Esperanza again said, "The secret of a woman's strength is her womb," and she slapped my stomach once more.

She said that women dream with their wombs, or rather, from their wombs, and the fact that they have wombs makes them perfect dreamers.

Before I had even finished the thought, "Why is the womb so important?", Esperanza answered me.

"The womb is the center of our creative energy," she explained, "to the point that, if there would be no more males in the world, women could continue to reproduce.

""

She added that women reproducing unilaterally could only reproduce clones of themselves, and so the world would then be populated by the female of the human species only.

I was genuinely surprised at this specific piece of knowledge.

I could not help interrupting Esperanza to tell her that I had read about parthenogenetic and asexual reproduction in a biology class.

She shrugged her shoulders and went on with her explanation, saying, "Women, having the ability and the organs for reproducing life, also have the ability to produce dreams with those same organs."

Seeing the doubt in my eyes, she warned me, "Do not trouble yourself wondering how it is done.

"The explanation is very simple, and yet it is the most difficult thing to think about. I still have trouble myself.

"So in a true woman's fashion, I act. I dream, and leave the explanations to the men."

Esperanza then said that originally the old sorcerers she had told me about used to pass their knowledge on to their biological descendants or to people of their private choice, but the results had been catastrophic.

Instead of enhancing this knowledge, these new sorcerers, who had been selected by arbitrary favoritism, confabulated to enhance themselves.

They were finally destroyed, and their destruction nearly obliterated their knowledge.

The few sorcerers who were left then decided that their knowledge should never again be passed on to their descendants or to people of their choice but to those selected by an impersonal power which they called the spirit.

Esperanza pronounced, "And now, all this brings us to you."

"The sorcerers of ancient times decided that only the ones who were pinpointed would qualify. You were pointed out to us. And here you are!

"You are a natural dreamer, but it is up to the forces that rule us where you go from here.

"It is not up to you. Nor to us, of course.

"You can only acquiesce or refuse."

From the urgency in her voice, and the compelling light in her eyes, it was obvious that she had given this explanation in complete seriousness.

It was this earnestness that stopped me from laughing out loud. Also, I was too exhausted.

The mental concentration I had needed to follow her was too intense. I wanted to sleep.

She insisted I stretch my legs, lie down, and relax.

I did it so thoroughly that I dozed off.



When I opened my eyes, I had no idea how long I had slept.

I sought the reassuring presence of Esperanza or the other women.

But although there was no one with me on the patio, I did not feel alone. Somehow their presence lingered amidst the green all around me, and I felt protected.

A breeze rustled the leaves. I felt it on my eyelids; warm and soft. It blew around me, and passed over me the same way it was passing over the desert; quickly and soundlessly.

With my gaze fixed on the tiles, I walked around the patio trying to figure out its intricate design. To my delight, the lines led me from one rush chair to the other. I tried to recall who had sat in which chair, but as hard as I tried, I could not remember.

I was distracted by a delicious scent of food, spiced with onions and garlic.

Guided by that smell, I found my way to the kitchen; a large rectangular room.

It was as deserted as the patio. And the bright tile designs adorning the walls reminded me of the patterns in the patio.

I did not pursue the similarities, for I had discovered the food left on the sturdy wooden table standing in the middle of the room.

Assuming that it was for me, I sat down and ate it all. It was the same spicy stew I had eaten at the picnic. Warmed over, it was even tastier.

As I gathered the dishes to take them to the sink, I discovered a note and a drawn map under my place mat.

It was from Delia. She suggested I return to Los Angeles by way of Tucson where she would meet me at a certain coffee shop specified on the map.

Only there, she wrote, would she tell me more about herself and her friends.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 04.


Without being in the least affected by my anger, he said that Esperanza had made it very clear to me that they were committed to rear me from now on.

"Rear me!" I yelled. "You are crazy. I have had all the rearing I need!"

Ignoring my outburst, he went on to explain that their commitment was total, and whether or not I understood this was of no importance to them.

Version 2010.01.18


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 04.

Eager to hear what Delia had to tell me about her friends, I went to Tucson on my way to Los Angeles.

In Tucson I arrived at the coffee shop in the late afternoon.

An old man directed me to an empty space in the parking lot.

Only when he opened my door did I realize who he was.

"Mariano Aureliano!" I exclaimed. "What a surprise. I am so glad to see you. What are you doing here?"

"I was waiting for you," he said. "So my friend and I saved this space for you."

I caught a glimpse of a burly Indian driving an old red pickup truck. He had pulled out of the parking space as I drove into the lot.

Mariano Aureliano said apologetically, "I am afraid Delia could not make it. She had to leave for Oaxaca unexpectedly."

He smiled broadly and added, "I am here on her behalf. I hope I fit the bill."

"You have no idea how delighted I am to see you," I said truthfully.

I was convinced that he, better than Delia, would help me make sense of all that had happened to me during the past few days.

I added, "Esperanza explained to me that I was in some sort of a trance when I met all of you."

Mariano Aureliano responded almost absentmindedly, asking, "Did she say that?"

His voice, his attitude, and his whole demeanor was so different from what I remembered, that I kept staring at him hoping to discover what had changed.

His chiseled face seemed to have lost all its fierceness, but I was so busy with my own turmoil that I did not give his change any more thought.

I continued by saying, "Esperanza left me alone in the house.

"She and all the women went away without even saying good-bye to me.

I hastened to say, "But I was not disturbed, although I am usually very put out when people are not courteous."

He exclaimed, "Oh really!" as if I had said something extremely meaningful.

Afraid that he might take offense at what I was saying about his companions, I immediately started to explain that I had not really meant to say that Esperanza and the others had been unfriendly. I assured him, "Quite the contrary, they were most gracious and kind,"

I was about to reveal what Esperanza had told me, but his steady gaze stopped me.

It was not an angry stare or a threatening one. It was a piercing look that cut through all my defenses.

I had the certainty he was seeing right into the mess that my mind was.

I glanced away to hide my nervousness, then told him in a light, almost joking tone that it had not really mattered to me that I had been left alone in the house. "I was intrigued that I knew every corner of that place," I confided, then paused for a moment, wondering what impact my words were having on him.

But he kept staring at me.

I continued, "I went to the bathroom, and I realized that I had been in that bathroom before."

"There were no mirrors in it. I remembered that detail before I actually entered the room.

"Then I remembered that there were no mirrors in the whole house. So I went through every room, and sure enough, I could not find any."

Noticing that I was still getting no reaction from him, I went on to say that I had realized while listening to the radio on my way to Tucson that it was one day later than I expected.

I finished in a strained tone by saying, "I must have slept a whole day."

Mariano Aureliano pointed out indifferently, "You did not quite sleep a whole day. You walked through the house and talked to us a great deal before falling asleep like a log."

I started laughing. My laughter was very near to hysteria, but he did not seem to notice this.

He laughed too, and I relaxed.

I felt compelled to explain, "I do not sleep like a log, ever. I am an extremely light sleeper."

He was silent for a time, and when he finally spoke his voice was serious and demanding as he said, "Do you not remember being curious about how the women dressed and did their hair without glancing into mirrors?"

I could think of no reply, and he went on to say, "Do you not remember how odd you found it that there were no pictures on the walls, and that there was no--"

"I have no recollection of having talked to anyone," I cut him off in midsentence.

Then I glanced at him guardedly, thinking that perhaps, just in order to mystify me, he was saying I had interacted with everybody in that house, when in reality nothing of that sort had happened.

He said curtly, "Your having no recollection of it does not mean it did not take place."

My stomach fluttered involuntarily. It was not his tone of voice I took exception to, but rather the fact that he had answered my unspoken thoughts.

Certain that if I kept on talking something would dispel my mounting apprehension, I went into a long and muddled recitation of how I felt.

I recounted what had happened. There were gaps in the order of events as I tried to reconstruct all that had taken place between the healing session and my drive to Tucson during which time I knew that I had lost a whole day.

"You people are doing something to me; something strange and threatening," I finished, feeling momentarily righteous.

Mariano Aurelianohe smiled for the first time and pronounced, "Now you are being silly.

"If something is strange and threatening, it is only because you are new at it.

"You are a tough woman. It will make sense to you sooner or later."

I was annoyed at the sound of his word 'woman'.

I would have preferred if he had said girl. Accustomed as I was to being asked for my papers to prove that I was over sixteen, I suddenly felt old.

As if he were again reading my thoughts, he said, "Youth must be only in the eyes of the beholder."

"Whoever looks at you may see your youth and your vigor, but for you to feel you are a kid is wrong. You must be innocent without being immature."

For some inexplicable reason, his words were more than I could bear. I wanted to weep; not out of hurt, but out of despondency.

At a loss for what to do, I suggested we have something to eat. "I am famished," I said, trying to sound cheerful.

"No, you are not," he said with authority. "You are just trying to change the subject."

Startled by his tone and his words, I looked at him, appalled.

My surprise swiftly turned to anger. Not only was I hungry, but I was also exhausted and stiff from the long drive.

I wanted to yell and vent on him all my wrath and frustration, but his eyes did not let me move.

There was something reptilian about those unblinking, burning eyes, and for a moment I thought he might swallow me up, as a snake swallows a mesmerized, defenseless bird.

The mixture of fear and anger escalated to such heights I felt blood rushing to my face. And I knew by the slight curious lift of his brows that my face had turned purple.

Since very early childhood, I had indulged in horrid attacks of temper.

Other than trying to soothe me, no one had ever stopped me from indulging in these attacks, and I had indulged in them until I had refined them into king-sized temper tantrums.

These tantrums were never caused by being denied what I wanted to have, or wanted to do, but by indignities-- real or imagined-- inflicted on my person.

Somehow the circumstances of that moment, however, made me feel ashamed of my habit.

I made a conscious effort to control myself. That nearly consumed all my strength, but I calmed down.

Mariano Aureliano proceeded, seemingly unconcerned by my fluctuating mood, saying, "You were a whole day with us; a day which you can not remember now. During that time, you were very communicative and responsive; a thing which was extremely rewarding to us.

"When you are dreaming, you are a much better being; more appealing; more resourceful. You allowed us to know you in great depth."

His words threw me into a turmoil. Growing up asserting myself the way I did, I had become quite adept at detecting meaning hidden behind words.

'To know me in great depth' bothered me to no end, especially 'great depth.' It could only mean one thing, I thought, but I immediately discarded it as being preposterous.

I became so absorbed in my own calculations that I no longer paid much attention to what he was saying.

He kept on explaining about the day I had lost, but I only caught bits and pieces. I must have been staring at him blankly, for all of a sudden he stopped talking.

He reprimanded me sternly, "You are not listening."

I shot back at him, "What did you do to me when I was in a trance?" More than a question, it was an accusation.

I was startled by my own words, for it was not a thought-out statement. The words had simply escaped me of their own accord.

Mariano Aureliano was even more surprised. He almost choked on the burst of laughter that followed his wide-eyed expression of shock.

He assured me, "We do not go around taking advantage of little girls." Not only did he sound sincere, but he seemed to be offended by my accusation.

He stressed, "Esperanza told you who we are. We are very serious people." Then in a mocking tone he added, "And we mean business."

"What kind of business?" I demanded belligerently. "Esperanza did not tell me what you want from me."

"She certainly did," he retorted with such assurance I wondered for an instant if he had not been concealed, listening to our conversation in the patio. I would not have put it past him.

He went on, "Esperanza told you that you have been pointed out to us, and now we are as driven by that as you are driven by fear."

"I am not driven by anything or anybody," I shouted, quite forgetting that he had not told me what is was they wanted from me.

Without being in the least affected by my anger, he said that Esperanza had made it very clear to me that they were committed to rear me from now on.

"Rear me!" I yelled. "You are crazy. I have had all the rearing I need!"

Ignoring my outburst, he went on to explain that their commitment was total, and whether or not I understood this was of no importance to them.

I stared at him, unable to hide my dread. Never before had I heard someone express himself with such compelling indifference and such concern at the same time.

In an effort to conceal my alarm, I tried to imbue my voice with a spunkiness I was far from feeling when I asked, "What do you imply when you say you are going to rear me?"

"Just what you hear," he answered. "We are committed to guide you."

"But why?" I asked, frightened and curious at the same time. "Can you not see that I do not need any guidance, that I do not want any..."

My words were drowned by Mariano Aureliano's joyful laughter. "You certainly need guidance. Esperanza already showed you how meaningless your life is."

Anticipating my next question, he motioned me to be silent and he said, "As to why you and not someone else, she explained to you that we let the spirit tell us who we should guide. The spirit showed us that you were the one."

"Wait a minute, Mr. Aureliano," I protested. "I really do not want to be rude or ungrateful, but you must understand that I am not seeking help.

"I do not want anybody to guide me, even though I probably need guidance.

"The mere thought is abhorrent to me. Do you see what I mean? Do I make myself clear?"

"You do make yourself clear, and I do see what you mean," he echoed, moving back a step away from my pointed finger. "But precisely because you do not need anything, you are a most adequate candidate."

"Candidate?" I yelled, fed up with his insistence.

I looked around me, wondering if I had been overheard by the people going in and out of the coffee shop.

Then I went on yelling, "What is this? You and your companions are all a bunch of nuts. You leave me alone, you hear? I do not need you or anyone."

To my surprise and morbid delight, Mariano Aureliano finally lost his temper and began to berate me like my father and brothers used to.

In a tightly controlled voice that never rose to be heard beyond us, he insulted me.

He called me stupid and spoiled. And then, as if insulting me had given him impetus, he said something unforgivable.

He shouted that the only asset I ever had was to be born blond and blue-eyed in a land where blond hair and blue eyes were coveted and revered.

"You never had to struggle for anything," he asserted. "The colonial mentality of the cholos of your country made them regard you as if you really deserved special treatment.

"Privilege based merely on having blond hair and blue eyes is the dumbest privilege there is."

I was livid.

I had never been one to take insults sitting down. My years of training at shouting matches at home and the extraordinarily descriptive vulgarities I learned and never forgot form the streets of Caracas in my childhood paid off that afternoon.

I said things to Mariano Aureliano that embarrass me to this day.

I was so worked up I did not notice that the burly Indian who was driving the pickup truck had joined us. I only realized he was there when I heard his loud laughter. He and Mariano Aureliano were practically on the ground, clasping their stomachs, shrieking with delight.

Turning to the burly Indian, I yelled, "What is so funny?" Then I insulted him, too.

"What a foul-mouthed woman," he said in perfect English. "If I were your daddy I would wash your mouth with soap."

"Who asked you to butt in, you fat turd?" In blind fury, I kicked him in the shinbone.

He yelled out in pain, and cursed me.

I was about to reach for his arm, and bite him when Mariano Aureliano grabbed me from behind and tossed me in the air.

Time stopped.

My descent was so slow, so imperceptible, it seemed to me that I was suspended in the air forever.

I did not land on the ground with my bones broken, as I expected, but in the arms of the burly Indian.

He did not even stagger, but held me as if I weighed no more than a pillow, a ninety-five pound pillow. Catching the wicked glint in his eyes, I was certain he was going to toss me again.

He must have sensed my fear, for he smiled and gently put me down.

My wrath and strength spent, I leaned against my car and sobbed.

Mariano Aureliano put his arm around me and stroked my hair and shoulders, the way my father used to do when I was a child.

In a soothing murmur, he assured me that he was not in the least upset at the barbarities I had yelled at him.

Guilt and self-pity only made me weep harder.

He shook his head in a sign of resignation, although his eyes shone with mirth.

Then in an obvious effort to make me laugh too, he confessed that he still could not believe I would know, let alone use, such foul language. He mused, "Well, I suppose language is there to be used, and foul language should be used when the circumstances are called for it."

I was not amused. And once the attack of self-pity had passed, I began, in my usual fashion, to mull over his assertion that all I had going for me was blond hair and blue eyes.

I must have cued Mariano Aureliano about my feelings, for he assured me that he had said that only to upset me and that there was not a shred of truth in it.

I knew he was lying, and for an instant I felt doubly insulted. But then I was appalled to realize that my defenses were shattered.

I agreed with him. He had been right on target about everything he had said.

With a single stroke, he had unmasked me and cut through my shield, so to speak.

No one, not even my worst enemy, could have hit me with such an accurately devastating blow.

And yet, whatever I might have thought about Mariano Aureliano, I knew he was not my enemy.

I felt quite dizzy with my realization.

It was as if an unseen force were crushing something within me; the idea of myself.

Something that had before always given me strength was now depleting me.

Mariano Aureliano took me by the arm, and walked me toward the coffee shop. Jovially he said, "Let us sign a truce. I need you to do me a favor."

"You need only to ask," I responded, trying to match his tone.

"Before you got here, I went into this coffee shop to have a sandwich, and they practically refused to serve me.

"When I complained, the cook threw me out." Mariano Aureliano looked at me dejectedly and added, "That happens when one is an Indian."

"Report that cook to the manager," I cried out in righteous indignation. My own turmoil was totally and most mysteriously forgotten.

Mariano Aureliano confided, "That would not help me in the least."

He assured me that the only way I could help him was for me to go into the coffee shop by myself, sit at the counter, order an elaborate meal, and drop a dead fly in my food.

"And blame the cook," I finished for him. The whole scheme sounded so preposterous it made me laugh.

But when I caught sight of his genuine expectation, I promised to do what he asked of me.

Mariano Aureliano said, "Wait here," then together with the burly Indian-- who had yet to be introduced to me-- headed toward the old red pickup truck parked in the street. They returned within moments.

"By the way," Mariano Aureliano said, "this man here is John. He is a Yuma Indian from Arizona."

I wanted to ask him if he also was a sorcerer, but Mariano Aureliano beat me to the punch. "He is the youngest member of our group," he confided.

Giggling nervously, I extended my hand and said, "I am glad to meet you."

"Likewise," John responded in a deep, resonant voice, and clasped my hand warmly in his. "I hope you and I never come to blows again," he grinned.

Although he was not very tall, he exuded the vitality and strength of a giant. Even his big, white teeth seemed indestructible.

In a joking manner, John felt my biceps. "I would bet you can knock a fellow out cold with one punch," he said.

Before I had a chance to apologize to him for my kicks and insults, Mariano Aureliano pressed a small box into my hand.

"The fly," he whispered. "John here suggests that you wear this," he added, retrieving a black, curly wig from a bag. "Do not worry, it is brand new," he assured me as he pulled the wig over my head.

Then, holding me at arm's length, he regarded me critically. "Not bad," he mused, making sure my long, blond braid was tucked in properly. "I do not want anyone to recognize you."

I asserted, "There is no need for me to disguise myself. Take my word for it. I do not know anyone in Tucson."

I turned the side mirror of my car and looked at myself. "I can not go in looking like this," I protested. "I look like a poodle."

Mariano Aureliano gazed at me with an exasperating air of amusement as he arranged some stray curls. He said, "Now, do not you forget that you have to sit at the counter and yell bloody murder when you discover the fly in your food."

"Why?"

He regarded me as if I were dim-witted. "You have to attract attention and humiliate the cook," he pointed out.



The coffee shop was packed with the early dinner crowd. However, it was not long before I was seated at the counter and was waited on by a harrassed-looking but friendly old waitress.

Half-hidden behind the order rack was the cook. Like his two helpers, he appeared to be Mexican or Mexican-American.

He went about his job so cheerfully I was quite certain he was harmless and incapable of malice.

But when I thought of the old Indian waiting for me in the parking lot, I felt no guilt whatsoever as I-- with such stealth and speed that not even the men on either side of me noticed it-- emptied the little matchbox over the perfectly cooked hamburger steak I had ordered.

My shriek of revulsion was genuine upon seeing a large, dead cockroach on my food.

"What is it, dear?" the waitress asked concernedly.

"How does the cook expect me to eat this?" I complained.

I did not have to pretend anger. I was indignant; not at the cook, but at Mariano Aureliano. I asked in a loud voice, "How can he do this to me?"

"It is all some dreadful accident," the waitress explained to the two curious and concerned customers on either side of me.

She showed the plate to the cook.

"Fascinating!" the cook said, his voice loud and clear.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he studied the food. He was not in the least upset.

I had the vague suspicion he was laughing at me. He said, "This cockroach must have either fallen from the ceiling," he deliberated, gazing at my head in fascinated interest, "or perhaps from her wig."

Before I could retort indignantly and put the cook in his place, he offered me anything that was on the menu. "It will be on the house," he promised.

I asked for a steak and a baked potato, which was almost immediately brought to me. As I was pouring some salad dressing over my lettuce, which I always ate last, I discovered a good-sized spider crawling from under a lettuce leaf.

I was so taken aback by this obvious evocation that I could not even shriek.

I looked up. Waving from behind the order rack was the cook, a dazzling smile on his face.



Mariano Aureliano was waiting for me impatiently. "What happned?" he asked.

"You and your disgusting cockroach!" I spat out, then added resentfully, "Nothing happened.

"The cook did not get upset. He enjoyed himself immensely, at my cost, of course. The only one who got upset was me."

At his urging, I gave Mariano Aureliano a detailed account of what took place. The more I talked, the more pleased he was.

Disconcerted by his reaction, I glowered at him. "What is so funny?" I demanded.

He tried to keep a serious face, but his lips twitched.

His soft chuckle exploded into a loud, delighted laughter. He chided me, saying, "You should not take yourself so seriously. You are an excellent dreamer, but you are certainly no actress."

I said defensively in a high, shrill voice, "I am not acting now. And I certainly was not acting in there."

He said, "I meant that I was counting on your ability to be convincing. You had to make the cook believe something that was not true. I really thought you could."

"How dare you criticize me!" I shouted. "I made a fool of myself on your behalf, and all you can say is that I do not know how to act!"

I pulled off the wig and threw it at him. "I am sure I have got lice now."

Ignoring my outburst, Mariano Aureliano went on to say that Florinda had already told him that I was incapable of pretending.

He added equably, "We had to know it for sure, in order to put you in your proper slot. Sorcerers are either dreamers or stalkers. Some are both."

"What are you talking about? What is this nonsense of dreamers and stalkers?"

"Dreamers deal with dreams," he explained softly. "They get their power and their wisdom from dreams.

"Stalkers on the other hand deal with people and with the everyday world. They get their wisdom and their power from interacting with their fellow men."

"You obviously do not know me at all," I said derisively. "I interact very well with people."

"No, you do not," he contradicted me. "You yourself said that you do not know how to converse.

"You are a good liar, but you lie only to get what you want.

"Your lies are too specific, and too personal. And do you know why?"

He paused for a moment, as if to give me time to respond. But before I could even think of what to say he added, "Because for you, things are either black or white with no shades of color in between.

"And I don't mean it in terms of morality, but in terms of convenience. Your convenience, that is. You are a true authoritarian."

Mariano Aureliano and John exchanged glances, then both squared their shoulders, clicked their heels and did something unforgivable to me.

They raised their arms in a fascist salute and said, "Mein Fuehrer!"

The more they laughed, the greater was my rage.

I felt my blood ringing in my ears, rushing to my face. And this time, I did nothing to calm myself.

I kicked my car and banged my arms against the roof.

The two men, instead of trying to soothe me-- as my parents or my friends definitely would have done-- stood there and laughed as I were providing them with the funniest spectacle possible.

Their indifference, their complete lack of concern for me was so shocking that my wrath slowed down of its own accord.

Never had I been so completely disregarded. I was lost.

I realized then that I had no more maneuvers left.

I had never known until that day that if the witnesses to my tantrums did not show any concern, I did not know what to do next.

Mariano Aureliano said to John, "I think she is confused now. She does not know what to do."

He put his arm around the burly idian's shoulders and added softly, yet still loud enough for me to ear, "Now she is going to cry, and when she does, she is going to cry her head off until we console her. Nothing is as tiresome as a spoiled cunt."

That did it for me. Like an injured bull, I lowered my head and charged Mariano Aureliano.

He was so startled by my vicious, sudden attack, he almost lost his balance. It gave me enough time to sink my teeth in the fleshy part of his stomach.

He let out a yell, a mixture of pain and laughter.

John grabbed me by the waist and pulled me away. I did not let go of my bite until my partial bridge came off.

I had knocked two of my upper front teeth out when I was thirteen in a fight between the Venezuelan and the German students at the German high school in Caracas.

Both men howled with laughter. John bent over the trunk of my Volkswagen, holding his stomach and banging my car. "She has got a hole in her teeth, like a football player," he cried out in between shrieks.

My embarrassment was beyond words. I was so vexed that my knees gave in on me and I slid to the paved ground, like a rag doll, and actually passed out.

When I came to my senses, I was sitting inside the pickup truck.

Mariano Aureliano was pressing my back. Smiling, he stroked my head repeatedly and then embraced me.

I was surprised by my absence of emotion. I was neither embarrassed nor annoyed.

I was relaxed and at ease. It was a serene tranquility I had never known before.

For the first time in my life, I realized that I had never been at peace with myself or with others.

Mariano Aureliano said, "We like you immensely, but you have to cure yourself of your temper tantrums. If you do not, they will kill you.

"This time it was my fault. I must apologize to you. I did deliberately provoke you."

I was too calm to say anything. I got out of the truck to stretch my arms and legs. I had painful cramps in my calves.

After a few moments of silence, I apologized to the two men. I told them that my temper had gotten worse since I had started drinking colas compulsively.

Mariano Aureliano suggested, "Stop drinking them."

Then he completely changed the subject and went on talking as if nothing had happened. He said that he was extremely pleased that I had joined them.

I asked uncomprehendingly, "You are? Did I join you?"

"You did!" he emphasized. "One day it will all make sense to you."

He pointed to a flock of crows cawing above us. "The crows are a good omen.

"See how marvelous they look. They are like a painting in the sky. To see them now is a promise that we will see each other again."

I gazed at the birds until they flew out of sight.

When I turned to look at Mariano Aureliano, he was no longer there. The pickup truck had rolled away without a sound.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 05.

Version 2010.01.19


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 05.

Disregarding the scratchy bushes, I dashed after the dog who was scurrying through the sagebrush with reckless speed.

I soon lost sight of its golden fur shimmering amidst the fragrant wild shrubs and I followed the sound of its barks growing fainter and fainter in the distance.

Uneasily, I glanced at the thick fog advancing on me.

It closed in around the spot where I stood and within moments there was no sight of the sky. The late afternoon sun, like a subdued ball of fire, was scarcely discernible. The magnificent view of the Santa Monica Bay, now more imagined than seen here from the Santa Susana Mountains, had disappeared with incredible speed.

I was not worried about the dog getting lost.

I, however, had no idea where to find the secluded spot my friends had chosen for our picnic, nor where the hiking path was that I had taken to chase after the dog.

I took a few hesitant steps in the same general direction the dog had followed, when something made me stop.

Emerging from above, through some crack in the fog, I saw a tiny point of light descending toward me. Another one followed, then another, like little flames tied to a string.

The lights trembled and vibrated in the air, then just before they reached me, they vanished, as though the fog around me had swallowed them up.

Since they had disappeared only a few feet in front of me, I moved on, closer to the spot, eager to examine that extraordinary sight.

As I peered intently into the fog, I saw dark, human shapes glide through the air, two or three feet off the ground, moving as though they were tiptoeing on clouds.

One after the other, the human shapes squatted, forming a circle.

I took a few more vacillating steps, then stopped as the fog thickened and absorbed them.

I remained still, not knowing what to do.

I felt a most unusual fright. Not the fright I am familiar with, but one in my body, in my belly; the kind of fright animals must have.

I do not know how long I stood there.

When the fog cleared enough for me to see, I saw to my left, about fifty feet away, two men sitting cross-legged on the ground.

They were whispering to each other, and the sound of their voices seemed to be all around me, captured in small patches of fog that were like tufts of cotton.

I did not understand what they were saying, but I felt reassured as I caught a word here and there. They were speaking in Spanish.

"I am lost!" I shouted in Spanish.

Both men slowly turned around, hesitant, disbelieving, as though they were seeing an apparition.

I spun around, wondering if there was someone behind me that was causing their dramatic reaction; but there was no one.

Grinning, one of the men rose, stretched his limbs until his joints cracked, then covered the distance between us in quick strides.

He was young, short, and powerfully built, with massive shoulders and a big head. His dark eyes radiated amusement and curiosity.

I told him that I had been hiking with friends and had gotten lost chasing after their dog. I finished by saying, "I have no idea how to get back to them."

"You can not go any further this way," the man warned me. "We are standing on a cliff."

He took me confidently by the arm and led me to the very edge of the precipice, no more than ten feet away from where I had been standing.

He pointed to the other man who had remained seated staring at me, and said, "This friend of mine had just finished telling me that there is an ancient Indian burial ground down below when you showed up and nearly scared us to death."

He studied my face, my long blond braid, and asked, "Are you Swedish?"

Still bewildered by what the young man had said about the burial ground, I stared into the fog.

Under normal circumstances, as a student of anthropology, I would have been thrilled to find out about an ancient Indian burial ground.

At the moment, however, I could not care less if there was indeed one in that foggy emptiness below me.

All I could think of was that if I had not been distracted by those lights I might have ended up buried myself.

"Are you Swedish?" the young man asked again.

"I am," I lied and immediately regretted it, but I could not think of any way to correct it without losing face.

"You speak Spanish perfectly," the man commented. "Swedish people have a marvelous ear for languages."

Although I felt terribly guilty, I could not help adding that more than a gift, it was a necessity for Scandinavians to learn various languages if they wanted to communicate with the rest of the world.

"Besides," I confessed, "I grew up in South America."

For some strange reason this piece of information seemed to baffle the young man.

He shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then remained silent for a long while, deep in thought.

Then, as if he had arrived at some kind of a decision, he took me briskly by the hand, and guided me to where the other man was sitting.

I had no intention of socializing, and I wanted to get back to my friends as soon as possible, but the young man made me feel so at ease that instead of asking them to lead me back to the hiking path, I gave them a detailed account of the lights and human shapes I had just seen.

"How strange that the spirit would spare her," the seated man muttered as if to himself. His dark brows were drawn together in a frown.

But obviously he was talking to his companion who mumbled something in return that I did not catch.

They exchanged conspiratorial glances, intensifying my feelings of unease.

Turning to the man who was sitting, I said, "I beg your pardon, but I did not get what you were saying."

He stared at me aggressively and morosely.

He stated in a voice that was deep and resonant, "You were warned of the danger. The emissaries of death came to your help."

I felt compelled to ask, "The who?" even though I had understood him perfectly well.

I examined him closely. For an instant, I had the certainty I knew him, but as I kept staring at him, I realized I had never seen him before. Yet I could not completely discard the feeling of knowing him.

He was not as young as the other man, but he was not old either.

He was definitely an Indian. His skin was dark brown. His hair was blue-black, straight and thick as a brush.

But it was not only his outward appearance that was almost familiar to me. He was as morose as only I could be.

Seemingly uncomfortable under my scrutiny, he rose abruptly and mumbled, "I will take you to your friends."

He added in a gruff tone, "Follow me, and don't you dare fall down. You will fall on top of me and kill us both."

Before I had the opportunity to say that I was not a clumsy oaf, he led the way down a very steep side of a mountain in the opposite direction of the cliff.

I shouted after him with a voice sharp with nervousness, "Do you know where you are going?"

I could not orient myself-- not that I am normally good at it-- but I had not been aware of climbing up a hill as I chased the dog.

The man turned around.

An amused little grin quickly lit his face, though his eyes did not smile.

He looked at me with a black, stony look. "I am going to take you to your friends," was all he said.

I did not like him, and yet I believed him.

He was not too tall-- about five feet ten-- and he was small boned. Yet his body projected the massiveness and compactness of a stocky person.

He moved in the fog with extraordinary confidence, stepping with ease and grace down what I thought was a vertical drop.

The younger man climbed down behind me, helping me every time I got stuck. He had the solicitous manner of an old-fashioned gentleman.

His hands were strong and beautiful, and incredibly soft to the touch. His strength was tremendous.

He easily lifted me up and over his head several times; perhaps not an extraordinary feat considering my puny weight, but quite impressive taking into account that he was standing on shale ledges, and was no more than two or three inches taller than I.

As soon as we had reached level ground, the man who had led the way insisted, "You have to thank the emissaries of death."

"I do?" I asked mockingly.

The thought of saying thank you to the 'emissaries of death' seemed ridiculous to me.

I asked in between a fit of giggles, "Do I have to get down on my knees?"

The man did not realize I was being funny. He rested his hands on his hips and looked me full in the eye. His narrow, gaunt face was unsmiling.

There was something menacing about his stance and about his slanted dark eyes under his bristly eyebrows that ran together over the bridge of his chiseled nose.

Abruptly, he turned his back to me, and moved away to sit on a nearby rock.

He pronounced, "We can not leave this spot until you thank the emissaries of death."

Suddenly, the realization that I was alone in a godforsaken place hit me. I was fogged in with two strange men; one of them perhaps dangerous.

I knew he would not budge from the spot until I fullfilled his ludicrous request.

To my amazement, instead of feeling frightened, I felt like laughing.

The all-knowing smile on the younger man's face clearly revealed that he knew how I felt, and he was quite delighted by it.

"You do not have to go as far as kneeling," this younger man told me, and then, no longer able to hold back his mirth, he began to laugh.

It was a bright, raspy sound that rolled like pebbles all around me. His teeth were snow-white and perfectly even like a child's.

His face had a look at once mischievous and gentle.

"It is enough to say thank you," he prompted me. "Say it. What do you have to lose?"

I deliberately tried to win him over as I confided, "I feel stupid. I will not do it."

"Why?" he asked in a nonjudgmental tone. "It will only take a second, and," he stressed, smiling, "it will not hurt a bit."

In spite of myself, I had to giggle.

I repeated, "I am sorry, but I can not do it.

"I am like that. The moment someone insists that I do something I do not want to do, I get all tense and angry."

Eyes on the ground, his chin resting on his knuckles, the young man nodded his head thoughtfully.

After a long pause he said, "It is a fact that something prevented you from getting hurt, perhaps even killed; something inexplicable."

I agreed with him. I even admitted that it was all very baffling to me.

I tried to make a point about phenomena happening coincidentally at the right time and in the right place.

He replied, "That is all very appropriate."

Then he grinned and daringly nudged me on the chin and said, "But that does not explain your particular case.

"You have been the recipient of a gift.

"Call the giver coincidence, circumstance, a chain of events, or whatever. The fact remains that you were spared pain and injury."

I conceded, saying, "Perhaps you are right. I should be more grateful."

"Not more grateful, more pliable; more fluid." he said and laughed.

Seeing that I was getting angry, he opened his arms wide as if to encompass the sagebrush around us.

"My friend believes that what you saw has to do with the Indian burial ground, which happens to be right here."

"I do not see a burial ground," I said defensively.

"It is hard to recognize it," he explained, squinting at me as if he had trouble with his eyes. "And it is not the fog that prevents one from seeing it. Even on a sunny day, one sees nothing but a patch of sagebrush."

He went down on his knees and, grinning, looked up at me. "However, for the knowing eye, it is an unusually shaped patch of sagebrush." He lay flat on the ground, on his stomach, his head tilted to the left, and motioned me to do the same.

He explained as I lay down beside him on the ground, "This is the only way to see it clearly. I would not have known this but for my friend here who knows all kinds of interesting and exciting things."

At first I saw nothing, then one by one I discovered the rocks in the thick underbrush. Dark and shiny, as though they had been washed by the mist, they sat hunched in a circle, more like creatures than stones.

I stifled a scream as I realized that the circle of rocks was exactly like the circle of human figures I had seen earlier in the fog.

I mumbled, "Now I am truly frightened," and I shifted uncomfortably. "I told you that I saw human figures sitting in a circle."

I looked at him to see if his face betrayed any disapproval or mockery before I added, "It is too preposterous, but I could almost swear those rocks were the people I saw."

"I know," he whispered so softly that I had to move closer to him as he continued, "It is all very mysterious.

"My friend, who you must have noticed is an Indian, says that certain Indian burial grounds such as this one have a row or a circle of boulders.

"The boulders are the emissaries of death."

He looked at me closely, and then as if he wanted to make sure he had my full attention, he confided, "They are the emissaries, mind you, and not the representation of the emissaries."

I kept staring at the man, not only because I did not know what to make of his statements, but because his face kept changing as he talked and smiled. It was not that his features changed, but his face was at moments that of a six-year-old child, a seventeen-year-old boy, and that of an old man, too.

He seemed oblivious to my scrutiny as he continued, "These are strange beliefs. I had not put too much stock in them until the moment you came out of the blue, as my friend was telling me about the emissaries of death, and then you told us that you had just seen them.

He went on, his tone suddenly menacing, "If I were given to distrust, I would believe that you and he are in cahoots."

I defended myself, indignant at the mere suggestion, "I don't know him!" Then I whispered softly, so only he could hear, "To be quite frank, your friend gives me the creeps."

Ignoring my interruption, the young man repeated, "If I were given to distrust, I would believe that you two are actually trying to scare me. But I am not distrustful, so the only thing I can do is suspend judgment and wonder about you."

I said irritably, "Well, do not wonder about me. And I do not now what the hell you are talking about anyway."

I glared at him angrily. I had no sympathy for his dilemma. He too was giving me the creeps.

The older man had walked to where I was lying and was peering down at me in a most peculiar manner. He said, "My friend is talking about thanking the emissaries of death."

Eager to get away from that place and those two crazy people, I stood up and shouted my thanks.

My voice echoed, as if the under-brush had turned into rocks.

I listened until the sound died away.

Then, as if possessed, and quite against my better judgment, I cried out my thanks again and again.

The younger man nudged my calf and said, "I am sure the emissaries are more than satisfied," and laughing, he rolled on his back.

There was a wonderful strength in his eyes, in the delighted power of his laugh.

I did not doubt for an instant, despite the levity, that indeed I had thanked the emissaries of death. And most oddly, I felt myself protected by them.

I directed a question at the younger man, "Who are you two?"

In one agile, smooth motion he sprang to his feet and said, "I am Jose Luis Cortez. My friends call me Joe." He held out his hand and clasped mine. "And this here is my friend Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard."

I was afraid I would laugh out loud at the name, so I bit my lip and bent to scratch an imaginary bite on my knee. "A flea, I think," I said, gazing from one man to the other.

Both stared back at me, defying me to make fun of the name. There was such a serious expression on their faces that my laughter vanished.

Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard reached for my hand hanging limply at my side and shook it vigorously. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance," he said in perfect English with an upper-class British accent. "For a moment I thought you were one of those stuck-up cunts."

Simultaneously, my eyes widened and my mouth opened. Although something in me registered that his words were meant as a compliment rather than an insult, my shock was nevertheless so intense that I just stood there as if paralyzed.

I was not prudish, and under the proper circumstances I could outswear anyone, but to me there was something so appallingly offensive about the sound of the word cunt, it rendered me speechless.

Joe came to my rescue. He apologized for his friend, explaining that Gumersindo was an extreme social iconoclast.

Before I had a chance to say that Gumersindo had definitely shattered my sense of propriety, Joe added that Gumersindo's compulsion to be an iconoclast had to do with the fact that his last name was Evans-Pritchard.

Joe noted, "It should not surprise anyone. His father is an Englishman who abandoned his mother, an Indian woman from Jalisco, before Gumersindo was born."

"Evans-Pritchard?" I repeated guardedly, then turned to Gumersindo and asked him if it was all right for Joe to reveal to a stranger his family's skeletons in the closet.

Joe answered for his friend, saying, "There are no skeletons in the closet. And do you know why?"

He fixed me with his shiny, dark eyes that were neither brown nor black but the color of ripe cherries.

Helplessly, I shook my head to say no. My attention was held by his compelling gaze. His one eye seemed to be laughing at me, while the other one was dead serious, ominous and menacing.

Joe went on, "Because what you call skeletons in the closet are Gumersindo's source of strength. Do you know that his father is now a famous English anthropologist? Gumersindo hates his guts."

Gumersindo nodded his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were proud of his hatred.

I could hardly believe my good fortune. They were referring to none other than E. E. Evans-Pritchard, one of the most important social anthropologists of the twentieth century. And it was precisely during this term at UCLA that I was researching a paper on the history of social anthropology and the most eminent proponents in the field.

What a scoop! I had to restrain myself from shouting out loud and jumping up and down with excitement. To be able to come with some awful secret like that. A great anthropologist seducing and abandoning an Indian woman.

I was not in the least concerned that Evans-Pritchard had not done any fieldwork in Mexico, and he was mainly known for his research in Africa. I was certain I would discover that during one of his visits to the United States he had gone into Mexico. I had the very proof standing before me. Smiling sweetly, I gazed at Gumersindo and made the silent promise that, of course, I would not reveal anything without his permission.

..Well, perhaps I would just say something to one of my professors, I thought. After all, one did not come across this kind of information every day.

My mind was spinning with possibilities. Perhaps a small lecture with only a few selected students at the home of one of my professors. In my mind, I had already selected the professor. I did not partcularly like him, but I appreciated the rather childish manner in which he tried to impress his students.

Periodically, we met at his home. Every time I had been there, I had discovered on his desk a note, left there as if by mistake, written to him by a famous anthropologist, Claude Levi-Strauss.

Joe gently pulled me by my sleeve, and said politely, "You did not tell us your name."

Without hesitation, I gave them the name of one of my childhood friends by responding, "Carmen Gebauer." To ease my discomfort and guilt at having lied again with such facility, I asked Joe if he was from Argentina.

Seeing his puzzled frown, I hastened to add that his inflection was definitely Argentinian, "Even though you do not look like an Argentinian," I noted.

"I am Mexican," he said. "And judging by your accent, you grew up either in Cuba or in Venezuela."

I did not want to continue on that line of conversation and swiftly changed the subject. I asked, "Do you know how to get back to the hiking path?" I was suddenly concerned that my friends might be worried by now.

Joe confessed with childish candor, "No, I do not. But Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard does."

Gumersindo led the way across the chaparral, up a narrow trail on the other side of the mountain. It was not long before we heard my friends' voices and the barking of their dog.

I felt intense relief, and at the same time I was disappointed and puzzled that neither man tried to find out how to get in touch with me.

Joe, perfunctorily by way of farewell, said, "I am sure we will meet again."

Gumersindo Evans-Pritchard surprised me by gallantly kissing my hand. He did this so naturally and gracefully that it did not occur to me to laugh at him.

Joe explained, "It is in his genes. Even though he is only half English, his refinement is beyond reproach. He is totally gallant!"

Without another word or backward glance, both of them disappeared in the mist.

I doubted very much that I would ever see them again.

Overcome with guilt for having lied about my name, I was on the verge of running after them when my friends' dog almost knocked me to the ground as it jumped on me and tried to lick my face.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 06.


He explained that he had been as careless and undisciplined as one could be, but that he never knew the difference because he had been imprisoned by the mood of the time.

Version 2010.01.22


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 06.

Dumbfounded, I stared at the guest speaker. In his three-piece suit, short, curly hair, and clean-shaven face, Joe Cortez looked like someone from another time amidst the long-haired, bearded and beaded, casually dressed students in one of the large lecture auditoriums at the University of California in Los Angeles.

Hastily, I slipped into the empty seat in the back row of the packed auditorium; a seat saved for me by the same friend I had gone hiking with in the Santa Susana Mountains.

"Who is he?" I asked her.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she regarded me impatiently, then scribbled Carlos Castaneda on a piece of paper.

"Who in the dickens is Carlos Castaneda?" I asked and giggled involuntarily.

"I gave you his book," she hissed, then added that he was a well-known anthropologist who had done extensive fieldwork in Mexico.

I was about to confide to my friend that the guest speaker was the same man I had met in the mountains the day I had gotten lost.

However, for a very good reason, I did not say anything to her. This man was responsible for almost destroying our friendship; a friendship which I treasured immensely.

My friend had been adamant that day in her opinion that the story about Evans-Pritchard's son was hogwash.

I had insisted that the two men I had just met had nothing to gain by telling me a tall tale. I just knew that they had candidly spoken the truth.

My friend, mad at me for believing them, had called me a gullible fool.

Since neither of us had been willing to yield, our argument had become quite heated.

My friend's husband, hoping to bring us out of our frenzy, had suggested that perhaps I had been told the truth.

Irked by his lack of solidarity with her, my friend had yelled at him to shut up.

We had driven home in a morose state with our friendship strained.

It took a couple of weeks to wash away the bad feeling.

In the meantime, I had tried my information about Evans-Pritchard's son on several people more versed in in anthropologists and anthropological matters than I or my friend were. Needless to say, I was made to feel like an idiot.

Out of stubbornness, I held on to my blind belief that I alone knew the truth.

I had been reared to be practical. If someone lied, it was to gain something that could not be gained otherwise. And I was at a loss to figure out what those men could have had to gain.

I paid little attention to Carlos Castaneda's lecture. I was too absorbed with wondering about his reason for lying to me about his name. Given as I was to deducing other people's motives from a simple statement or an observation, I had a field day trying to search for a clue to his.

But then I remembered that I, too, had given him a false name. And I could not determine why I had done so.

After long mental deliberation, I decided that I had lied because automatically I had not trusted him. He was too self-confident and too cocky to inspire my trust.

My mother had reared me to distrust Latin men, especially if they were not somewhat subservient. She used to say that Latin machos were like bantam cocks, interested only in fighting, eating, and having sex, in that order. And I suppose I had believed her without even thinking about it.

I finally looked at Carlos Castaneda. I could not make heads or tails of what he was talking about. But I became fascinated by his movements.

He seemed to speak with his whole body, and his words, rather than emerging from his mouth, seemed to flow from his hands, which he moved with the gracefulness and agility of a magician.

Boldly, I walked up to him after the lecture.

He was surrounded by students. He was so solicitous and engaging with the women that I automatically despised him.

I said in Spanish, "You have lied to me about your name, Joe Cortez," and I pointed an accusing finger at him.

Holding his hand over his stomach, as if he had received a blow, he gazed at me with the same hesitant and disbelieving expression he had had when he first saw me in the mountains.

Before he recovered from his surprise at seeing me, I added, "It is also a lie that your friend Gumersindo is the son of Evans-Pritchard. Is it not?"

He made a pleading gesture for me not to say any more.

He did not seem to be in the least embarrassed.

There was such plain and simple wonder in his eyes that my righteous wrath was stopped short.

Gently, he held me by the wrist, as if afraid I would leave.

After he finished talking with the students, he silently led me to a secluded bench shaded by a gigantic pine tree in the north campus.

"All this is so strange that I am truthfully speechless," he said in English as we sat down.

He gazed at me as if he still could not believe I was sitting beside him.

"I never thought I would find you again," he mused.

"After we left, my friend-- his name, by the way is Nestor-- and I discussed you at great length.

"We concluded that you were a semiapparition."

He abruptly changed to Spanish and said that they even went back to the place where they had left me in the hope of finding me.

"Why did you want to find me?" I asked in English; confident that he would respond in English that he went there because he liked me.

In Spanish, there is no way to say that one just likes someone else. The response has to be more florid and at the same time more precise. In Spanish, one can either happen to evoke a good feeling- me caes bien- or arouse total passion- me gustos.

My candid question plunged him into a long silence. He seemed to be fighting whether he ought to speak or not.

At last, he said that finding me in the fog that afternoon had caused him a profound upheaval.

His face was enraptured as he revealed all this, and his voice betrayed the deepest awe as he added that finding me in the lecture room had been nearly the end of him.

"Why?" I asked, my vanity pricked.

I instantly regretted it because I was convinced he was going to tell me he was head over heels in love with me, and that would have been too disturbing. I would not have known how to respond.

"It is a very long story," he said, still in a pensive mood.

He puckered his lips, as if he were talking to himself, rehearsing what he was going to say next.

I knew the signs of a man who is preparing to make his pitch. In order to head him off in a different direction, I said, "I have not read your work. What is it about?"

"I have written a couple of books about sorcery," he replied.

I asked, "What kind of sorcery? Voodoo, spiritualism, or what?"

With a note expectation in his voice, he asked, "Do you know anything about sorcery?"

I responded, "Of course I do. I grew up with it.

"I spent a great deal of time in the coastal region of Venezuela. It is an area that is famous for its sorcerers.

"Most summers of my childhood were spent with a family of witches."

Carlos asked, "Witches?"

"Yes," I said, pleased with his reaction. "I had a nanny who is a witch.

"She was a black woman from Puerto Cabello. She took care of me until I was an adolescent. Both my parents worked, and when I was a child, they were quite happy to leave me in her care.

"She could handle me much better than either of my parents. She would let me do as I pleased.

"My parents, of course, let her take me everywhere. During the school holidays she would take me with her to visit her family.

"It was not her biological family but her witch family. Although I was not allowed to participate in any of their rituals and trance sessions, I did manage to see a great deal."

He regarded me curiously, as if he did not believe me.

Then he asked with a bemused smile, "What made her a witch?"

"All sorts of things. She killed chickens and offered them to the Gods in exchange for favors. She and her fellow witches- men and women- would dance until they would go into a trance. She recited secret incantations that had the power to heal her friends and injure her enemies. Her specialty was love potions. She prepared them with medicinal plants and all sorts of bodily refuse, such as menstrual blood, nail clippings, and hair, preferably pubic hair. She made amulets for good luck in gambling or in matters of love."

"And your parents allowed all this?" he asked in disbelief.

"At home, no one knew about it, except myself and my nanny's clients, of course," I explained. "She made house calls, as any doctor would.

"All she ever did at home was to burn candles behind the toilet bowl whenever I had nightmares. Since it seemed to help me and there was no danger of anything catching fire amidst the tiles, my mother openly allowed her to do this."

He suddenly stood up and began to laugh.

"What is so funny?" I asked, wondering whether he thought I had made it all up. "It is the truth, I assure you."

Carlos said, with a serious face, "You assert something to yourself, and as far as you are concerned, once you make the assertion it turns into the truth."

"But I told you the truth," I insisted, certain that he was referring to my nanny.

"I can see through people," he said calmly. "For instance, I see you are convinced that I am going to make a pass at you. You have convinced yourself about it and now it is the truth. That is what I am talking about."

I tried to say something, but indignation took my breath away. I would have liked to run away. But that would have been too humiliating.

He frowned slightly, and I had the unpleasant impression that he knew what I was feeling.

My face got red. I trembled with suppressed anger.

Nonetheless, within moments I felt extraordinarily calm. It was not due to any conscious effort on my part; yet I had the distinct sensation that something in me had shifted.

I had the vague recollection that I had gone through a similar experience before, but my memory faded away as fast as it came.

"What are you doing to me?" I muttered.

"I just happen to see through people," he said in a contrite tone. "Not all the time and certainly not with everybody, but only with the people I am intimately associated with.

"I do not know why I can see through you."

His sincerity was apparent. He seemed much more baffled than I was.

He sat down again and moved closer to me on the bench.

We remained in total silence for a while. It was a most pleasant experience to be able to drop all effort at making conversation and not feel that I was being stupid.

I looked up at the sky. It was cloudless and transparent like blue glass.

A soft breeze blew through the pine branches, and the needles fell on us like a gentle rain.

Then the breeze turned into a wind, and the dry, yellow, fallen leaves of the nearby sycamore blew toward us.

They swirled around us with a soft, rhythmic sound. In one abrupt swoop, the wind carried the leaves high up into the air.

"That was a fine display of the spirit," he murmured. "And it was for you; the wind, and the leaves spinning in the air in front of us.

"The sorcerer I work with would say that that was an omen. Something pointed you out to me, at the precise moment I was thinking that I had better leave. I cannot leave now."

Thinking only about his last statement, I felt inexplicably happy. It was not a triumphant happiness like the kind of glee one feels when getting one's way. It was rather a feeling of profound well-being but it did not last long.

My ponderous self took over suddenly, and demanded that I be rid of those thoughts and feelings. I had no business being there. I had cut a class, missed lunch with my real friends, and missed my daily laps at the pool in the women's gym.

I said, "Perhaps it will be better if I leave." I intended it as a statement of relief, but when I said it, it sounded as if I were feeling sorry for myself-- which somehow I was.

But instead of leaving I asked him, as casually as I could, whether he had always been able to see through people.

"No, not always." His kind tone clearly betrayed that he was conscious of my inner turmoil. "The old sorcerer I work with has recently taught me how."

"Do you think that he could teach me, too?"

"Yes, I think he would." He seemed amazed at his own statement. "If he feels about you the way I do, he will certainly try to."

"Did you know about sorcery before?" I asked timidly, slowly coming out of my agitation.

Carlos said, "In Latin America everybody thinks that they know, and I believed I did.

"In that sense, you remind me of myself. Like you, I was convinced that I knew what sorcery was.

"But then, when I really encountered it, it was not like I thought it was."

"How was it?"

He confided, "Simple. So simple that it is scary."

"We think that sorcery is scary because of its malignancy.

"The sorcery I encountered is not malignant at all, and because of that, it is the scariest thing there is."

I interrupted him and commented that he must be referring to white as opposed to black sorcery.

"Do not talk nonsense, damn it!" he impatiently snapped at me.

The shock of hearing him speak to me in that manner was so great that I gasped for breath. I was instantly thrown back into turmoil.

He turned his face to avoid my gaze.

He had dared to yell at me. I became so angry I thought I was going to have a fit. My ears were buzzing. I saw dark spots in front of my eyes.

I would have hit him, if he had not jumped out of my reach so swiftly.

Carlos said, "You are very undisciplined," as he sat down again, "And quite violent.

"Your nanny must have indulged your every whim and treated you as if you were made of precious glass."

Seeing my scowling frown, he went on to say that he had not really yelled at me out of impatience or anger.

Then he said, "It does not matter to me personally whether you listen or not," he explained. "But it matters to someone else on whose behalf I shouted at you. Someone who is watching us."

I was perplexed at first, then uneasy. I looked all around me, wondering whether his sorcerer teacher might be watching us.

He ignored me and went on to say, "My father never mentioned to me that we have a constant witness. And he never mentioned it because he did not know it. Just like you, yourself, do not know it."

"What kind of nonsense are you talking about?" My raspy, angry voice reflected my feelings at the moment.

He had yelled at me, he had insulted me. I resented that he was talking his head off as if nothing had happened. If he believed that I was going to overlook his actions, he was in for a surprise. "You will not get away with it," I thought, smiling at him maliciously. "Not with me, buddy."

"I am talking about a force, an entity, or a presence which is neither a force nor an entity nor a presence," he explained with an angelic smile.

He seemed totally oblivious to my belligerent mood. "Sounds like gibberish, but it is not.

"I am referring to something that only sorcerers know about. They call it the spirit; our personal watcher, our perennial witness."

I do not know exactly how or what precise word triggered it, but suddenly he had my full attention.

He went on talking about this force, which he said was not God or anything to do with religion or morality, but an impersonal force, a power that was there for us to use if we only learned to reduce ourselves to nothing.

He even held my hand, and I did not mind it. In fact, I liked the feel of his strong, soft touch. I became morbidly fascinated with the strange power he had over me. I was aghast that I longed to sit with him on that bench indefinitely with my hand in his.

He went on talking. And I went on listening to every word he said. But at the same time I perversely wondered when he was going to grab my leg, for I knew that he was not going to have enough with my hand, and I could not do anything to stop him. Or was it that I did not want to do anything to stop him?

He explained that he had been as careless and undisciplined as one could be, but that he never knew the difference because he was imprisoned by the mood of the time.

"What is the mood of the time?" I asked in a rough, unfriendly voice, lest he think I was enjoying being with him.

"Sorcerers call it the modality of the time," he said. "In our day, it is the concern of the middle class. I am a middle-class man, just like you are a middle-class woman--"

"Classifications of that nature do not hold any validity," I interrupted him rudely, yanking my hand out of his. "They are simply generalizations."

I scowled at him suspiciously. There was something startlingly familiar about his words, but I could not think where I had heard them before, or what significance I was attaching to them.

Yet I was sure those words had a very vital significance for me if I could only recall what I already knew about them.

"Do not give me this social scientist gaff," he said jovially. "I am as aware of it as you are."

Giving in to a wave of total frustration, I took his hand and bit it.

"I am truly sorry about that," I instantly mumbled, before he recovered from his surprise. "I do not know why I did it. I have not bitten anyone since I was a child."

I sidled to the far edge of the bench, in readiness for his retaliation. It did not come.

"You are absolutely primitive" was all he said, rubbing his hand in a dazed sort of way.

I let out a deep sigh of relief.

His power over me was shattered. And I remembered that I had an old score to settle with him.

He had turned me into the laughingstock of my anthropology student friends. "Let us go back to our original problem," I said, trying to arouse my anger. "Why did you tell me all that nonsense about Evans-Pritchard's son? You must have realized that I was going to make a fool of myself."

I watched him carefully, certain that confronting him like this after the bite would finally break his self-control or at least rattle him. I expected him to yell, to lose his confidence and impudence.

But he remained unperturbed. He took a deep breath and adopted a serious expression.

"I know that it looks like a simple case of people telling tall tales for their amusement," he began in a light, casual tone. "But it is more complex than that."

He chuckled softly, then reminded me that he had not known at that time that I was a student of anthropology or that I would make a fool of myself.

He paused for a moment, as if searching for the proper words, then he shrugged helplessly and added, "I really can not explain to you now why I introduced my friend to you as Evans-Pritchard's son, unless I tell you much more about myself and my aims; and that is not practical."

"Why not?"

"Because the more you know about me, the more entangled you will become."

He regarded me thoughtfully, and I could see in his eyes that he was sincere. "And I do not mean a mental entanglement. I mean you will become personally entangled with me."

This was such a blatant display of gall that I regained all my confidence.

I fell back on my well-tried sarcastic laughter and said in a cutting tone, "You are perfectly disgusting. I know your kind. You are the typical example of the conceited Latin macho I have battled with all my life."

Seeing the expression of surprise on his face, I pressed on in my most haughty tone, "How dare you to think that I will be entangled with you?"

He did not become red in the face as I expected. He slapped his knee and laughed uproariously, as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard. And to my utter dismay, he began to tickle me in the ribs as if I were a child.

Afraid to laugh-- I was ticklish-- I screeched with indignation. "How dare you to touch me!" I stood up to leave. I was shaking.

And then I shocked myself even further by sitting down again.

Seeing that he was about to tickle me again, I curled my hands into fists and held them before me. "I will smash your nose if you touch me again," I warned him.

Thoroughly unconcerned by my threat, he reclined his head against the back of the bench and closed his eyes.

He laughed gaily, a deep chortling laugh that made him shiver all over, and turning sideways toward me he said, "You are a typical German girl who grew up surrounded by brown people."

"How do you know I am German? I never told you that," I said in a faltering voice that I had intended to be softly menacing.

He said, "I knew that you were German when I first met you. You confirmed it the moment you lied that you were Swedish. Only Germans born in the New World after the Second World War lie like that. That is, of course, if they live in the United States."

Although I was not going to admit this to him, he was right.

I often felt people's hostility as soon as they learned that my parents were Germans; in their eyes it automatically made us Nazis.

It did not make any difference when I told them that my parents were idealists.

Of course, I had to admit to myself that, like good Germans, they believed that their kind were inherently better; but basically they were gentle souls who had been apolitical all lives.

I pointed out acidly, "All I did was to agree with you. You saw blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and all you could think of was a Swede. You are not very imaginative, are you?"

I pushed my advantage. "You had no business lying yourself, unless you're a fucking liar by nature," I went on, my voice rising against my will. Tapping his chest with my index finger I added derisively, "Joe Cortez, eh?"

Is your name really Cristina Gebauer?" he shot back, imitating my odious, loud voice.

"Carmen Gebauer!" I shouted, offended that he had not remembered the name correctly.

Then, suddenly ashamed of my outburst, I went into a chaotic defense of myself.

After a few moments, realizing that I did not know what I was saying, I abruptly stopped and confessed that I was indeed German, and that Carmen Gebauer was the name of a childhood friend.

"I like that," he said softly, a barely suppressed grin on his lips. Whether he was referring to my lying or to my confession I could not tell.

His eyes were brimming with kindness and with amusement. In a tender, wistful voice he proceeded to tell me the story of his childhood girlfriend, Fabiola Kunze.

Confused by his reaction, I turned away and gazed at the nearby sycamore and the pine trees beyond.

Then, eager to hide my interest in his story, I began to play with my fingernails. I pushed back the cuticles and peeled off the nail polish, methodically and thoughtfully.

The story of Fabiola Kunze resembled my own life so closely that after a few moments I forgot all about my pretense at indifference and listened to him attentively.

I suspected that he was fabricating the story, and yet I had to give him credit for coming up with details that only a daughter of a German family in the New World would know.

Fabiola allegedly was mortally afraid of dark Latin boys, but she was equally afraid of the Germans. The Latins scared her because of their irresponsibility; the Germans, because they were so predictable.

I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud when he described scenes of Fabiola's home on a Sunday afternoon when two dozen Germans would sit around a beautifully set table-- with the best china, silver, and crystal-- and she would have to listen to two dozen monologues that passed for conversation.

As he went on giving specific details of those Sunday afternoons, I began to feel more and more uncomfortable.

There was Fabiola's father prohibiting political debates in his house but compulsively aiming at starting one, and his seeking devious ways to tell dirty jokes about Catholic priests.

And her mother's mortal dread; her fine china was in the hands of these clumsy oafs.

His words were cues to which I unconsciously responded. I began to see scenes of my Sunday afternoons like pictures flashed on the wall for my observation.

I was a veritable bundle of nerves. I wanted to stomp and carry on as only I knew how. I wanted to hate this man, but I could not. I wanted vindication, or apologies, but I could not get any from him. I wanted to dominate him. I wanted him to fall in love with me so I could reject him.

Ashamed of my immature feelings, I made a great effort to pull myself together. Pretending to be bored, I leaned toward him and asked, "Why did you lie about your name?"

"I did not lie," he pronounced. "That is my name. I have several names. Sorcerers have different names for different occasions."

"How convenient!" I exclaimed sarcastically.

"Very convenient," he echoed and gave a slight wink, which infuriated me beyond measure.

And then he did something completely outlandish and unexpected. He put his arms around me.

There was no sexual overtone in his embrace. It was the spontaneous, sweet, and simple gesture of a child who wants to comfort a friend. His touch soothed me instantly and so completely that I began to sob uncontrollably.

"I am such a shit," I confessed. "I want to beat you, and look at me. I am in your arms." I was about to add that I was enjoying it when a surge of energy rushed through me.

As if I had awakened From a dream, I pushed him away. "Let go of me," I hissed and stomped away.

I heard him choking with laughter. My outburst had dissipated instantly, so I was not in the least concerned about his chuckles.

I stood rooted to the spot, trembling all over, unable to walk away. And then, as if I had a giant rubber band attached to me, I returned to the bench.

"Do not feel bad," he said kindly.

He seemed to know exactly what it was that was pulling me back to the bench. He patted my back as one does a baby's after a meal.

"It is not what you or I do," he continued. "It is something outside the two of us which is acting upon us.

"It has been acting upon me for a long time. Now I am accustomed to it.

"But I ca not understand why it acts upon you.

"Do not ask me what it is," he said, anticipating my question. "I ca not yet explain it to you."

I was not going to ask him anything anyway. My mind had stopped functioning.

I felt exactly as if I were asleep, dreaming that I was talking.

Moments later, my numbness passed. I felt more animated yet not quite like my usual self. "What is happening to me?" I asked.

He said, "You are being focused and pushed by something that does not come from you. Something is pushing you, using me as a tool. Something is superimposing another criterion on your middle-class convictions."

I said feebly, "Do not start on that middle-class idiocy." It was more like I was pleading with him.

I smiled helplessly, thinking that I had lost my usual gall.

He said, "These, by the way, are not my own opinions or ideas.

"I am like you, strictly a product of middle-class ideology.

"Imagine my horror when I came face to face with a different and more prevailing ideology. It ripped me apart."

I asked meekly with a voice so low it as barely audible, "What ideology is that?"

"A man brought that ideology to me," he explained. "Or rather, the spirit spoke and acted on me through him.

"That man is a sorcerer. I have written about him. His name is Juan Matus. He is the one who made me face my middle-class mentality.

"Juan Matus once asked me the grand question, 'What do you think university is?'

"I, of course, answered him like a social scientist and said, 'A center of higher learning.'

"He corrected me and declared that a uniersity should be called a 'Middle-Class Institute' because it is the stitution we attend to further perfect our middle-class values.

"He said we attend the institute to become professionists. The ideology of our social class tells us that we must prepare ourselves for occupying managerial positions.

"Juan Matus said that men go to the middle-class institute to become engineers, lawyers, doctors, etc., and women go there to get a suitable husband, provider, and father of their children. Suitable is naturally defined by middle-class values."

I wanted to contradict him. I wanted to shout at him that I knew people who were not necessarily interested in a career or looking for a spouse, and that I knew people who were interested in ideas and in learning for its own sake.

But I did not know such people.

I felt a terrible pressure in my chest and had an attack of dry coughing.

It was not the cough or the physical discomfort that made me wriggle in my seat and prevented me from arguing with him. It was the certainty that he was speaking about me. I was going to a university precisely to find a suitable man.

Again I stood up, ready to leave. I had even extended my hand to shake his in farewell when I felt a powerful tug on my back.

It was so strong I had to sit down, lest I fall. I knew he had not touched me. I had been looking at him all the time.

Thoughts of people I did not quite remember; of dreams I had not quite forgotten came crowding into my mind forming an intricate pattern from which I could not extricate myself.

Unknown faces, half-heard sentences, dark images of places, and blurred images of people threw me momentarily into some kind of limbo.

I was close to remembering something about all this kaleidoscope of visualizations and sounds; but the knowledge flittered away, and a feeling of calm and ease overtook me; a tranquility so deep that it screened out all my desire to assert myself.

I stretched my legs in front of me as if I did not have a care in the world-- and at the moment I did not-- and I began to talk.

I could not remember ever talking about myself so frankly before, and I could not fathom why I was suddenly so unguarded with him.

I told him about Venezuela, my parents, my childhood, my restlessness, my meaningless life.

I told him of things I would not even admit to myself.

"I have been studying anthropology since last year. And I really do not know why," I said.

I was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable by my own revelations.

I shifted restlessly on the bench, but I could not stop myself from adding, "Two subjects that interest me more are Spanish and German literature. To be in the anthropology department defies all I know about myself."

"That detail intrigues me to no end," he said. "I can not get into it now, but it seems as if I had been placed here for you to find me, or vice versa."

"What does all this mean?" I asked, then blushed, realizing that I was interpreting and centering everything on my womanhood.

He seemed to be thoroughly aware of my state of mind.

He reached for my hand and pressed it against his heart. "Me gustas, nibelunga," he exclaimed dramatically, and for good measure he translated the words into English, "I am passionately attracted to you, Nibelung."

He looked at me with the eyes of a Latin lover and then burst into raucous laughter. "You are convinced I have to say this to you sooner or later, so it might as well be now."

Instead of getting angry at being teased, I laughed. His humor gave me great pleasure.

The only Nibelungen I knew were from my father's German mythology books. Siegfried and the Nibelungen. As far as I could remember, they were underground, magical, dwarfish beings.

"Are you calling me a dwarf?" I asked in jest.

"God forbid!" he protested. "I am calling you a German mythical being."

Shortly afterwards, as if it were the only thing we could have done, we drove to the Santa Susana Mountains, to the place we had met.

Neither of us said a single word as we sat on the cliff overlooking the Indian burial ground.

Moved by a pure impulse of companionship, we sat there in silence, oblivious to the afternoon turning into night.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 07.


...As most people do, you associate sorcery with bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs, incantations."...

"True sorcery," Mr. Flores interjected, "does not allow for human interference."

Version 2010.01.22


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 07.

Joe Cortez parked his van at the bottom of a hill.

He came around to open my door, and with a gallant flair helped me alight from the car.

I felt relieved that we had finally stopped, although I could not imagine why. We were in the middle of nowhere.

We had been driving since early morning.

The day's heat, the flat desert, the merciless sun, and the dust of the road were but a vague memory as I breathed in the cold, heavy night air.

Agitated by the wind, the air swirled about us like something palpable, something alive.

There was no moon. And the stars, incredible in number and brilliance, only seemed to intensify our isolation. Under that uneasy splendor, the hills and the desert stretched all around us, nearly invisible, full of shadows and murmuring sounds.

I tried to orient myself by looking at the sky, but I did not know how to identify the constellations.

"We are facing east," Joe Cortez whispered, as if I had spoken out loud. Then he patiently tried to teach me the major constellations in the summer sky.

I could only remember the star Vega, because the name reminded me of a seventeenth-century Spanish writer, Lope de Vega.

While we sat in silence on the top of his van looking at the sky, my mind wandered through the events of our journey.



Less than twenty-four hours ago, while we were eating in a Japanese restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, he had asked me, out of the blue, if I would accompany him to Sonora for a few days.

"I would love to go," I said impulsively. "The school term is over. I am free. When do you plan to leave?"

"Tonight!" he said. "In fact, right after we finish our meal."

I laughed, certain that his invitation had been a joke. "I can not leave on such short notice," I pointed out. "What about tomorrow?"

"Tonight," he insisted softly, then held out his hand to clasp mine in a formal handshake.

Only when I saw the delight and mischief in his eyes did I realize that he was not saying good-bye but sealing an agreement.

He pronounced, "When decisions are made, they have to be acted upon immediately." And he left those words hanging in midair in front of me. Both of us stared at them as though we could indeed see their size and shape.

I nodded, hardly aware of having made the decision. The chance had been there, outside of me, ready, and inevitable. I did not have to do anything to bring it about.

Suddenly, with shattering vividness, I remembered my other trip to Sonora a year before.

My body stiffened with fear and shock as images-- disconnected in their sequence-- stirred deep within me.

The events of that odd trip had faded from my conscious mind so totally and absolutely that, only until a moment before, it was as if they had never taken place. But now the events were as clear in my mind as they were the day they happened.

Shivering not with cold but with an undefinable dread, I turned to face Joe Cortez; ready to tell him about that trip.

He was staring at me with an odd intensity: His eyes were like tunnels, deep and dark: They absorbed my dismay. But they also made the images of that trip recede.

Once the images had lost their impulse, all that was left in my mind was a trite, empty thought.

I believed at that instant, in my usual assertive manner, that I could not tell anything to Joe Cortez, because a true adventure always dictates its own course and the most memorable, exciting events in my life had always been those whose course I had not interfered with.

"What do you want me to call you? Joe Cortez or Carlos Castaneda?" I asked with nauseating feminine joviality.

His copper-colored face crinkled up in a smile. "I am your childhood companion. Give me a name. I call you nibelunga."

I could not come up with a suitable name. I asked him, "Is there any order to your names?"

"Well," he mused, "Joe Cortez is a cook, a gardener, a handy-man; a solicitous and thoughtful man. Carlos Castaneda is a man from the academic world, but I do not think you have met him yet."

He looked at me fixedly and smiled. There was something childlike and intensely trusting about that smile.

I decided to call him Joe Cortez.

We spent the night in separate rooms in a motel in Yuma, Arizona.

After leaving Los Angeles, all through the long drive I had worried myself sick about the sleeping arrangements.

I had at moments feared he would pounce on me before we got to the motel.

After all, he was a strong young man, too self-confident and aggressive. I would not have been so worried if he had been American or European. But because he was Latin, I simply knew what his assumptions were. Accepting his invitation to spend a few days with him meant that I was willing to share his bed.

His thoughtfulness and considerate behavior toward me throughout the long drive was a detail that fit perfectly with what I thought and expected of him. He was preparing the ground.

It was late when we got to the motel. He went to the manager's office to see about our rooms.

I stayed in the car, imagining scenario upon lurid scenario.

I had been so absorbed with my fantasies, I failed to notice his return from the office.

Hearing him dangle a set of keys before me, I jumped in my seat and dropped the brown paper sack I had been holding, unconsciously clutched against my breast. It contained all my toiletries, which we had bought on the way.

"I got you a room at the back of the motel," he said. "It is away from the highway."

He pointed to the door a few steps away from us and added, "I will sleep in this one, close to the street. I am used to sleeping through any kind of noise." He chuckled to himself. "These were the only two rooms they had left."

Disappointed, I took the key from his hand.

All my scenarios fell apart. I was not going to have the opportunity to refuse him. Not that I really wanted to do so. Yet my very soul clamored for a victory, no matter how small.

"I do not see why we have to rent two rooms," I said with studied casualness.

My hand was shaking as I retrieved the toiletries on the floor and stuffed them into the paper sack.

What I had said next sounded incredible to me, yet I could not stop myself. "The traffic will not let you rest, and you need your sleep as much as I do."

I did not for a moment believe that anyone could sleep through the noise coming from the highway.

Without looking at him, I got out of the car, and then I heard myself propose, "We could sleep in the same room-- in two beds, that is."

I stood there for a moment, numbed and appalled. Never before had I done such a thing, nor had I had such a schizoid reaction.

I was saying things that I did not mean. Or did I mean them but did not know what I felt?

His mirth put an end to my confusion. He laughed so hard people turned on the light in one of the rooms and yelled at us to shut up.

"Stay in the same room and have you take advantage of me in the middle of the night," he said in between waves of hilarity. "Right after my shower. No way!"

I blushed so intensely my ears were burning. I wanted to die of shame.

This was not one of my scenarios.

I went back inside the car and slammed the door. "Take me to the Greyhound bus," I hissed at him with suppressed wrath. "Why in the hell did I come with you? I should have my head examined!"

Still laughing, he opened the door and gently pulled me out. "Let us sleep not only in the same room but in the same bed."

He looked at me sheepishly. "Please, let me make love to you!" he pleaded as if he really meant it.

Aghast, I tore myself loose from his hold and yelled, "Not in your fucking life!"

"There," he said. "This is such a fierce refusal that I dare not insist."

He reached for my hand and kissed it. "You have refused me and put me in my place. No more problems. You are vindicated."

I turned away from him, ready to weep.

My chagrin was not due to his unwillingness to spend the night with me-- had he expected to do so, I truly would not have known what to do-- but to the fact that he knew me even better than I knew myself.

I had refused to give credence to what I thought was his way of flattering himself. He was able to see through me. Suddenly, it frightened me.

He moved closer and hugged me. It was a sweet, simple embrace.

As had happened before, my turmoil vanished completely, as though it had never existed.

I hugged him back and said yet the most incredible thing, "This is the most exciting adventure of my life."

I immediately wanted to retract my statement. The words that had escaped were not mine. I did not even know what I meant. This was not the most exciting adventure of my life. I had taken many exciting trips. I had been around the world.

My irritation reached its peak when he kissed me goodnight, swiftly and softly, as one kisses a child, and I liked it against my will. I had no will.

He pushed me down the corridor toward my room.

Cursing myself, I sat down on my bed and wept in frustration, in anger and self-pity.

Since as far back in life as I could remember, I had always had my way. I was accustomed to it. To be confused and not know what I wanted was a brand-new sensation for me and a most unwelcome one.

I slept restlessly with my clothes on until he banged on the door, early in the morning, to wake me up.

We drove all day, meandering along out-of-the-way roads.

As he had told me, Joe Cortez was indeed a solicitous man. Throughout the long drive, he was the kindest, the most considerate and entertaining companion one could wish for. He pampered me with food and songs and stories. He had an astonishingly deep yet clear baritone voice.

And he knew all my favorite songs. Corny love songs from every South American country, all their national anthems, old ballads, and even nursery rhymes.

His stories made me laugh until my abdominal muscles hurt. As a storyteller, he kept me enraptured with every turn of his tale.

He seemed to be a born mimic. His uncanny imitation of every conceivable South American accent-- including the distinctive Portuguese of Brazil-- was more than mimicry, it was magic.



"We had better climb down from the car's roof." Joe Cortez's voice broke into my reveries. "It gets cold at night in the desert."

"It is a tough environment," I said, wishing we would get back into the van and drive off.

Ill at ease, I watched him retrieve some bags from the car. He had bought all kinds of presents for the people we were going to visit.

"Why did you park here in the middle of nowhere?"

"You ask the dumbest questions, nibelunga," he replied. "I parked here because it is here where our car journey ends."

"Have we arrived at our mysterious destination that you can not talk about?" I asked in a sarcastic tone.

The only thing that had marred the enchanting drive had been his refusal to tell me where exactly we were going.

In a matter of milliseconds, I became so angry with him that I was ready to punch him in the nose.

The thought that my sudden irritability was simply the result of a long, exhausting day, brought me a needed sense of relief.

"I am getting nasty now, but I do not mean to," I said in a jovial tone that sounded phony even to me.

My voice was so strained it revealed just how much it cost me to hold back my temper. It worried me that I could get mad at him so easily and so quickly.

"You really do not know how to converse," he said with a big smile. "You only know how to coerce."

"Oh! I see, Joe Cortez has left. Are you going to start insulting me again, Carlos Castaneda?"

He chortled gaily at my remark, which by then was not meant to be funny. "This place is not in the middle of nowhere," he said. The city of Arizpe is nearby."

"And the U.S. border is to the north," I recited. "And Chihuahua to the east. And Los Angeles is somewhere northwest of here."

He shook his head disparagingly and took the lead.

Silently, we walked through the chaparral, which I could feel more than see, along a winding narrow trail.

The path grew wider as we approached a vast clearing fenced in by short mesquite trees.

The silhouettes of two houses could be discerned in the darkness. The bigger of the two had lights inside. The small dark house stood some distance away.

We walked up to the large house. Pale moths fluttered in the light slanting through the windowpanes.

"I have to warn you that the people you are going to meet are a bit strange," he said in a whisper. "Do not say anything. Let me do the talking."

"I always say whatever I please," I asserted. "And I do not like to be told how to behave.

"I am not a child. Besides, my social manners are impeccable. I can assure you that I will not embarrass you."

"Get off your high horse, goddamn it!" he hissed in a tightly controlled voice.

"Do not treat me like I am your wife, Carlos Castaneda," I yelled at the top of my voice, pronouncing his last name the way I felt it ought to be pronounced-- with a tilde on the n, which I knew he much disliked.

But he did not get angry. It made him laugh as he so often did when I expected him to explode with wrath.

He never does, I thought, and sighed despondently.

He had the most extraordinary equanimity. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him or cause him to lose his temper. Even when he shouted, it somehow always sounded phony.

Just as he was about to knock, the door opened.

A thin man formed a black shadow in the rectangle of light. With an impatient gesture of his arm, he bade us in.

We entered a plant-filled vestibule. Swiftly, as though afraid to show his face, the man moved ahead of us and, without a word of greeting, opened an inner door with rattly glass panes.

We followed him along a dark corridor and across an inside patio, where a young man sitting on a rush chair was playing a guitar, and singing in a soft, grief-stricken voice.

He paused the instant he noticed us. He did not return my greeting and resumed his playing as we turned a corner and went down another equally dark corridor.

"Why is everyone so impolite?" I whispered into Joe Cortez's ear. "Are you sure this is the right house?"

He chuckled softly, and murmured, "I have told you, they are eccentric."

"Are you sure you know these people?" I insisted.

"What kind of a question is that?" he snapped in a quiet yet menacing tone. "Of course I know them."

We had reached a lighted doorway and his pupils gleamed.

I asked uneasily, "Are we going to stay here overnight?"

He whispered in my ear, "I have no idea." Then he kissed my cheek and said, "And please, do not ask any more questions. I am trying my best to accomplish a nearly impossible maneuver."

"What maneuver is that?" I whispered back.

A sudden realization made me feel anxious and uncomfortable but also excited. The word maneuver had been the clue.

Seemingly aware of my innermost feelings, he shifted the bags he was carrying into one arm and gently took my hand and kissed it. His touch sent pleasurable shivers throughout my body.

He led me across the threshold. We entered a large, dimly lit, sparsely furnished living room.

It was not what I expected a provincial Mexican living room to look like. The walls and the low ceiling were immaculately white. There was not a picture or a wall decoration to mar that whiteness.

Against the wall opposite the door stood a large couch.

On it sat three elderly, elegantly dressed women. I could not quite see their faces, but in the dim light they, without actually resembling one another, looked peculiarly alike and vaguely familiar.

I was so baffled by this I barely noticed the two people sitting on the spacious armchairs nearby.

In my eagerness to reach the three women, I took an involuntary giant leap. I had failed to notice that the room had a split-level brick floor. As I steadied myself, I noticed the beautiful oriental rug and the woman sitting in one of the armchairs.

"Delia Flores!" I exclaimed. "My God! I can not believe this!"

I touched her, for I needed to make sure she was not a figment of my imagination.

"What is going on?" I asked instead of greeting her.

At that same instant I realized that the women on the couch were the same women I had met the previous year at the healer's house.

I stood gaping, frozen, my mind dazed with shock.

A quick, faint smile twitched the corners of their mouths as they turned toward the white-haired old man sitting in the other armchair.

"Mariano Aureliano." My voice was but a soft, shaky whisper.

All the energy was gone from me.

I turned to face Joe Cortez and in that same feeble voice I accused him of tricking me.

I wanted to scream at him, insult him, do him bodily harm, but I had no strength left in me, not even to lift my arm.

I barely realized that, like me, he stood rooted to the floor, his face ashen with shock and bewilderment.

Mariano Aureliano rose from his chair and moved toward me, arms extended to embrace me. "How happy I am to see you again."

His voice was soft and his eyes shone brightly with excitement and joy.

He lifted me off the ground in a bear's hug.

My body was limp. I had no strength or desire to reciprocate his warm embrace. I could not say a word.

He put me down, and went over to greet Joe Cortez with that same effusive warmth.

Delia Flores and her friends came over to where I stood.

One by one they embraced me and whispered something in my ear.

I felt comforted by their affectionate touches and by their soft voices, but I did not understand a thing they said. My mind was not there with me.

I could feel and hear but I could not make sense of what I felt and heard.

Mariano Aureliano gazed at me and said in a clear voice that pierced the fog of my mind, "You have not been tricked. I told you from the beginning that I would blow you to him."

"So you are..." I shook my head, unable to finish my sentence as it finally dawned on me that Mariano Aureliano was the man Joe Cortez had told me so much about-- Juan Matus, the sorcerer who had changed the course of his life.

I opened my mouth to say something but shut it again.

I had the sensation of being cut loose from my own body.

My mind could not accommodate any further astonishment, and then I saw Mr. Flores emerge from the shadows. Upon realizing that he was the man who had let us in, I simply passed out.



When I regained consciousness, I was lying on the couch.

I felt extraordinarily well rested and free of anxiety. Wondering how long I had been out, I sat up and lifted my arm to look at my wristwatch.

"You have been out for exactly two minutes and twenty seconds," Mr. Flores announced, studying his watchless wrist.

He was sitting on a leather ottoman near the couch. In a sitting position he appeared much taller than he did standing up, for his legs were short and his torso long.

He came to sit beside me on the couch, and said, "How terribly dramatic to swoon away."

"I am truly sorry we have frightened you."

His yellow-amber eyes, shiny with laughter, belied the genuinely concerned tone of his voice as he said, "And I do apologize for not greeting you at the door."

His face reflected a bemusement bordering on fascination as he pulled my braid, and said, "With your hair hidden under the hat, and with that heavy leather jacket I thought you were a boy."

I stood up and had to hold on to the couch.

I was still a bit dizzy. Uncertainly, I looked around me.

The women were no longer in the room, and neither was Joe Cortez.

Mariano Aureliano was sitting in one of the armchairs, staring fixedly ahead of him. Perhaps he was asleep with his eyes open.

Mr. Flores went on, "When I first saw the two of you holding hands, I was afraid that Charlie Spider had turned queer."

He said the whole sentence in English. He pronounced his words beautifully and precisely and with genuine relish.

I laughed at the name and at his formal English pronunciation, and said, "Charlie Spider? Who is he?"

"Do you not know?" he asked, his eyes wide with genuine puzzlement.

"No, I do not. Should I know?"

He scratched his head, perplexed by my denial, then asked, "With whom have you been holding hands?"

"Carlos held my hand as we stepped into this room."

"There you are," Mr. Flores said, gazing at me with rapt approval, as if I had resolved a particularly difficult riddle.

Then seeing my still-mystified expression he added, "Carlos Castaneda is not only Joe Cortez, but he is also Charlie Spider."

I mumbled softly, "Charlie Spider. That is a very catchy name."

Of all the three names, it was the one I liked best, no doubt because I was exceedingly fond of spiders. They did not frighten me in the least, not even big, tropical spiders. The corners of my apartment were always spotted with spider webs. Whenever I cleaned, I could not bring myself to destroy those gauzy webs.

"Why does he call himself Charlie Spider?" I asked curiously.

Mr. Flores recited the answer as if it were a slogan, "Different names for different situations.

"The one who should explain all this to you is Mariano Aureliano."

"Is Mr. Aureliano's name also Juan Matus?"

Mr. Flores nodded emphatically. "It most certainly is," he said, with a broad, gleeful smile. "He also has different names for different situations."

"How about yourself, Mr. Flores? Do you also have different names?"

"Flores is my only name. Genaro Flores." His tone was flirtatious.

He leaned toward me and in an insinuating whisper proposed, "You can call me Genarito."

I shook my head involuntarily.

There was something about him that scared me more than Mariano Aureliano did.

On a rational level, I could not decide what it was that made me feel this way.

Outwardly, Mr. Flores seemed much more approachable than the other man. He was childlike, playful, and easygoing. And yet, I did not feel at ease with him.

Mr. Flores broke into my reveries, "The reason I only have one name is that I am not a nagual."

"And what is a nagual?"

He smiled disarmingly, and said, "Ah, that is a terribly difficult thing to explain. Only Mariano Aureliano or Isidore Baltazar can explain that."

"Who is Isidore Baltazar?"

"Isidore Baltazar is the new nagual."

I said fretfully, "Do not tell me any more, please."

Holding my hand to my forehead I sat down again on the couch. "You are confusing me, Mr. Flores, and I am still kind of weak."

I looked at him pleadingly and asked, "Where is Carlos?"

"Charlie Spider is spinning some spiderish dream." Mr. Flores said the whole sentence in his extravagantly pronounced English then chuckled contentedly as though he were savoring a particularly clever joke.

He glanced gleefully at Mariano Aureliano who was still staring fixedly at the wall; then back at me and back again at his friend.

He must have sensed my growing apprehension, for he shrugged helplessly, held up his hands in a resigned gesture, and said, "Carlos, also known as Isidore Baltazar, went to visit..."

"He left?" My shriek made Mariano Aureliano turn to look at me.

I was more distraught at being left alone with the two old men than I was about learning that Carlos Castaneda was known by yet another name, and that he was the new nagual-- whatever that meant.

Mariano Aureliano rose from his chair, bowed deeply, and, holding out his hand to help me up, said, "What could possibly be more delightful and rewarding for two old men than to guard you until you awoke from your dreams?"

His engaging smile and his old-fashioned courtesy were irresistible.

I relaxed instantly and I cheerfully agreed, saying, "I can not think of anything more delightful,"

I let him lead me to a brightly lit dining room across the corridor, to an oval-shaped mahogany table at the far end of the room.

Gallantly, he held out a chair for me, waited until I was comfortably seated, then said that it was not too late for supper, and that he would go himself to the kitchen, and bring me something delicious to eat.

My offer to help him was graciously rejected.

Mr. Flores, instead of walking to the table, cartwheeled across the room, calculating the distance with such precision he landed a few inches away from the table.

Grinning, he sat beside me. His face showed no trace of exertion and he was not even out of breath.

"In spite of your denial that you are not an acrobat, I believe that you and your friends are part of some magic show," I said.

Mr. Flores sprang from his chair, his face crinkling with mischief, and exclaimed, "You are absolutely right. We are part of some magic show!" as he was reaching for one of the two earthenware jugs standing on the long sideboard.

He poured me a cup of hot chocolate. "I make a meal of it by eating a piece of cheese with it." He cut me a slice of Manchego cheese.

Together they were superb.

I wanted seconds, but he did not offer me any.

I thought that a cup-- and it had only been half full-- was not enough. I had always been partial to chocolate and could eat inordinate amounts of it without ill effects.

I was certain that if I concentrated on my desire to have more of it, he would be obliged to pour me another cup without my having to ask. I was able to do this as a child when I wanted something badly enough.

Greedily, I watched him remove two extra cups and two saucers from the tall china closet.

I noticed that between the crystal, the china, and the silverware on the shelves stood an odd assortment of prehispanic clay figurines and plastic prehistoric monsters.

"This is the witches' house," Mr. Flores said in a conspiratorial tone, as if to explain the incongruity of the decor in the china closet.

"Mariano Aureliano's wives?" I asked daringly.

He did not answer but gestured for me to turn around. Mariano Aureliano was standing right behind me.

"The same ones," Mariano Aureliano said cheerfully, placing a porcelain tureen on the table. "The same witches who made this delicious oxtail soup."

With a silver ladle he served me a plateful and urged me to add to it a wedge of lime and a slice of avocado.

I did so, then devoured it all in a few gulps.

I ate several platefuls, until I felt physically satisfied, almost stuffed.

We sat around the table for a long time. The oxail soup had the most soothing effect on me.

I was at ease. Something that was usually very nasty in me had been turned off.

My whole being, body and spirit, was thankful that I did not have to use up energy to defend myself.

Nodding his head, as though silently confirming each of my thoughts, Mariano Aureliano watched me with keen, amused eyes.

I was about to address him as Juan Matus, when he anticipated my intent and said, "I am Juan Matus for Isidore Baltazar.

"For you, I am the nagual Mariano Aureliano."

Smiling, he leaned closer and whispered in a confidential tone, "The man who drove you here is the new nagual; the nagual Isidore Baltazar. That is the name you should use when you talk to him or about him.

"You are not quite asleep but not quite awake either," Mariano Aureliano went on explaining, "so you will be able to understand and remember everything we say to you."

Seeing that I was about to interrupt him, he added sternly, "And tonight, you are not going to ask stupid questions."

It was not so much his tone, but a force, or an edge to him that was chilling. It paralyzed my tongue. My head, however, of its own accord, made a nodding gesture of affirmation.

"You have to test her," Mr. Flores reminded his friend.

A definite wicked gleam appeared in Mr. Flores' eyes as he added, "Or better yet, let me test her myself."

Mariano Aureliano paused, a long, deliberate moment charged with ominous possibilities, and regarded me critically, as if my features would give him a clue to some important secret.

Mesmerized by his keen, piercing eyes, I did not so much as blink.

He nodded thoughtfully, and Mr. Flores asked me in a deep, grave tone, "Are you in love with Isidore Baltazar?"

And I will be damned if I did not say yes in a mechanical, unanimated voice.

Mr. Flores moved closer, until our heads almost touched, and in a whisper that shook with suppressed laughter asked, "Are you really madly, madly in love with him?"

I said yes again, and both men burst into loud, elated guffaws.

The sound of their laughter, bouncing around the room like ping-pong balls, finally broke my trance-like state. I hooked onto the sound and pulled myself out of the spell.

"What in the name of hell is this," I shouted at the top of ny voice.

Startled, both men jumped out of their chairs.

They looked at me, then at each other, and burst out laughing again with ecstatic abandon.

The more eloquent my insults, the greater their mirth. There was something so infectious about their laughter, I could not help but giggle, too.

As soon as we had all calmed down, Mariano Aureliano and Mr. Flores bombarded me with questions.

They were particularly interested in how and when I first met Isidore Baltazar.

Every absurd little detail overjoyed them.

By the time I had gone over the events for the fourth and fifth time, I had either improved and enlarged my story with each telling, or I had remembered details I would not have dreamed I could remember.

When I finally finished with my various accounts, Mariano Aureliano judged, "Isidore Baltazar saw through you and through the whole thing. But he does not see well enough yet.

"He could not even conceive that I had sent you to him."

He regarded me wickedly and corrected himself. "It was not really I who sent you to him. It was the spirit.

"The spirit chose me to do its bidding, though, and I blew you to him when you were the most powerful in the midst of your dreaming-awake."

He spoke lightly, almost listlessly. Only his eyes conveyed the urgency of his knowledge. "Perhaps your dreaming-awake power was the reason Isidore Baltazar did not realize who you were, even though he was seeing; even though the spirit let him know the very first time he set eyes on you.

"A display of lights in the fog is the ultimate giveaway. How stupid of Isidore Baltazar not to see the obvious."

He chuckled softly, and I nodded in agreement, without knowing what I was agreeing to.

He continued, "That will show you that to be a sorcerer is no big deal. Isidore Baltazar is a sorcerer.

"To be a man of knowledge is something else. For that, sorcerers have to wait sometimes a lifetime."

I asked, "What's the difference?"

He explained with a low, subtly mysterious voice, "A man of knowledge is a leader."

"Sorcerers need leaders to lead us into and through the unknown, and a leader is revealed through his actions.

"Leaders have no price tag on their heads-- meaning that there is no way to buy them, or bribe them, or cajole them, or mystify them."

He settled more comfortably in his chair, and went on to say that all the people in his group had made it a point to study leaders throughout the ages in order to see if any of them fulfilled the requirements.

"Have you found any?"

"Some," he admitted. "Those we have found could have been naguals."

He pressed his finger against my lips and added, "Naguals are, then, natural leaders; men of tremendous energy who become sorcerers by adding one more track to their repertoire-- the unknown.

"If those sorcerers succeed in becoming men of knowledge, then there is practically no limit to what they can do."

"Can women--" He did not let me finish.

"Women, as you will learn someday, can do infinitely more complex things than that," he affirmed.

Mr. Flores interrupted, "Did Isidore Baltazar remind you of someone you met before?"

I began expansively, "Well, I felt thoroughly at ease with him.

"I felt as if I had known him all my life. He reminded me of someone perhaps in my childhood; a forgotten childhood friend perhaps."

"So you really do not remember meeting him before?" Mr. Flores interjected.

I wondered whether I had seen him at the healer's place and did not recall it, so I asked, "You mean at Esperanza's house?"

He shook his head disappointedly.

Then, apparently no longer interested in my response, he went on to ask if I had seen someone waving at us on our way to the house.

"No," I said. "I did not seen anyone waving at us."

"Think hard," he insisted.

I told the two men that after Yuma, instead of going east to Nogales on Highway 8-- the most logical route-- Isidore Baltazar headed south into Mexico, then east through "El Gran Desierto," then north again into the United States through Sonoyta, to Ajo, Arizona, and back into Mexico to Caborca, where we had a most delicious lunch of beef tongue in a green chili sauce.

I admitted, "After getting into the car with a full stomach, I hardly paid any attention to the road. I know we passed through Santa Ana, and then we headed north again to Cananea, and then south again. A veritable mess, if you ask me."

"Can you not remember seeing anyone on the road?" Mr. Flores insisted. "Anyone waving at you?"

I shut my eyes tightly in an effort to visualize anyone waving at us, but my memory of the trip was one of stories and songs and of physical exhaustion.

And then as I was about to open my eyes, the image of a man flashed before me.

I told them that I vaguely recalled there had been a young man in the outskirts of one of those towns who I thought was trying to catch a ride.

"He might have waved at us," I said. "But I am not sure."

Both men chuckled like children trying hard not to give away a secret.

"Isidore Baltazar was not too sure of finding us," Mariano Aureliano remarked gleefully. "That is why he followed this outlandish route.

"He followed the sorcerers' path; the coyote trail."

"Why would he not be sure of finding you?" I interrupted.

"He did not know whether he would find us until he saw the young man waving at him," Mariano Aureliano explained. "That young man is a sentry from the other world.

"His waving was a sign it was all right to continue. Isidore Baltazar should have known then who you really were, but he is very much like you; extremely cautious. And when he is not cautious, he's extremely reckless."

He paused for a moment to let the words sink in then added meaningfully, "Moving between those two points is the surest way to miss the boat. Cautiousness blinds as surely as recklessness."

I murmured wearily, "I can not understand the logic of all this."

Mariano Aureliano elucidated, "Whenever Isidore Baltazar brings a guest, he has to heed the sentry's signal before he can continue on his journey."

Mr. Flores said, "Once he brought a girl he was in love with." He chuckled, closing his eyes as if transported by his own memory of the girl. "A tall, dark-haired girl. Strong girl. Big feet. Nice face.

"He drove all over Baja California, and the sentry never let him through."

I asked with morbid curiosity, "Do you mean he brings his girlfriends? How many has he brought?"

Mr. Flores said candidly, "Quite a few.

"He did that, of course, entirely on his own.

"Your case is different," he pointed out.

"You are not his girlfriend. You were just coming back.

"Isidore Baltazar nearly croaked when he found out he was so stupid to miss all the indications of the spirit. He was merely your chauffeur. We were waiting for you."

What would have happened if the sentry had not been there?"

Mariano Aureliano replied, "What always occurs when Isidore Baltazar comes accompanied."

"He would not have found us, because it is not up to him to choose whom to bring into the sorcerers' world."

His voice was enticingly soft as he added, "Only those the spirit has pointed out may knock on our door after they have been ushered into it by one of us."

I was about to interrupt, then remembering his admonition that I was not to ask stupid questions, I quickly pressed my hand against my mouth.

Grinning appreciatively, Mariano Aureliano went on to say that in my case Delia had brought me into their world.

He said, "She is one of the two columns, so to speak, that make the door. The other one is Clara. You will meet her soon."

There was genuine admiration in Mariano Aureliano's eyes and in his voice as he went on to say, "Delia crossed the border just to bring you home.

"The border is an actual fact, but sorcerers use it symbolically.

"You were on the other side and had to be brought here; to this side.

"Over on the other side is the daily world. Here on this side is the world of sorcerers.

"Delia ushered you in smoothly; a real professional job. It was in impeccable maneuver that you will appreciate more and more as time passes."

Mariano Aureliano half-rose from his chair, and reached for the porcelain compote on the sideboard.

He placed it in front of me. "Help yourself. They are delicious."

Enraptured, I gazed at the pulpy dry apricots on the hand-painted dish then tried one.

They were more than wonderful. I put three in my mouth.

Mr. Flores winked at me, and urged me, saying, "Go ahead. Put all of them in your mouth before we take the plate away."

I blushed and tried to apologize with a mouth full of apricots.

Mariano Aureliano exclaimed, "Do not apologize! Be yourself, but be yourself in control.

"If you want to finish the apricots, then finish them, and that should be all there is to it.

"What you should never do is finish them, and then feel sorry you did."

I said, "Well, I will finish them." That made them laugh.

Mr. Flores said, "Do you know that you met Isidore Baltazar last year?"

He was balancing so precariously on his tilted chair, I feared he would fall backwards and crash into the china closet.

A wicked glint of delight dawned in Mr. Flores' eyes as he began to hum a well-known ranchera song. Instead of the words that went with it, he made up a little ditty that told the story of Isidore Baltazar, a famous cook in Tucson. A cook who never lost his cool, not even when he was accused of putting dead cockroaches in the food.

I exclaimed, "Oh! The cook! The cook in the coffee shop was Isidore Baltazar! But that can not be true."

I mumbled. "I do not think he would..." But I stopped myself in midsentence.

I kept staring at Mariano Aureliano, hoping to discover something in his face, in that aquiline nose, or in those piercing eyes.

I shook involuntarily, as if I were suddenly chilled. There was something savage in his cold eyes.

He prompted me, saying, "Yes? You do not think he would...?" and he urged me with a movement of his head to finish my sentence.

I was going to say, inanely, that I did not think Isidore Baltazar could lie to me so despicably. I could not quite bring myself to say it, though.

Mariano Aureliano's eyes became even harder, but I was too upset; too sorry for myself to feel frightened.

I finally blurted out, glowering at him, "So, I was tricked after all. Isidore Baltazar knew all along who I was. It is all a game."

Mariano Aureliano readily agreed, "It is all a game; a marvelous game, though. The only game worth playing."

He paused as if to give me time to complain some more.

But before I had a chance to do so, he reminded me of the wig he had pulled over my hair.

"If you did not recognize Isidore Baltazar-- who was not disguised-- what makes you think that he recognized you in your poodle outfit?"

Mariano Aureliano kept watching me. His eyes had lost their hardness. Now they were sad, weary.

He noted in a light, soft tone, "You were not tricked. You were not even enticed. Not that I would not have done so if I had deemed it necessary.

"I told you what was what from the beginning.

"You have witnessed stupendous events, and still you have not noticed them.

"As most people do, you associate sorcery with bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs, and incantations."

He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a mere whisper, then added that true sorcery was a most subtle and exquisite manipulation of perception.

Mr. Flores interjected, "True sorcery does not allow for human interference."

I pointed out with immature impertinence, "But Mr. Aureliano claims that he blew me to Isidore Baltazar. Is that not interfering?"

Mariano Aureliano said simply, "I am a nagual. I am the nagual Mariano Aureliano, and the fact that I am the nagual enables me to manipulate perception."

I had paid close attention to his words, but I did not have the vaguest idea what he meant by manipulating perception. Out of sheer nervousness, I reached for the last dry apricot on the plate.

Mr. Flores said, "You are going to get sick. You are so tiny, and you are such a super pain in the... eye."

Mariano Aureliano came to stand behind me, then pressed my back in such a way it made me cough up the last apricot I had had in my mouth.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 08.


Florinda said, "Never mind, child, where you get these thoughts. Obviously you're plugging into the source itself.

"Everybody does that-- plugs into the source itself-- but it takes a sorcerer to be aware of it."

. . .

Among these women no one was more, and no one was less than the other.

While one woman in each group was the leader, that was in no way a matter of power, of prestige, or of accomplishment but simply a matter of efficiency.

I did not know why, but I was convinced that all that mattered to them was the deep affection they had for each other.

Version 2010.01.23


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 08.

At this point, the sequence of events, as I remember it, becomes blurry. I do not know what happened next. Perhaps I fell asleep and was not aware of it, or perhaps the pressure Mariano Aureliano exerted on my back was so great that I passed out.

When I came to my senses again, I was lying on a mat on the floor.

I opened my eyes and instantly became conscious of the intense brightness around me. There seemed to be sunlight in the room.

I blinked repeatedly, wondering whether there was something wrong with my eyes. I could not focus them.

"Mr. Aureliano," I called out. "There seems to be something wrong with my eyes."

I tried to sit up but could not.

It was not Mr. Aureliano or Mr. Flores who was standing by my side. A woman was there.

She was leaning over me blotting out the brightness, so to speak.

Her black hair hung loosely down her sides and shoulders. She had a round face and an imposing bust.

Again I tried to sit up. She did not touch me, yet I knew that somehow she was holding me down.

She said, "Do not call him Mr. Aureliano, nor Mariano either. That is very disrespectful of you.

"Call him nagual. And when you talk about him, call him the nagual Mariano Aureliano. He likes his full name."

Her voice was melodious, and I liked her, but I felt feisty.

I wanted to ask her why all the nonsense about being disrespectful. I had heard Delia and all the other women call him the most ridiculous pet names and fuss over him as if he were their favorite doll.

He certainly had enjoyed every minute of it, but I could not remember when and where I had witnessed that.

The woman asked, "Do you understand?"

I wanted to say yes, but I did not have a voice. I tried, to no avail, to open my mouth and say something.

When she insisted on knowing if I had understood, all I could do was nod.

She offered me her hand to help me up. Before she touched me I was up, as if my desire to rise had superseded the actual contact with her hand and had pulled me into a sitting position before she did.

Astonished by this occurrence, I wanted to ask her about it, but I could barely keep myself upright. And as for talking, words simply refused to come out of my mouth.

She stroked my hair repeatedly. Obviously, she was thoroughly aware of my plight. She smiled kindly and said, "You are dreaming."

I did not hear her say that, but I knew that her words had moved directly from her mind into mine.

She nodded and told me that, indeed, I could hear her thoughts and that she could hear mine. She assured me that she was like a figment of my imagination, yet she could act with me or upon me.

She commanded me, "Pay attention! I am not moving my lips, and yet I am talking to you. Do the same."

Her mouth did not move at all. Wondering whether I could feel a movement in her lips when she silently enunciated her words, I wanted to press my fingers against her mouth.

She was actually very good-looking but menacing. She reached for my hand and pressed it against her smiling lips. I did not feel a thing.

I thought, "How can I talk without my lips?"

"You have a hole between your legs," she said directly into my mind. "Focus your attention on it. The pussy talks."

That remark hit a funny chord in me. I laughed so hard I lost my breath, and blacked out again.

The woman shook me awake.

I was still on the same mat on the floor, but I was propped up with a thick cushion behind my back.

I blinked and shuddered, then drew a long breath and looked at her. She was sitting on the floor beside me.

I said, "I am not given to fainting," which surprised me since I was able to utter the words.

The sound of my own voice was so reassuring that I laughed out loud, and repeated the same sentence several times.

She appeased me, saying, "I know. I know. Do not worry. You are not quite awake anyway. I am Clara. We have already met at Esperanza's."

I should have protested or asked her what she meant. Instead, without doubting for an instant, I accepted that I was still asleep, and that we had met at Esperanza's.

Memories, foggy thoughts, visions of people, of places, began to emerge slowly.

A clear thought popped into my mind. I had dreamt once that I met her. It was a dream. Thus, I never had thought about it in terms of real events. The moment I hooked onto that realization, I remembered Clara.

I said triumphantly, "Of course, we have met. But we met in a dream, so you are not real. I must be dreaming now, therefore I can remember you."

I sighed, content that it could all be explained so easily, and relaxed against the thick pillow.

Another clear memory of a dream popped into my mind. I could not recall exactly when I had dreamt this dream, but I remembered it as clearly as if the event had actually taken place.

In it, Delia had introduced me to Clara. Delia had described Clara as the most gregarious of the women dreamers. Delia had confided in me, "She actually has friends who adore her."

The Clara of that dream was quite tall, strong, and rotund. She had observed me as insistently as one observes a member of an unknown species; with careful eyes and nervous smiles.

And yet, in spite of her demanding scrutiny, I had liked her immensely. Her eyes were speculating and smiling and green. What I remembered best about her intense watchfulness was that she had looked at me with the unblinking stare of a cat.

I repeated as if I needed to reassure myself, "I know this is just a dream, Clara."

Clara contradicted me forcefully, "No. This is not just a dream. It is a special dream.

"You are wrong to entertain such thoughts. Thoughts have power. Be watchful of them."

I insisted, in a strained, high-pitched voice, "You are not real, Clara. You are a dream. That is why I can not remember you when I am awake."

My stubborn persistence made Clara chuckle. She finally explained, "You have never tried to remember me. There had been no point in it; no reason for it.

"We women are excruciatingly practical. Our great flaw or our great asset."

I was about to ask her what the practical aspect of remembering her now was, when she anticipated my question.

Clara said, "Since I am in front of you, you need to remember me. And you do."

She bent lower, and fixing me with her catlike stare, added, "And you will not forget me anymore.

"The sorcerers who reared me told me that women need two of anything in order to solidify it. Two sights of something, two readings, two frights, etc.

"You and I have now met twice. Now I am solid and real."

To prove how real she was, she pushed up the sleeves of her blouse and flexed her biceps. She urged me, "Touch them."

Giggling, I did. She indeed had hard, powerfully defined muscles. They felt as real as anything. She also made me touch the muscles of her thigh and calf.

I said cautiously, "If this is a special dream, what do I do in this dream?"

Clara said, "Anything your heart desires. You are doing fine so far.

"I can not guide you, though, for I am not your dreaming teacher. I am simply a fat witch who actually takes care of the other witches.

"It was my partner, Delia, who delivered you into the sorcerers' world, just like a midwife.

"But she was not the one who first found you. Florinda did."

I giggled uncontrollably, "Who is Florinda?" "And when did she find me?"

Clara said matter-of-factly, "Florinda is another witch." Then Clara began to giggle too, and said, "You met her.

"She is the one who took you into her dream in Esperanza's house. Do you remember the picnic?"

"Ah," I sighed appreciatively, and said, "You mean the tall woman with the husky voice?"

A radiance filled me. I had always admired tall women.

Clara confirmed, "The tall woman with the husky voice.

"She found you a couple of years ago at a party you attended with your boyfriend; a plush dinner in Houston, Texas, at the house of an oilman."

I asked, "What would a witch be doing at a party in an oilman's house?"

But then the full impact of her claim hit me.

I was dumbstruck. Although I did not remember seeing Florinda, I certainly did recall the party.

I had gone with a friend who flew in his private jet from Los Angeles just to attend that party, and to fly back the next day. I was his translator. There had been several Mexican businessmen at that party who did not speak English.

I exclaimed under my breath, "Jesus! What a weird turn of events!"

In great detail I described the party to Clara. It was the first time I had been to Texas. Like some star-struck movie fan, I ogled the men, not because they were handsome but because they looked so outlandish to me in their Stetson hats, pastel-colored suits, and cowboy boots.

The oilman had hired entertainers. They had staged a variety show worthy of Las Vegas in a nightclub grotto built especially for the occasion. It throbbed with loud music and strobe lights. And the food had been superb.

I asked, "But why would Florinda attend such a party?"

Clara said by way of an answer, "The world of sorcerers is the strangest thing there is."

She jumped up, like an acrobat from a sitting position to a standing one without using her arms.

She paced about the room; back and forth in front of my mat. She looked formidable in her full, dark skirt, her cowboy denim jacket-- colorfully embroidered in the back-- and her sturdy cowboy boots. An Australian hat, pulled low over her brow as if to protect her from the noonday sun, added the last touch to her eccentric, outlandish appearance.

Pausing in front of me, she asked, "How do you like my outfit?" Her face was radiant.

I gushed, "It is great." Clara certainly had the flair and the confidence to carry off any kind of outfit. I added, "It is really cool."

She kneeled beside me on the mat and in a confidential whisper said, "Delia is green with envy.

"We are always in competition to see who comes up with the nuttiest getup. It has to be crazy without being stupid."

She was silent for a moment, and her eyes watched me, considering. "You are welcome to compete," she offered. "Do you want to join us in our game?"

I nodded emphatically, and she spelled out the rules for me.

She rattled off, "Originality, practicality, low price, and no self-importance."

Then she rose again, and twirled a few more times around the room.

Laughing, she collapsed beside me and said, "Florinda thinks I should encourage you to participate. She says that at that party, she found out that you had a touch for thoroughly practical outfits."

She could barely finish the sentence. She was overcome by a great burst of giggles.

I asked Clara, "Did Florinda talk to me there?" and I gazed at her slyly, and wondered whether she would tell me what I had omitted from my account; information that I was not going to volunteer.

Clara shook her head then gave me a distracted smile, meant to deflect further questions about the party.

I asked, "How did Delia happen to be at the baptism in Nogales, Arizona?" I was trying to shift the conversation to the events of the other party.

Clara admitted, "Florinda sent her there." She began tucking all her loose hair into her Australian hat. "She crashed the party by telling everyone that she had come with you."

I interrupted Clara, "Wait a minute! This is no dream. What are you trying to do to me?"

Clara insisted, without altering her air of indifference, "I am trying to instruct you."

Her tone was even, almost casual. She did not seem to be interested in the effect her words were having on me. Yet she watched me carefully as she added, "This is a dream, and we are certainly talking in your dream, because I am also dreaming your dream."

That her outlandish statements were enough to appease me was proof that I was dreaming.

My mind became calm, sleepy, and capable of accepting the situation.

I heard myself speak in a voice detached from my volition, "There is no way Florinda could have known about my driving to Nogales. My girlfriend's invitation was accepted on the spur of the moment."

Clara sighed, saying, "I knew that this would be incomprehensible to you."

Then, looking into my eyes and weighing her words carefully, she declared, "Florinda is your mother more than any mother you ever had."

I found her statement preposterous, but I could not say a word.

Clara continued, "Florinda feels you."

She had a devilish glint in her eyes as she added, "There is a homing device she uses. She knows wherever you are."

My mind was suddenly completely in control, and I asked, "What homing device?" The thought that someone might know at all times what I was up to filled me with dread.

Clara, with beautiful simplicity, and in a tone so soft and harmonious that it made my apprehension vanish, said, "Her feelings for you are a homing device."

"What feelings for me, Clara?"

"Who knows, child?" she said wistfully.

She drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, and rested her chin on her knees.

Clara said, "I have never had a daughter like that."

My mood changed abruptly from amusement back to apprehension. In the rational, thought-out manner that was my style, I began to worry about the subtle implications of Clara's statements.

And it was precisely my rational deliberations that again turned on my doubts.

This could not possibly be a dream. I was awake. My concentration was too keen for me to be unawake.

Sliding down the cushion propped against my back, I half closed my eyes.

I kept watching Clara through my lashes, wondering whether she would slowly fade away as people and scenes fade away in dreams.

But she did not. I felt momentarily reassured that I was awake; and so was Clara.

Clara contradicted me by again intruding into my thoughts, saying, "No, we are not awake."

By way of validating my state of total consciousness, I said, "I can speak."

Clara cackled, "Big deal!

"Now I am going to do something that will wake you up, so that you can continue the conversation while you are really awake." She enunciated the last word with great care, drawing it out in an exaggerated fashion.

I preferred my uncertainty to what she might do to me, so I pleaded, "Wait. Wait, Clara. Give me time to adjust to all this."

Impervious to my pleading, Clara rose and reached for the pitcher of water standing on a low table nearby.

Still giggling, she hovered over me, holding the pitcher over my head.

I tried to roll to the side, but I was not able to do so. My body would not obey me. It seemed to be glued to the mat.

I felt a cold, soft sprinkle on my face just before she actually poured the water over me.

The coldness rather than the wetness produced a most peculiar sensation. It first blurred Clara's face looming over me the way ripples distort the surface of water.

Then the coldness centered itself on my stomach and pulled me inward, like a sleeve that is pulled inside out.

My last thought was that I was going to drown in a pitcher of water. Bubbles upon bubbles of darkness spun me around until everything went black.



When I came to myself again, I was no longer lying on the mat on the floor, but on the couch in the living room.

The tall white-haired woman with the husky voice was sitting beside me humming an old lullaby-- or so it seemed to me-- and she was caressing my hair, my face, and my arms with great tenderness.

At the foot of the couch, two women were standing and staring at me with wide, curious eyes.

The tall woman's touch and the sound of her voice held me down.

I just lay there with my unblinking eyes fixed on hers. I was certain I was having one of my vivid dreams which had always begun as dreams and ended up as nightmares.

Then the tall woman was speaking to me. She was telling me to look into her eyes.

Her words moved soundlessly, like the wings of butterflies.

But whatever I saw in her eyes filled me with a familiar feeling-- the irrational, abject terror I experienced in my nightmares.

I jumped up and bolted straight for the door. It was the automatic, animal's reaction I had always had with a nightmare.

The tall woman came after me and said, "Do not be frightened, my darling. Relax.

"We are all here to help you. There is no need to be so upset. You will hurt your little body by subjecting it to unnecessary fright."

I had stopped by the door, not because she had persuaded me to stay, but because I could not open the damn thing.

Frantically, I pulled and pushed the door. It did not budge.

The tall woman was just behind me.

My trembling increased. I shook so hard that my body ached, and my heart beat so loudly and erratically I knew it would burst through my chest.

"Nagual!" the tall woman called out, turning her head over her shoulder. "You had better do something. She is going to die of fright."

I did not see to whom she was talking, but in my wild search for an escape, I saw a second door at the other end of the room.

I was certain I had enough energy left in me to make a dash for it, but my legs gave in on me.

As if life had already abandoned my body, I sank to the floor. My last breath escaped from me.

The woman's long arms swooped down on me like a great eagle's wings. She held me, put her mouth to mine, and breathed air into me.

Slowly, my body relaxed. My heartbeat returned to normal.

I was filled with a strange peace that quickly turned into a wild excitement.

And the sourse of my wildnes was her breath. It was hot. It scorched my throat, my lungs, my stomach, my groin; moving all the way to my hands and my feet.

In a flash, I knew that the woman was exactly like me only taller; as tall as I would have liked to be.

I felt such love for her that I did something outlandish. I kissed her passionately.

I felt her lips widen into a smile. Then she threw her head back, and laughed. Turning to the others, she said, "This little rat kissed me."

I exclaimed, "I am dreaming!" And they all laughed with childlike abandon.

At first I could not help but laugh, too. However, within moments I was, as usual after one of my impulsive acts, self- embarrassed and angry at having been caught.

The tall woman embraced me. "I am Florinda," she said, and she lifted me up and cradled me in her arms as if I were a baby.

She went on, "You and I are the same. You are as petite as I would have liked to be. It is a great disadvantage to be tall. No one can ever cradle you. I am five ten."

"I am five two," I confessed, and we both laughed because we understood each other to perfection. I was short on the second inch but always rounded it up. I was certain Florinda was closer to five eleven but rounded it down to ten.

I kissed her cheeks and her eyes. I loved her with a love that was incomprehensible to me. It was a feeling untainted by doubt or dread or expectation. It was the love one feels in dreams.

Seemingly in complete agreement with me, Florinda chuckled softly.

The elusive light in her eyes and the ghostly whiteness of her hair was like some forgotten memory.

I felt as if I had known her from the day I was born.

It occurred to me that children who liked their mothers must be lost children. Filial love coupled with admiration for the mother's physical being must result in a sense of total love; like the love I felt for this tall, mysterious woman.

Florinda put me down, and turning toward a beautiful, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman, said, "This is Carmela."

Carmela's features were delicate, and her skin was flawless. She had the smooth, creamy pallor of someone who stays much indoors.

As Carmela embraced me, she whispered in my ear, "I only take moon baths. You ought to do the same. You are too fair to be out in the sun. You are ruining your skin."

It was her voice, more than anything else, that I recognized. She was the same woman who had asked me all those direct, personal questions at the picnic.

I remembered her in a sitting position. She had seemed small and frail. To my surprise, she was three or four inches taller than I. Her powerful, muscular body made me feel insignificant in comparison.

Florinda draped her arm around my shoulder, and guided me toward the second woman who had been standing beside the couch when I awoke.

She was muscular and tall but not as tall as Florinda. Her features were too strong for her to be conventionally beautiful, yet there was something striking and thoroughly attractive about her; including the faint shadow of fine hair on her upper lip, which she obviously did not bother to wax or bleach. I sensed a tremendous force in her; an agitation that was completely under control, yet still there.

Florinda said, "This is Zoila".

Zoila made no motion to either shake my hand or to embrace me.

Carmela laughed, and spoke for Zoila, "I am very happy to see you again."

Zoila's mouth curved in the loveliest of smiles, showing white, large, even teeth. As her long, slender hand, glinting with jeweled rings, brushed my cheek, I realized she was the one whose face had been hidden under a mass of scraggly hair.

She was the one who had sewn the Belgian lace around the canvas cloth on which we sat during the picnic.

The three women surrounded me, and made me sit on the couch.

Florinda said, "The first time we met you, you were dreaming, so we really did not have time to interact.

"This time, however, you are awake, so tell us about yourself."

I was about to interrupt Florinda and say that this was a dream and that during the picnic, whether asleep or awake, I had told them everything worth knowing about myself.

As if I had spoken my thoughts out loud, Florinda said, "No, no. You are wrong. You are completely awake now, and what we want to know is what you have done since our last meeting.

"Tell us specifically about Isidore Baltazar."

I asked timidly, "You mean this is not a dream?"

Florinda assured me, "No. This is not a dream. You were dreaming a few minutes ago, but this is different."

I said, "I do not see the difference."

Florinda explained, "That is because you are a good dreamer. Your nightmares are real. You said that yourself."

My whole body tensed up, but then, as if my body knew that it could not withstand another attack of fright, it gave up. My body abandoned itself to the moment.

I repeated to them what I had already told and retold Mariano Aureliano and Mr. Flores earlier.

This time, however, I remembered details I had altogether overlooked before such as the two sides of Isidore Baltazar's face; the two simultaneous moods he showed that were plainly revealed in his eyes.

His left eye was sinister and menacing. His right eye was friendly and open.

carried away by my observations, I maintained, "He is a dangerous man. He has a peculiar power to move events in whatever direction he pleases, while he remains outside, watching you quirm."

The women were enthralled by what I was saying.

Florinda signaled me to continue.

I went on, "What makes people so vulnerable to his charm is that he is a generous man. And generosity is perhaps the only virtue that none of us can resist, because each of us and all of us are dispossessed regardless of our background."

Realizing what I had said, I stopped abruptly and gazed at them, aghast.

I muttered in an attempt to apologize, "I do not know what has come upon me. I truly do not know why I said that when I have not thought about Isidore Baltazar in those terms myself.

"It is not me talking. I am not even capable of making those kinds of judgments."

Florinda said, "Never mind child where you get these thoughts. Obviously you are plugging into the source itself.

"Everybody does that-- plugs into the source itself-- but it takes a sorcerer to be aware of it."

I did not understand what she was trying to tell me. I restated that I had no intention of shooting off my big mouth.

Florinda giggled, regarded me for a few moments thoughtfully, and said, "Act as if you were in a dream.

"Be daring and do not apologize."

I felt stupid, incapable of analyzing what I felt.

Florinda nodded, as if in agreement, then turned to her companions and said, "Tell her about us."

Carmela cleared her throat, and without looking at me said, "The three of us and Delia make a unit. We deal with the daily world."

I hung on her every word, but I did not understand her at all.

Carmela clarified, "We are the unit of sorceresses who deal with people.

"There is another unit of four women who do not deal with people at all."

Carmela took my hand in hers, and examined my palm as if she were to read my fortune. Then she closed it gently into a fist, and added, "You are just like us in general. That is, you can deal with people.

"And you are like Florinda in particular."

Again she paused, and with a dreamy look on her face she repeated what Clara had already told me.

She said, "It was Florinda who found you. Therefore, while you remain in the world of sorcerers, you belong to her.

"She will guide you and look after you."

Her tone carried such a great certainty that it threw me into genuine worry.

So I said, "I do not belong to anyone. And I do not need anyone to look after me." But my voice was strained, unnatural, and uncertain.

Silently, the women watched me, bemused smiles on their faces.

I asked defiantly, "Do you think I need guidance?" I gazed from one to the other.

Their eyes were half closed, their lips parted in those same contemplative smiles. The imperceptible nods of their chins clearly indicated that they were waiting for me to finish what I had to say.

I finished lamely, "I think I do very well in life on my own."

Florinda asked me, "Do you remember what you did at the party where I found you?"

As I stared at Florinda in amazement, Carmela whispered in my ear, "Do not worry. You can always find a way to explain anything."

Florinda was not in the slightest disturbed as she waved a finger at me.

Panic crept over me at the thought that they might know that I had walked naked at that party in front of dozens of people.

Until that moment I had been, if not proud of my outlandish behavior, at least acceptant of it. To my way of thinking, what I did at that party was a manifestation of my spontaneous personality.

First, I had taken a long horseback ride with the host, in my evening gown without a saddle, to show him-- after he dared me and bet I could not do it-- that I was as good on horseback as any cowboy. I had an uncle in Venezuela who had a stud farm, and I had been on a horse since I was a toddler.

Upon winning the bet, dizzy from the exertion and alcohol, I took a plunge in his giant pool-- in the nude.

Florinda, obviously privy to my recollection, said, "I was there by the pool when you went in naked. You brushed me with your naked buttocks.

"You shocked everyone, including me. I liked your daringing. Above all, I liked that you walked naked all the way from the other side of the pool just to brush against me.

"I took that as an indication that the spirit was pointing you out to me."

I mumbled, "It can not be true. If you had been at that party, I would have remembered you. You are too tall and striking-looking to be overlooked."

I did not mean that as a compliment. I wanted to convince myself that I was being tricked and manipulated.

Florinda went on, "I liked the fact that you were killing yourself just to show off.

"You were a clown eager to draw attention to yourself at any cost, especially when you jumped on a table and danced for a moment, shaking your buttocks shamelessly while the host yelled his head off."

Instead of embarrassing me, her remarks filled me with an incredible sense of ease and delight.

I felt liberated. The secret was out; the secret I had never dared to admit; that I was a show-off who would do anything to get attention.

A new mood overtook me; definitely more humble and less defensive.

I feared, however, that such a mood would not last. I knew that any insights and realizations I had arrived at in dreams had never survived.

But perhaps Florinda was right and this was no dream, and my new frame of mind would endure.

Seemingly cognizant of my thoughts, the three women nodded emphatically.

Instead of feeling encouraged by their agreement, it only revived my uncertainties.

As I had feared, my insightful mood was short-lived. Within moments I was burning with doubts and I wanted a respite.

I asked, "Where is Delia?"

"She is in Oaxaca," Florinda said, then added pointedly, "She was here just to greet you."

I had thought that if I changed the subject, I would get a respite and have a chance to recuperate my strength.

Now I was facing something I had no resources to deal with.

I could not accuse Florinda outright-- as I would normally have done with anybody-- of telling lies in order to manipulate me.

I could not tell her that I suspected they had made me groggy, and had taken me from room to room while I was unconscious.

I chided, "What you say is really preposterous, Florinda. I can not believe that you expect me to take you seriously."

Chewing the inside of my lip, I stared at her long and hard. "I know that Delia is hiding in one of the rooms."

Florinda's eyes seemed to tell me she understood my quandary.

She said, "You have no other option except to take me seriously." Although her tone was mild, it was final.

I turned to the other two women, hoping for some kind of an answer; anything that would ease my growing apprehension.

Carmela confided, "If someone else guides you, it is actually very easy to dream.

"The only drawback is that that someone else has to be a nagual."

I said, "I have been hearing all along about a nagual. What is a nagual?

Carmela explained, "A nagual is a sorcerer of great power who can lead other sorcerers through and out of the darkness.

"But the nagual himself told you all that a while ago. Do you not remember?"

As my body contorted in an effort to remember, Florinda interceded saying, "Events we live in everyday life are easy to recall. We have plenty of practice in doing that.

"But events lived in dreams are another story. We have to struggle very hard to bring them back, simply because the body stores them in different places.

"With women who do not have your somnambulist brain," she pointed out, "dreaming instructions begin by making them draw a map of their bodies-- a painstaking job that reveals where the visions of dreams are stored in their bodies."

I asked, genuinely intrigued, "How do you draw this map, Florinda?"

She said, "By systematically tapping every inch of your body."

"But I can not tell you more. I am your mother, not your dreaming teacher. Now, she recommends a small wooden mallet for the actual tapping. And she also recommends to tap only the legs and hips. Very rarely, the body stores those memories in the chest or belly. What is stored in the chest, back, and belly are the memories of everyday life. But that is another matter.

"All that concerns you now is that remembering dreams has to do with physical pressure on the specific spot where that vision is stored.

Then Florinda finished with a kind of simple cheerfulness, saying, "For instance, if you push your vagina by putting pressure on your clitoris, you will remember what Mariano Aureliano told you."

I stared at her aghast, then burst into nervous, fitful giggles. I was not going to push anything.

Florinda laughed, too, gleefully, seemingly enjoying my embarrassment. She threatened, "If you will not do it, then I will simply have Carmela do it for you."

I turned to Carmela. She, with a half smile about to break into a laugh, assured me that indeed she would push my vagina for me.

I cried out in dismay, "There is no need to! I remember everything!"

And indeed I did. And not only what Mariano Aureliano had said, but also other events.

I began, "Is Mr. Aureliano..."

Carmela cut me off in midsentence, saying, "Clara told you to call him the nagual Mariano Aureliano."

Florinda, stroking my head, said, "Dreams are doors into the unknown."

"Naguals lead by means of dreams, and the act of dreaming with purpose is the art of sorcerers. The nagual Mariano Aureliano has helped you to get into dreams that all of us dreamed."

I blinked repeatedly. I shook my head and then fell back against the cushions of the couch; shocked by the absurdity of all I was remembering.

I remembered that I had dreamed of them a year ago in Sonora, a dream that had lasted, I thought, forever.

In that dream I met Clara, Nelida, and Hermelinda; the other team, the dreamers. They told me that the leader of that team was Zuleica, but that I could not dream of her yet.

As the memory of that dream became clear in my mind, it also became clear that among those women no one was more, and no one was less than the other.

While one woman in each group was the leader, that was in no way a matter of power, of prestige, or of accomplishment but simply a matter of efficiency.

I did not know why, but I was convinced that all that mattered to them was the deep affection they had for each other.

In that dream everyone had said to me that Zuleica was my dreaming teacher. That was all I could remember.

Just as Clara had told me, I needed to see them or dream of them one more time in order to solidify my knowledge of them. As it was, they were but disembodied memories.

I vaguely heard Florinda say that after a few more tries I would fare much better in shifting from my memory of dreams, to the dream I was dreaming, and then to the normal state of awakeness.

I heard Florinda giggle, but I was no longer in the room.

I was outside, walking across the chaparral. I walked slowly along an invisible path, a little uneasy, for there was no light, no moon, and no stars in the sky.

Pulled by some invisible force, I stepped into a large room.

It was dark inside except for the lines of light crisscrossing from wall to wall over the faces of the people sitting in two circles-- an inner and an outer circle.

The light got bright and then became dim, as if someone in the circle were playing with the electric switch, turning it on and off.

I recognized Mariano Aureliano and Isidore Baltazar sitting, back to back, in the middle of the inner circle. It was not so much that I recognized their faces but rather their energy.

It was not that their energy was brighter than or different from anyone else's. There was simply more of it. It was massive. It was one splendid, great lump of inexhaustible brilliance.

The room shone white. There was a vividness to things, and a hardness to every edge and corner.

There was such a clarity in that room that everything stood out separately by itself; especially the lines of light that were tied to the people sitting in the circle, and the lines that emanated from them.

The people were all connected by lines of light, and they looked as if they were the suspension points of a giant spider web. They all communicated wordlessly, through the light.

I was pulled to that silent, electric tension until I, too, was a point in that web of luminosity.



I was stretched out on the couch. My head rested in Florinda's lap. I looked up at her and asked, "What is going to happen?"

She did not answer, and neither did Carmela or Zoila, who were sitting by her with their eyes closed.

I repeated my question several times, but all I heard was the gentle breathing of the three women.

I was certain they were asleep, yet I felt their quiet, keen eyes on me.

The darkness and the silence moved about the house like something alive, bringing with them an icy wind and the scent of the desert.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 09.


I was living in another reality that did not yet fully belong to me, but to which I had access through these people.

Version 2010.02.09


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 09.

Shivering with cold, I wrapped the blanket tightly around me and sat up.

I was in a strange bed in a strange room furnished only with the bed and a night table. However, everything around me exuded familiarity; although I could not decide why it was all so well known to me.

Perhaps I am still asleep, I thought. How do I know this is not a dream?

I sank back into my pillows. I lay there with my arms behind my head, and let the bizarre events I had witnessed and lived-- half dream, half memory-- run through my mind.

It had all begun, of course, the year before when I drove with Delia Flores to the healer's house.

Delia had claimed that the picnic I had had with everyone there had been a dream. I had laughed at her, and discarded her statements as preposterous.

She had been right, though.

I knew now that the picnic had been a dream.

Not my dream, but a dream dreamt by others, and to which I had been invited. I was a participating guest.

My mistake all along had been to try to doggedly deny it; to discard it as a fake without knowing what I meant by fake.

All I succeeded in doing was to block that event from my mind so completely that I was never aware of it.

What I needed to do was to accept that we have a track for dreams; a groove where only dreams run.

Had I set up myself to remember the dream I had had in Sonora as nothing else but a dream, I would have succeeded in retaining the wonder of what had occurred while the dream was being dreamt.

The more I speculated about it, and about all the things that were happening to me now, the greater my discomfort.

But what surprised me the most was that I was not really scared of all these people who, although supportive, were a scary bunch by any count.

And it suddenly dawned on me that the reason why I was not scared was that I knew them very well. The proof to me was that they themselves had voiced the strange yet comforting feeling I had had-- that I was coming home.

I discarded all these thoughts as soon as I had formulated them, and honestly wondered whether perhaps I was mentally unbalanced, and they had found a way to focus on it and thus enhance it.

In a serious, systematic fashion I reviewed the history of my family in an effort to recall everything I might have heard about mental illness.

There was a story of a maternal great-uncle who, Bible in hand, would preach at street corners. Then both my great-grandfather and my grandfather, at the onset of the First and the Second World Wars, respectively, committed suicide upon realizing that everything was lost to them. One of my grandmothers blew her brains out when she realized that she had lost her beauty and sex appeal.

I liked to believe that I had inherited my feeling of detachment from being the true granddaughter of all those nuts. I had always believed that this feeling of detachment gave me my daring.

Those morbid thoughts caused me such anxiety that I jumped out of bed.

With nervous, jerky movements I pulled my body out of the blanket.

To my utter bafflement I found myself bundled in a heavy flannel nightshirt. I had on thick, knee-length wool socks, mittens, and a cardigan sweater.

I mumbled to myself in dismay,"I must be ill. Why else would I be cold with all these clothes on?" Normally I slept in the nude regardless of the climate.

Only then did I notice the sunlight in the room. It came through the thick, semi-opaque window.

I was certain that the light shining in my eyes had awakened me.

And I really needed to find the bathroom.

Worried that the house did not have inside plumbing, I stepped toward the sliding door at the other end of the room, which was open, and sure enough, it was a water closet with a lidded chamber pot in it.

I yelled, "Damn it! I can not go to the bathroom in a water closet!"

The door opened, and Florinda walked in. Embracing me, she said, "It is all right. There is an outhouse. The water closet is a relic from the past."

I laughed, and said, "How fortunate it is already morning. No one will ever know that I am too fainthearted to go to the outhouse in the dark."

Florinda gave me a strange look, then turned her gaze away, and at last she said in a whisper, "What makes you think it is morning?"

I moved toward the window, and said, "The sun woke me up a little while ago."

Then, uncomprehendingly, I stared at the darkness outside.

's face brightened. She seemed to control herself, but then her shoulders shook with laughter as she pointed to the light bulb in the lamp standing behind the bed. I had mistaken the bright bulb for the sunlight.

Florinda asked, "What makes you so sure you are awake?"

I turned to look at her and said, "My unbearable urge to go to the bathroom."

She took me by the arm and said, "Let me take you to the outhouse before you disgrace yourself."

I yelled, "I am not going anywhere until you tell me whether I am awake or dreaming."

Florinda lowered her head until her forehead touched mine, and exclaimed, "What a temper!"

Her eyes were wide, and she enunciated each word very carefully as as she added, "You are dreaming-awake."

In spite of my growing apprehension, I began to laugh.

The sound of my laughter, which reverberated around the room like a distant echo, dispelled my anxiety.

At that moment I was no longer concerned about whether I was awake or dreaming. All my attention was focused on reaching the toilet.

I growled, "Where is the outhouse?"

Florinda folded her arms over her chest, and said, "You know where it is. And you will never reach it in time unless you will yourself to be there.

"But do not bring the outhouse to your bed. That is called lazy dreaming; and is the surest way to soil your bed. Go to the outhouse yourself in a flick of an eyelid."

To my utter horror, I could not reach the door when I tried to. My feet lacked the confidence to walk. Slowly and uncertainly, as if they were unable to decide which way to go, they moved, one foot ahead of the other.

Resisting to accept that my feet were no longer under my command, I tried to speed up my movements by lifting, with my hands, one foot after the other.

Florinda did not seem to care what was happening to me.

My eyes teared up with frustration and self-pity as I stood rooted to the spot. My lips shaped the word help, but no sound came out of my mouth.

What's the matter?" she asked as she took hold of one of my arms and gently pulled me down to the floor.

Florinda removed my heavy wollen socks and examined my feet. She now seemed genuinely concerned.

I wanted to explain that my inability to move was due to my being emotionally exhausted. But hard as I tried, I could not formulate my thoughts into words.

As I struggled to utter a sound, I noticed that something was wrong with my vision. My eyes were no longer able to focus.

Florinda's face remained blurry and fuzzy no matter how hard I squeezed my eyes, and regardless of how close I moved my face to hers.

Florinda whispered in my ear, "I know what is the matter with you. You have to go to the outhouse.

"Will yourself there! Do it!"

I nodded emphatically. I knew that I was indeed dreaming-awake, or rather, that I was living in another reality that did not yet fully belong to me, but to which I had access through these people.

Then I felt inexplicably at ease; and suddenly I was in the outhouse-- not in a dreamed outhouse, but in a real one.

It took me a long time to test my surroundings and to make sure this was the real thing. It was.

Then I was back in the room, but I did not know how.

Florinda said something flattering about my dreaming capacity.

I paid little attention to her remarks because I was distracted by the pile of blankets against the wall. I had not noticed them upon awakening, yet I was certain I had seen them before.

My feeling of ease vanished quickly as I tried to recall where I had seen those blankets.

My anguish grew. I did not know any longer whether I was still in the same house I had arrived at earlier in the evening with Isidore Baltazar, or whether I was someplace else.

I asked, "Whose room is this? And who bundled me up with all these clothes?"

It terrified me to hear my own voice.

Florinda stroked my hair, and in a kind, soft voice said that for the time being this was my room; and that she had bundled me up so I would not get cold.

She explained that the desert is deceiving; especially at night.

She regarded me with an enigmatic expression as though she were hinting at something else.

It disturbed me because her words gave me no clues as to what she might be referring.

My thoughts reeled aimlessly. The key word, I decided, was desert.

I had not known the witches' place was in the desert. We had arrived at it in such a roundabout way that I had failed to ascertain where exactly the house was located.

I asked, "Whose house is this, Florinda?"

She seemed to be wrestling with some deep problem, and her expression changed from thoughtful to worried several times. Her voice was deep with emotion as she finally said, "You are home."

Before I could remind her that she had not answered my question, she gestured for me to be silent, and pointed a finger at the door.

Something whispered in the darkness outside. It could have been the wind and the leaves, but I knew it was not.

It was a soothing, familiar sound that brought back to me the memory of the picnic. In particular, it brought back Mariano Aureliano's words, "I will blow you, as I blew the others, to the one person who now holds the myth in his hands."

The words rang in my ears. I turned to look, wondering if Mariano Aureliano had perhaps come into the room and was repeating them out loud this very instant.

Florinda nodded. She had read my mind, and her eyes, fixed on mine, were forcing me to acknowledge my understanding of his claim.

At the picnic I had not given much thought to his statement. It had simply been too preposterous.

Now, I was so curious to find out who 'the others' really were that I could not afford to let the topic of the conversation slip by.

I began cautiously, saying, "Isidore Baltazar talked about some people who work with him.

Hesitantly, I continued by saying, "He said that they had been entrusted to him, and that it was his sacred duty to help them. Are they the ones who... blew to him?"

Florinda nodded her head affirmatively, and a faint smile curled her lips as if she found my reluctance to mention the word 'blew' amusing.

She said, "Those are the ones the old nagual blew to the new nagual. They are women, and they are like you."

I asked uncertainly, "Like me?"

I wished I had not been so absorbed with my own puzzling changes of moods and feelings toward Isidore Baltazar during the trip, and that I had paid closer attention to all he had revealed about his world.

I asked Florinda, "In what way are those women like me? Do you know them?"

Noncommittally, she said, "I have seen them."

The mere thought of them was both exciting and alarming to me and I asked with ill-concealed displeasure, "How many women have been blown to Isidore Baltazar?"

Florinda was positively gleeful at my reaction as she explained, "A few. They do not resemble you physically, and yet they are like you.

"What I mean is that they resemble one another the way my fellow sorceresses and I resemble one another.

"Were you not, yourself, surprised at how much alike we looked when you first met us?"

Acknowledging my nod, Florinda went on to say that what made her and her cohorts so alike-- in spite of the obvious physical differences-- was their unbiased commitment to the sorcerers' world.

She said, "We are drawn together by an affection that is as yet incomprehensible to you."

As cynically as I could, I stated, "I bet it is."

Then my curiosity and excitement about the women who had been blown to Isidore Baltazar got the better of me, and I asked, "When will I meet them?"

Florinda said, "When you find them." Her voice, though low, had an extraordinary force that all but silenced me for a moment.

But then I asked, "How can I find them if I do not know them? It is impossible."

Casually she remarked, "Not for a witch.

"As I already said, you do not resemble them physically, but the glow inside you is as bright as the glow inside them.

"You will recognize them by that glow."

Her eyes were fixed on me intently, as if she could indeed see the glow inside me.

Her face was grave and her voice unusually low as she added, "It is the glow of sorcerers."

I wanted to make some impudent remark, but something in her manner alarmed me. I asked, "Can I see that glow?"

Florinda said, "We need the nagual for that."

Then she pointed to the nagual Mariano Aureliano who was standing in the shadowy corner of the room.

I had not noticed him at all, but I did not find his sudden appearance in any way alarming.

Florinda told him what I wanted.

He motioned me to follow him to the middle of the room, and said, "I will show you that glow." He squatted and, holding up both hands, gestured for me to get on his back.

I asked, "We are going for a piggyback ride?"

I made no effort to conceal my disappointment. "Are you not going to show me the glow of sorcerers?"

Although I clearly remembered his words that true sorcery was not bizarre behavior, rituals, drugs, or incantations, I nevertheless expected a show-- some demonstration of his power, such as mixing spells and simples over the fire.

Ignoring my disillusionment, Mariano Aureliano urged me to put my arms around his neck lightly so as not to choke him.

As I did, I cautiously asked him, "Do you not think I am a little too old to be carried around?"

Mariano Aureliano's laughter gurgled up inside him, and exploded with outrageous delight.

In one swift motion he sprang to his feet. He tucked his arms behind my knees, and shifted me into a comfortable position. Then he stepped out into the hall although my head did not hit the door frame.

He walked so fast and effortlessly I had the distinct sensation of floating down the long dark corridor.

Curious, I glanced all around me. However, we moved too fast for me to catch any but brief glimpses of the house.

A soft yet persistent scent permeated everything; a fragrance of orange blossoms and the freshness of cold air.

Outside, the yard was blurred by mist. All I was able to see was a uniform mass of dark silhouettes. Swirls of fog transformed every space; revealing and then blotting out strange shapes of trees and stones.

We were not at the witches' house. I was sure of that.

I heard nothing except a rhythmical breathing, but I could not tell if it was the nagual Mariano Aureliano's breathing or my own.

The sound spread all over the yard. It made the leaves tremble, as if a wind were rustling through the branches. The trembling seeped into my body with every breath I took.

I became so dizzy that I wrapped my arms tightly around his shoulders lest I lose consciousness. Before I had a chance to tell him what I was experiencing, the fog closed in around me, and I felt myself dissolve into nothingness.

The nagual Mariano Aureliano's voice came as if from a great distance as he said, "Rest your chin on the top of my head."

The words jolted me, for I had quite forgotten that I was riding on his back.

He pushed me up on his back so that my head was above his, and he added with great urgency, "Whatever you do, do not let go of me."

My voice got terribly screechy as I asked in a tone that betrayed my growing apprehension, "What could possibly happen if I let go? I would just fall onto the ground, would I not?"

Mariano Aureliano laughed softly but did not answer.

Leisurely, he walked up and down the extensive yard with light, soft steps; almost in a kind of dance.

And then, for an instant, I had the distinct impression that we became weightless, and rose in the air.

I felt that we actually traveled through the darkness for a fleeting moment, then I felt the solid ground through Mariano Aureliano's body.

Whether the fog had lifted or whether we were in a different yard, I could not determine; but something had changed.

Perhaps it was only the air. It was heavier and harder to breathe.

There was no moon, and the stars were faint, yet the sky shone as if it were lit from some faraway spot. Slowly, as if someone were outlining them in the air, the contours of trees became clear.

About five feet away, in front of a particularly tall and bushy zapote tree, Mariano Aureliano came to an abrupt halt.

At the foot of that tree stood a group of people; perhaps twelve or fourteen.

The long leaves, weighed down by the mist, shadowed their faces.

A strange green light emanating from the tree made each person unnaturally vivid. Their eyes, their noses, their lips, and all of their features gleamed in that green light. Yet, I could make out nothing of their faces.

I did not recognize any of them. I could not even determine whether they were males or females. They were simply people.

I whispered into Mariano Aureliano's ear, "What are they doing? Who are they?"

He hissed, "Keep your chin on the top of my head."

I pressed my chin firmly against his head, but I feared that if I pushed too hard my whole face would sink into his skull.

Hoping to recognize someone by his or her voice, I said good evening to them.

Fleeting smiles parted their lips. But instead of returning my greeting, they averted their faces.

An odd sound came from amidst them; a sound that energized them, for they, too, like the tree, began to glow. Not a green light, but a golden brilliance that coalesced and shimmered until they all fused into one big amber, golden ball that just hovered there under the tree.

Then the golden ball dissolved into patches of luminosity. Like giant glowworms, they appeared and disappeared among the trees; sowing light and shadow in their passing.

Mariano Aureliano murmured, "Remember that glow. It is the glow... of the surem."

Those words echoed in my head.

But then a sudden gust of wind scattered his words.

The wind was alive. It glowed against the darkness of the sky. It blew with great violence, and with a strange ripping sound.

Then the wind seemed to turn against me. I was certain it meant to annihilate me.

I cried out in pain as a particulariy icy gust seared my lungs. A coldness spread through my body until I felt myself grow stiff.

Then, whether it was Mariano Aureliano who spoke, or was the sound of the wind, I could not tell.

But the sound roared in my ears, and blotted out everything around me. Then it was inside my lungs. It wriggled like a living thing eager to devour every cell in my body.

I could feel myself collapse, and I knew I was going to die.

But the roaring stopped.

The silence was so sudden I heard it. I laughed out loud, thankful that I was still alive.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 10.


..But now I knew for certain that they were indeed different from other human beings.

It frightened me that they were different in ways I could not understand; in ways I could not even conceive.

...

I confessed that I felt a freedom and an ease with her and her group that I had never encountered anywhere else before.

It was a strange feeling, I explained; part physical, part psychological, and wholly defiant of analysis.

I could describe it only as a sense of well-being or a certainty that I had finally found a place where I belonged.

Version 2010.02.09


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 10.

The bed was big and comfortably soft. A golden radiance filled the room.

Hoping to prolong this moment of well-being a bit longer, I closed my eyes and buried myself in sleepy bliss amidst fragrant linen sheets and subtly scented lavender pillow cases.

However, as I remembered the previous night's events, I could feel every muscle and every bone in my body tense. I recalled disconnected fragments of some god-awful dream.

But there was no continuity and no linear sequence to all I had experienced during those interminable hours.

I remembered I had awoken twice during the night; in different beds, in different rooms, and even in a different house.

As if they had a life of their own, these disconnected images piled up and expanded all at once into a labyrinth that somehow I was able to comprehend all at once.

That is, I perceived every event and every moment simultaneously.

The sensation of those images growing out of my skull into an enormous, fanciful headdress was so real that I jumped out of bed, and dashed across the room to the steel and glass dresser.

The three-paneled mirror was covered with rice paper. I tried to peel off a corner, but the paper clung to the glass like a skin.

The sight of the silver-backed hairbrush with its matching comb, the bottles of perfume, and the jars of cosmetics on the dresser had a soothing effect on me. I, too, would have arranged the bottles and jars by size; in a row, like tools.

Somehow I knew that I was in Florinda's room in the witches' house.

This knowledge restored my sense of equilibrium.

Florinda's room was enormous. The bed and the dresser were the only pieces of furniture in it. They stood in opposite corners away from the walls, and at an angle; leaving a triangular space behind them.

I pondered the arrangement of the bed and the dresser for quite some time but I could not figure out whether it followed some kind of esoteric pattern, the significance of which eluded me, or whether it was merely the result of Florinda's aesthetic whim.

Curious as to where the three doors in the room led, I tried them all.

The first one was locked from the outside.

The second one opened to a small, rectangular-shaped walled-in patio. Puzzled, I stared at the sky, until it finally dawned on me that it was not morning, as I had assumed upon awakening, but late afternoon.

I was not disturbed that I had slept the whole day. On the contrary, I was elated. Convinced that I was an insomniac, I was always overjoyed by my oversleeping spells.

The third door opened into the corridor.

Anxious to find Isidore Baltazar, I made my way to the living room. It was empty.

There was something forbidding about the neat and straight manner in which the furniture was arranged.

Nothing revealed that anyone had sat on the couch and the armchairs the night before. Even the cushions stood stiffly, as if at attention.

The dining room across the corridor looked equally forsaken and equally austere.

Not a chair was out of place. I found neither a crumb nor a stain on the polished surface of the mahogany table. Nothing betrayed that I had sat there last night with the nagual Mariano Aureliano and Mr. Flores, and had eaten dinner.

In the kitchen, separated from the dining room by an arched vestibule and a narrow hall, I found a jug, half filled with champurrado, and a covered plate with some sweet tamales.

I was too hungry to bother with heating them. I poured myself a mugful of the thick chocolate, and ate the three corn cakes directly from their corn-husk wrappings. Stuffed with pieces of pineapple, raisins, and slivered almonds, they were delicious.

It was inconceivable to me that I had been left alone in the house, yet I could not ignore the stillness around me.

It was not the comforting peace one is conscious of when people are purposely being quiet, but rather it was the overwhelming soundlessness of a deserted place.

The possibility that, indeed, I had been abandoned there made me choke on a piece of tamale.

On my way back to Florinda's room, I paused in front of every door I passed.

As I knocked repeatedly, I called out, "Anybody home?"

There was no answer.

I was about to step outside when I distinctly heard someone ask, "Who is calling?"

The voice was deep and raspy, but I could not tell whether it was a man or a woman who had spoken.

And I could not determine from which direction, let alone from which room, the voice had come.

I retraced my steps and called out again at the top of my voice whether anybody was home.

Upon reaching the far end of the corridor, I hesitated for a moment in front of a closed door.

I turned the doorknob, then quietly opened it a crack, and sidled in.

With my eyes tightly shut, I reclined against the wall, and waited for my heartbeat to normalize.

I thought guiltily, "Suppose someone caught me in here." But my curiosity outweighed any sense of wrong-doing as I breathed in the air of mystery and of enchantment that permeated the room.

The heavy, dark curtains were drawn, and the only light came from a tall reading lamp.

Its huge shade, fringed with tassels, cast a circle of yellow light on the chaise lounge by the window.

At the very center of the room stood a four-poster bed. Canopied and curtained, it dominated the space as if it were a throne.

The bronze and wood-carved oriental figurines ensconced on the four round tables in each corner, appeared to stand guard over the room like some celestial deities.

Books, papers, and magazines were piled on the drop-front French desk and on the chest of drawers.

There was no mirror on the kidney-shaped dresser, and instead of a comb and brush, or bottles of perfume and cosmetics, a set of fragile-looking demitasses stood on the glass-topped surface.

Strands of pearls, gold chains, rings, and brooches spilled from the delicate gold-rimmed cups like some abandoned treasure.

I recognized two of the rings. I had seen them on Zoila's hand.

The inspection of the bed I reserved for last.

Almost reverentially, as if indeed it were a throne, I pulled back the curtain and gasped with delight. The brightly colored pillows on the silky green spread made me think of wild flowers in a meadow.

And yet an involuntary shiver shook my body as I stood in the middle of the room.

I could not help but feel that the warmth, the mystery, and the enchantment this room exuded were but an illusion.

The sensation of having stepped into some kind of a mirage was even more pronounced in the next room I explored.

It, too, seemed warm and friendly at first. The very air was tender and loving, and echoes of laugher seemed to bounce off the walls.

However, this atmosphere of warmth was only a tenuous, fleeting impression like the fading sunlight streaking through the glassless, gauze-curtained windows.

As in the other room, the bed dominated the space. It too was canopied and decorated with brightly colored pillows that had been tossed about with absentminded abandon.

Against one wall stood a sewing machine. It was an old hand-painted treadle machine.

Next to it was a tall bookcase. But instead of books, the shelves were stacked with bolts of the finest cottons, silks, and wool gabardine cloth, all neatly arranged by color and fabric.

Six different colored wigs, all stretched over staked gourds, were dislayed on a low table under the window.

Among them was the blond one I had seen Delia Flores wear, and the dark, curly one Mariano Aureliano had pulled over my head outside the coffee shop in Tucson.

The next room was a bit further down from the others and was across the hall.

The last of the afternoon's sun's rays were filtering through a latticed wall, and lay on the floor like a carpet of light and shadows; a wavering square of rectangular patterns.

Compared to the other two rooms, it gave me the impression of being empty.

The few pieces of furniture were so artfully placed it made the space seem larger than it actually was.

Low bookshelves with glass doors lined the walls.

At the far end, in an alcove, stood a narrow bed. The white-and-grey-checkered blanket hung low, and matched the shadows on the floor.

The dainty rosewood secretaire with its delicate chair of ebonized rosewood with ormolu did not detract from the overall sense of starkness of the room but rather enhanced it. I knew that it was Carmela's room.

I would have liked to check the titles of the books behind the glass panels, but my anxiety was too great.

As if someone were chasing me, I dashed out into the corridor and down to the inside patio.

I sat on one of the rush chairs.

I was trembling and perspiring, and yet my hands were icy cold. It was not guilt that had me shaking-- I would not have minded getting caught snooping around-- but rather it was the alien, other-worldly quality that these beautifully furnished rooms exuded.

The stillness that clung about the walls was an unnatural stillness. It had nothing to do with the absence of its inhabitants, but with the absence of feelings and emotions that usually permeate lived-in spaces.

Every time someone had referred to the women as sorceresses and witches, I had inwardly laughed. They neither acted nor looked as I had expected witches to look and act; flamboyantly dramatic and sinister.

But now I knew for certain that they were indeed different from other human beings.

It frightened me that they were different in ways I could not understand; in ways I could not even conceive.

A soft, rasping sound put an end to my disturbing thoughts.

Following the distinctly eerie noise, I tiptoed down the corridor; away from the bedrooms, and toward the other end of the house.

The rasping sound came from a room at the back of the kitchen. I crept up softly, only to have the sound die down the instant I pressed my ear against the door.

It resumed as soon as I moved away.

Puzzled, I once more pressed my ear to the door, and the rasping sound promptly ceased.

I moved back and forth several times, and, as if the rasping sound were dependent on my doings, it either started or stopped.

Determined to find out who was hiding-- or worse, who was purposely trying to frighten me-- I reached for the doorknob.

Unable to open the door, I fumbled for several minutes before I realized that it was locked, and that the key had been left in the lock.

That someone dangerous might have been confined in that room, and for a very good reason, only came to my mind once I was inside.

An oppressive semi-darkness clung about the heavy drawn curtains like something alive that was luring the shadows of the entire house to this enormous room.

The light grew dimmer. The shadows thickened around what appeared to be discarded pieces of furniture and peculiar-looking small and enormous figures made out of wood and metal.

The same rasping sound that had drawn me to this room broke the silence.

Like felines, the shadows prowled about the room as if searching for prey.

In frozen horror, I watched the curtain. It pulsated and breathed like a monster of my nightmares.

All of a sudden, the sound and the movement ceased. The motionless silence was even more frightening.

I turned to leave, and the pulsating, rasping sound began again.

Resolutely, I crossed the room and I pulled back the curtain.

I laughed out loud upon discovering the broken glass pane in the French door. The wind had been alternately sucking and blowing the curtain through the jagged gap.

The fading afternoon light streaming through the half-opened curtain rearranged the shadows in the room and revealed an oval-shaped mirror on the wall; half hidden by one of the odd-looking metal figures.

I squeezed myself between the sculpture and the wall, and gazed rapturously into the old Venetian glass. It was blurry and misty with age, and it distorted my image so grotesquely that I ran out of the room.

I went through the back door and outside the house.

The wide clearing behind the house was deserted.

The sky was still bright, but the tall fruit trees circling the grounds had already turned the color of twilight.

A flock of crows passed overhead. Their black flapping wings extinguished the brightness in the sky, and night swiftly descended into the yard.

With a feeling of utter dejection and despair, I sat on the ground and wept. The harder I cried, the more pleasure I felt from lamenting at the top of my voice.

The sound of a rake jolted me out of my self-pity.

I looked up and saw a slight person raking leaves toward a small fire in the back of the clearing.

As I rushed towards her, I cried out, "Esperanza!" but I stopped abruptly upon realizing that it was not her, but a man.

I mumbled apologetically, "I am sorry. I mistook you for someone else."

I held out my hand and introduced myself.

I tried not to stare at him, but I could not help myself. I was not quite sure that he was not Esperanza disguised as a man.

He put his hand in mine, pressing it softly, and said, "I am the caretaker."

He did not tell me his name, and his hand felt as brittle as a bird's wing in mine.

He was a thin, ancient-looking man. His face was birdlike, too, aquiline and keen-eyed. His white hair was tufted and feathery.

It was not only his slight frame and birdlike appearance that reminded me of Esperanza, but also the wrinkled, expressionless face and his eyes, shiny and limpid as those of a child; and his teeth, small and square and very white.

I asked, "Do you know where Florinda is?"

He shook his head, and I added, "Do you know where any of the others are?"

He was silent for a long moment, and then as though I had not asked him anything, he repeated that he was the caretaker, and said, "I take care of everything."

Eyeing him suspiciously, I asked, "You do?"

He was so frail and puny-looking that he did not seem capable of taking care of anything, including himself.

Smiling sweetly, as if thus he could erase my doubts, he repeated, "I take care of everything."

He was about to say something else, but instead he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, then turned around, and went on raking the leaves into a little pile; with neat, deft, quick movements.

I asked, "Where is everyone?"

Resting his chin on his hand, which was cupped over the end of the rake handle, he glanced at me absently.

Then grinning inanely and looked all around him as though at any moment someone might materialize from behind one of the fruit trees.

Sighing loudly and impatiently, I turned to leave.

He cleared his throat, and in a voice that was wavering and hoarse with old age said, "The old nagual took Isidore Baltazar to the mountains."

He did not look at me. His eyes were focused somewhere in the distance as he said, "They will be back in a couple of days."

I screeched indignantly, "Days! Are you sure you heard them correctly?"

Dismayed that my worst fear had come true, I could only mumble, "How could he have left me here all by myself?"

The old man pulled back a leaf that the wind had blown away from the pile in front of him, and he said, "They left last night."

I contradicted him forcefully, saying, "That is impossible. We only got here last night.

"Late last night," I stressed.

Indifferent to my assertively rude tone and to my presence, the old man set fire to the little pile of leaves in front of him.

I squatted beside him and asked, "Did Isidore Baltazar not leave a message for me? Did he not leave me a note or something?"

I felt an impulse to shout, but for some reason I did not dare.

Some mystifying aspect of the old man's appearance disconcerted me. The thought that he was Esperanza in disguise still nagged me.

I asked, "Did Esperanza go with them to the mountains?"

My voice trembled because suddenly I was seized by a desperate desire to laugh. Short of pulling down his pants and showing me his genitals, there was nothing he could do to convince me that he was indeed a man.

His attention was fixed on the little pile of burning leaves as he murmured, "Esperanza is in the house. She is in the house with the others."

I contradicted him rudely, saying, "Do not be ridiculous. She is not in the house. No one is in the house. I have been searching for them the whole afternoon. I checked every room."

He watched me as intently as he had watched the burning leaves, and repeated obstinately, "She is in the little house."

The glint of mischief in his eyes made me want to kick him.

I began, "What little..." But my voice faded as I remembered the other house; the one I had seen upon our arrival. It actually caused me an intense physical pain to think of that place.

I said peevishly, "You could have told me right away that Esperanza is in the little house."

Surreptitiously, I glanced all around me, but I could not see the place. The tall trees, and the wall beyond, hid it from view.

I rose, and said, "I am going to see if Esperanza is indeed there as you claim."

The old man rose, too, and turning toward the nearest tree, he reached for an oil lamp and a burlap sack hanging from a low branch.

He said, "I am afraid I can not let you go there by yourself."

Piqued, I countered, "I do not see why not. Perhaps you are not aware of it, but I am Florinda's guest.

I paused for a moment, and then added for good measure, "I was taken to the little house last night. I was there for sure."

He listened carefully, but his face looked doubtful.

After a pause, he warned me, "It is tricky to get there. I have to prepare the path for you. I have to..."

He seemed to catch himself in the middle of a thought that he did not want to express. He shrugged, then repeated that he had to prepare the path for me.

I asked irritably, "What is there to prepare? Do you have to cut through the chaparral with a machete?"

He repeated obstinately, "I am the caretaker. I prepare the path."

Then he sat on the ground to light the oil lamp. For an instant it sputtered in the air, but then burned strongly.

His features appeared almost fleshless and unwrinkled as if the light had smoothed away the mark of time.

He said, "As soon as I am done with burning these leaves, I will take you there myself."

Clearly, the man was senile and needed to be humored, so I offered, "I will help you."

I followed him around the clearing and helped him gather the leaves into little piles which he promptly burned.

As soon as the ashes had cooled, he swept them into the burlap sack. The sack was lined with plastic.

It was this particular detail-- the plastic lining-- that brought back to me a half-forgotten childhood memory.

As we swept the heaps of ashes into the sack, I told him that as a small child living in a village near Caracas, I was often awakened by the sound of a rake.

I used to sneak out of bed, and cat-footed, creep down the corridor past my parents' and brothers' rooms into the parlor which faced the plaza.

Heedful of the creaking hinges, I used to open the wooden panels covering the windows and squeeze through the wrought iron bars.

The old man in charge of keeping the plaza clean was always there to greet me with a toothless smile, and together we used to rake into little piles the leaves that had fallen during the night. Any other kind of refuse we would put into trash cans.

We burned these piles, and as soon as the ashes had cooled, we swept them into a silk-lined burlap sack. The old man claimed that the water fairies, dwelling in a sacred stream in the nearby mountains, turned the ashes into gold dust.

Seeing how delighted the caretaker was with my story, I asked, "Do you also know of fairies who change ashes into gold dust?"

He did not answer, but he giggled with such pleasure and abandon that I could not help but laugh, also.

Before I knew it, we had reached the last little pile of ashes next to a recessed, arched doorway built into the wall. The narrow wooden gate stood wide open.

Across the chaparral was the other house almost hidden in shadows.

No light shone through the windows, and it appeared to be shifting away from me.

I wondered whether the house was but a figment of my imagination like a place remembered in a dream, so I blinked repeatedly and rubbed my eyes.

Something was wrong, I decided, as I then recalled walking up to the witches' house the night before with Isidore Baltazar.

The smaller house had stood to the right of the larger one. How then, I asked myself, could I now see the place from the witches' backyard?

In an effort to orient myself, I moved this way and that, but I could not get my bearings. I bumped into the old man who was squatting before the pile of ashes, and fell over him.

With astounding agility he rose, helped me up, and said, "You are full of ashes." He wiped my face with the folded cuff of his khaki shirt.

Suddenly, the elusive house appeared to be only a few steps away, and was sharply focused and silhouetted against the sky. I cried out, "There it is!"

I repeated, "There it is," and I jumped up and down as if by doing so I could hold the house in place; detain it in time.

I said, "That is the true house of the witches."

I stood still in front of the old man so he could proceed with wiping the ashes off my face, and I added, "The big house is but a front."

The old man, savoring his words, said slowly, "The house of the witches." Then, seemingly amused, he cackled.

He swept the last of the ashes into his burlap sack, then motioned me to follow him through the gate.

Two orange trees grew on the other side of the gate, and away from the wall.

A cool breeze rustled through the blooming branches, but the flowers did not stir; nor did they fall to the ground.

Against the dark foliage, the blossoms looked carved as though they had been made of milky quartz.

Like sentinels, the two trees stood guard over the narrow path.

The path was white and very straight, like a line that had been drawn on the landscape with a ruler.

The old man handed me the oil lamp, then scooped out a handful of ashes from his burlap sack and poured them from one hand to the other as though he were weighing them before he sprinkled them onto the ground.

His voice was no longer hoarse, and had an airy quality that sounded energetic and convincing as he said, "Do not ask any questions, and do as I say."

He bent slightly, and walking backwards, he let the rest of the ashes trickle directly from his burlap sack onto the narrow trail.

He admonished me, saying, "Keep your feet on the line of ashes. If you do not, you will never reach the house."

I coughed to hide my nervous laughter.

Holding out my arms, I balanced on the narrow line of ashes as if it were a tightrope.

Each time we stopped for the old man to catch his breath, I turned to look at the house we had just left.

It seemed to be receding into the distance, but the house in front of us did not seem to get any closer.

I tried to convince myself that it was merely an optical illusion, and yet I had the vague certainty that I would never make it on my own to either house.

As if sensing my discomfort, the old man patted my arm reassuringly, and said, "That is why I am preparing the path."

He looked into his burlap sack and added, "It will not be long now before we will get there.

"Just remember to keep your feet on the line of ashes. If you do, you will be able to move back and forth safely; anytime."

My mind told me that the man was a lunatic.

My body, however, knew that I was lost without him and his ashes. I was so absorbed in keeping my feet on the faint line, it took me by surprise when we finally stood in front of the door.

The old man took the oil lamp from my hand, cleared his throat, then rapped lightly on the carved panel with his knuckles.

He did not wait for an answer, but pushed the door open and went inside.

I was afraid to be left behind, and cried out, "Do not go so fast!"

I followed him into a narrow vestibule where he left the oil lamp on a low table.

Then without a word or a backward glance, he opened a door at the far end, and he disappeared into the darkness.

Guided by some vague memory, I stepped into the dimly lit rooom, and went directly to the mat on the floor.

There was no doubt in my mind now that I had been there the night before, and that I had slept on that very mat.

What I was not so sure of was how I had gotten to that room in the first place.

That Mariano Aureliano had carried me on his his back across the chaparral was vivid in my mind.

I was also certain that I had woken up in that room with Clara sitting beside me on the mat before being carried over by the old nagual.

Confident that within moments all would be explained to me, I sat on the mat.

The light in the oil lamp flickered and then went out.

I sensed, rather than saw, things and people moving around me. I heard a murmur of voices and intangible sounds coming from every corner. Out of all these noises, I recognized a familiar rustling of skirts and a soft giggle.

"Esperanza?" I whispered, "God! I am so glad to see you!" Although it was her I expected to see, I was nevertheless stunned when she sat beside me on the mat. Timidly, I touched her arm.

She assured me, "It is me."

Only after hearing her voice was I convinced that it was indeed Esperanza and not the caretaker who had exchanged his khaki pants and shirt for her rustling petticoats and white dress.

And once I felt the soothing touch of her hand on my face, all thoughts of the caretaker vanished.

I asked, "How did I get here?"

She laughed, "The caretaker brought you here. Do you not remember?"

She turned toward the low table, and relit the oil lamp.

I clarified, "I am talking about last night. I know I was here. I woke up on this mat. Clara was here with me. And then Florinda was here, and the other women..."

My voice trailed off as I remembered that I had awoken afterward in the living room of the other house, and then again on a bed.

I shook my head as if I could thus bring some order to my memories.

Forlornly, I gazed at Esperanza, hoping she would fill in the gaps. I told her of the difficulties I was having remembering the night's events in sequential order.

Esperanza said, "You should not have any problems. Get in the track of dreams. You are dreaming-awake now."

I asked mockingly, "You mean that I am asleep now, this very instant?"

Then I leaned toward her and asked, "Are you asleep, too?"

Esperanza enunciated her words carefully, saying, "We are not asleep. You and I are dreaming-awake."

She held up her hands in a helpless gesture, and said, "I told you what to do last year. Remember?"

Then, as if someone had just whispered it into my ear, a rescuing thought suddenly occurred to me.

'When in doubt, one must separate the two tracks; the track for ordinary affairs, and the track for dreams. Each one has a different state of awareness.'

I felt elated, for I knew that the first track one should test is the track of dreams. If the situation at hand does not fit that track, then one is not dreaming.

My elation quickly vanished when I tried to test the track for dreams.

I had no inkling of how to go about it or of what the track for dreams was, for that matter. And worse, I could not remember who had told me about it.

Esperanza, just behind me, said, "I did.

"You have moved a great deal in the realm of dreams.

"You nearly remembered what I told you last year on the day after the picnic.

"I said to you then that, when in doubt about whether you are in a dream or whether you are awake, you should test the track where dreams run on-- meaning the awareness we have in dreams-- by feeling the thing you are in contact with.

"If you are dreaming, your feeling comes back to you as an echo. If it does not come back, then you are not dreaming."

Smiling, she pinched my thigh and said, "Try it on this mat you are lying on. Feel it with your buttocks. If the feeling returns, then you are dreaming."

There was no feeling returning to my numbed buttocks. In fact, I was so numb that I did not feel the mat. It seemed to me I was lying on the rough tiles of the floor.

I had a strong urge to point out to her that it should be the opposite-- if the feeling returns, then one is awake-- but I controlled myself in time.

I knew without any doubt that what she meant by 'the feeling returning to us' had nothing to do with our known, agreed-upon knowledge of what feeling is.

The distinction between being awake and dreaming-awake still eluded me, yet I was certain that its meaning had nothing to do with our ordinary way of understanding awareness.

Right then, however, words came out of my mouth without any control on my part.

I said, "I know that I am dreaming-awake, and that is that."

I sensed that I was near a new, deeper level of understanding, and yet I could not quite grasp it.

I asked, "What I would like to know is, when did I fall asleep?"

"I have already told you, you are not asleep. You are dreaming-awake."

I began to laugh involuntarily, in a quiet, utterly nervous manner.

She did not seem to notice or to care.

I asked, "When did the transition occur?"

Esperanza said, "When the caretaker was making you cross the chaparral and you had to concentrate on keeping your feet on the ashes."

I, in a not altogether pleasant voice, exclaimed, "He must have hypnotized me!"

I began to talk incoherently, and entangled myself in words without quite succeeding in making sense, until finally I was weeping and denouncing them all.

Esperanza watched me silently with her eyebrows lifted, and her eyes wide open in surprise.

I was immediately ashamed of my outburst. But at the same time I was glad I had spoken because a momentary relief-- the kind that comes after a confrontation-- washed over me.

Esperanza continued, "Your confusion originates with your facility to move from one state of awareness into the other with great ease.

"If you had struggled, like everybody else does to attain smooth transitions, then you would know that dreaming-awake is not just hypnosis."

She paused for an instant, then finished softly, saying, "Dreaming-awake is the most sophisticated state humans can attain."

She stared off into the room as if a clearer explanation might suddenly be brought to her by someone hiding in the shadows.

Then she turned to me and asked, "Did you eat your little food?"

Her change of subject took me by surprise, and I began to stammer.

Once I recovered, I told her that I had indeed eaten the sweet tamales. "I was so hungry, I did not bother to heat them up. They were delicious."

Idly playing with her shawl, Esperanza asked me to give her an account of what I had done since I awoke in Florinda's room.

As if I had been given a truth-telling potion, I blurted out more than I intended to reveal, but Esperanza did not seem to mind my snooping around the women's rooms.

She was not impressed with my knowing to whom each room belonged.

What interested her to no end, however, was my encounter with the caretaker.

With a smile of unmistakable glee on her face, she listened as I told my tale of confusing the man with her.

When I mentioned that at one point I considered asking him to pull down his pants so I could check his genitals, she doubled up on the mat, shrieking with laughter.

She leaned against me and whispered suggestively in my ear, "I will put you at ease." There was a wicked gleam in her eyes as she added, "I will show you mine."

I tried to ward her off, saying, "There is no need to, Esperanza. I do not doubt that you are a woman."

She casually dismissed my words, saying, "One can never be too sure what one is."

Oblivious to my embarrassment-- caused not so much by her imminent nudity, but by the thought that I had to look at her old, wrinkled body-- she lay down on the mat, and with great finesse slowly lifted her skirts.

My curiosity won out over my embarrassment.

I stared at her, open-mouthed. She had no panties on. She had no pubic hair. Her body was incredibly young, and the flesh was strong and firm with muscles delicately delineated.

She was all one color; an even, copperish pink. There were no stretch marks on her skin, and no ruptured veins. Nothing marred the smoothness of her stomach and legs.

I reached out to touch her, as if needing to reassure myself that her silky, smooth-looking skin was real, and she opened the lips of her vagina with her fingers.

I averted my face, not so much from embarrassment as from my conflicting emotions.

Nudity, whether male or female, was not the issue for me.

I had grown up quite freely at home. No one was particularly careful to avoid being seen naked.

And while in school in England, I had been invited one summer to spend a couple of weeks in Sweden at a friend's house by the sea. The whole family belonged to a nudist colony, and they all worshiped the sun with every bit of their naked skin.

Seeing Esperanza naked before me was different.

I was aroused in a most peculiar manner. I had never really focused on a woman's sexual organs.

Of course, I had examined myself thoroughly in the mirror, and from every possible angle.

I had also seen pornographic movies, which I had not only disliked, but had found offensive as well.

Seeing Esperanza so intimately was a shattering experience because I had always taken my sexual responses for granted.

I had thought that, as a woman, I could only get aroused with a male.

My overwhelming desire to jump on top of her took me completely by surprise, and was counterbalanced by the fact that I did not have a penis.

When Esperanza suddenly rose from the mat and took off her blouse I gasped out loud, then stared at the floor until the feverish, tingling sensation in my face and neck subsided.

Esperanza demanded impatiently, "Look at me!"

She was completely naked. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed.

Her body was slight, yet bigger and stronger looking than when dressed. Her breasts were full and pointed.

In a soft, alluring tone, she commanded, "Touch them!"

Her words echoed around the room like a disembodied sound, a mesmerizing rhythm that swelled into a throb in the air. It was a pulse of sound I felt rather than heard, and which, little by little, tightened and quickened until it beat fast and hard like the rhythm of my own heart.

Then all I heard and felt was Esperanza's laughter.

I was suddenly suspicious and guilty about my daring, and when I could talk, I asked, "Is the caretaker hiding in here, by any chance?"

"I hope not!" she cried out with such an air of dismay that it made me laugh.

I asked, "Where is he?"

Her eyes opened wide, and then she grinned as though she were going to laugh.

But Esperanza wiped the mirth from her face, and in a serious tone said that the caretaker was somewhere on the grounds. She said that he took care of both houses, but that he did not go around spying on anybody.

I tried to sound skeptical as I asked, "Is he really the caretaker? I do not want to malign him, but he really does not look capable of taking care of anything."

Esperanza giggled and then said that his frailness was deceptive. She assured me, "He is very capable.

"You have to be careful with him. He likes young girls, and especially blond ones."

She leaned closer, and, as if afraid we might be overheard, whispered in my ear, "Did he make a pass at you?"

I defended him, saying, "Heavens no! He was exquisitely polite and helpful. It is just that..."

My voice trailed off into a whisper. My attention had begun to wander in an odd sort of way to the furniture in the room which I could not see because the low-burning oil lamp cast more shadows than light on my surroundings.

When I finally managed to focus my attention back on Esperanza, I was no longer concerned with the caretaker.

All I could think of, and with a persistence I could not shake off, was why Isidore Baltazar had left for the mountains without letting me know, and without leaving me a note.

I turned to Esperanza and asked, "Why would he leave me like that? He must have told someone when he will return."

Seeing her all-knowing smirk, I added belligerently, "I am sure you know what is going on."

Esperanza seemed quite incapable of understanding my plight as she insisted, "I do not.

"I do not concern myself with such things, and neither should you. Isidore Baltazar is gone, and that is that.

"He will be back in a couple of days, in a couple of weeks... Who knows? It all depends on what happens in the mountains."

I shrieked, asking, "It all depends?"

I found her lack of sympathy and understanding abominable as I demanded, "What about me? I can not stay here for weeks."

Esperanza inquired innocently, "Why not?"

I regarded her as if she were demented, then blurted out that I had nothing to wear; that there was nothing for me to do there...

My list of complaints was endless, and they came pouring out until I was exhausted.

I finished by saying, "I simply have to go home to be in my normal milieu."

I felt my inevitable tears, and I did my best to suppress them.

"Normal?" Esperanza repeated the word slowly, as though she were tasting it, then said, "You can leave any time you wish.

"No one is holding you back. It can easily be arranged to get you to the border where you can catch a Greyhound bus bound for Los Angeles."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

I did not want that either.

I did not know what I wanted, but the thought of leaving was unbearable. I somehow knew that if I left I would never find these people again, not even Isidore Baltazar in Los Angeles.

I began to weep uncontrollably. I would not have been able to put it into words, but the bleakness of a life and of a future without them was unbearable to me.

I did not notice Esperanza leaving the room, and I did not notice her coming back. I would not have noticed anything if it were not for the delicious aroma of hot chocolate wafting under my nose.

She assured me, "You will feel better after eating," and she placed a tray in my lap.

Smiling slowly and affectionately, she sat beside me and confided that there is nothing like chocolate to take away one's sadness.

I could not have agree with her more. I took a few hesitant sips and ate several of the buttered, rolled tortillas.

I told her that although I did not really know her or any of her friends, I could not conceive of not ever seeing them again.

I confessed that I felt a freedom and an ease with her and her group that I had never encountered anywhere else before.

It was a strange feeling, I explained, part physical, part psychological, and wholly defiant of analysis.

I could describe it only as a sense of well-being or a certainty that I had finally found a place where I belonged.

Esperanza knew exactly what it was I was trying to express.

She said that having been part of the sorcerers' world even for a short time was addictive.

It was not the amount of time, she stressed, but the intensity of the encounters that mattered. Then she added, "And your encounters have been very intense."

I asked, "Have they?"

Esperanza lifted her eyebrows with sincere surprise, then rubbed her chin in an exaggerated attitude, as though she were deliberating on a problem that had no solution.

After a long silence, she finally pronounced, "You will walk lighter after you fully realize that there is no going back to your old life."

Her voice, though low, had an extraordinary force. Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I knew in that instant what her words meant.

I said softly, "Nothing will ever be the same for me again."

Esperanza nodded, and said, "You will return to the world, but not to your world or to your old life."

She rose from the mat with the abrupt majesty small people command.

She rushed toward the door, only to come to a sudden halt. Turning to look at me, she said, "It is wildly exciting to do something without knowing why we are doing it.

"And it is even more exciting to set out to do something without knowing what the end result will be."

I disagree with her intensely, and declared, "I need to know what I a doing. I need to know what I am getting into."

She sighed, and held up her hands in comical deprecation.

Esperanza spoke harshly, saying, "Freedom is terribly frightening." And before I had a chance to respond, she added gently, "Freedom requires spontaneous acts.

"You have no idea what it is to abandon yourself spontaneously..."

I interjected, "Everything I do is spontaneous. Why do you think I am here? Do you think I deliberated much whether I should come or not?"

She returned to the mat, and stood looking down at me for a long moment before she said, "Of course you did not deliberate about it. But your acts of spontaneity are due to a lack of thought rather than being due to an act of abandon."

She stomped her foot to prevent me from interring her again, and went on, "A real spontaneous act is an act in which you abandon yourself completely, but only after profound deliberation.

"An act where all the pros and cons have been taken into consideration and duly discarded.

"You expect nothing, and you regret nothing.

"With acts of that nature, sorcerers beckon freedom." I pulled at the hem of her dress to prevent her from leaving, and mumbled under my breath, "I am not a sorcerer."

However, Esperanza made it clear that she had no interest in continuing our conversation.

I followed her outside and across the clearing to the path that led to the other house.

As the caretaker had done earlier, she too urged me to keep my feet on the line of ashes. "If you do not," she admonished, "you will fall into the abyss."

I repeated uncertainly, "Abyss?" and I glanced all around me at the mass of dark chaparral extending on either side of us.

A light breeze sprung up. Voices and whispers rose from a dark mass of shadows. Instinctively, I held on to Esperanza's skirt.

Turning to face me, she asked, "Can you hear them?"

I murmured hoarsely, "Who am I supposed to hear?"

Esperanza moved closer, and then, as if afraid we might be overheard, she whispered in my ear, "Surems of another time. They use the wind to wander across the desert; forever awake."

I inquired, "You mean ghosts?"

Esperanza said with a finality, "There are no ghosts," and she started walking again.

I made sure that my feet stayed on the line of ashes, and I did not let go of her skirt until she came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the patio of the big house.

For an instant she hesitated, as though she could not decide to which part of the house she ought to take me.

Then she went up and down the various corridors and turned corners until finally we stepped into an immense room that had escaped my earlier exploration of the house.

The walls were lined to the ceiling with books. At one end of the room stood a sturdy, long, wooden table. At the other end hung a white, flouncy, hand-woven hammock.

I exclaimed, "What a magnificent room! Whose is it?"

Esperanza offered graciously, "Yours."

She went to the wooden chest standing by the door and opened it.

"The nights are cold," she warned, and handed me three thick woolen blankets.

I asked excitedly, "You mean I can sleep in here?"

My whole body shivered with pleasure as I matted the hammock with the blankets, and lowered myself into it.

As a child, I had often slept in a hammock.

Sighing with contentment, I rocked myself back and forth, then pulled in my legs and stretched out luxuriously.

I said, "Knowing how to sleep in a hammock is like knowing how to ride a bicycle. One never forgets how."

But there was no one to hear me. She had left without my noticing it.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 11.


"The moral of my story is that in the sorcerers' world one has to cancel out the ego or it is curtains for us."

...

"..in the world of everyday life, our subjective states are shared by all our fellow men. For this reason, we know at all times what our fellow men would do under given circumstances."

...

"Sorcerers," he went on, "make one see that the whole nature of reality is different from what we believe it to be; that is, from what we have been taught it to be.

"Intellectually, we are willing to tease ourselves with the idea that culture predetermines: who we are, how we behave, what we are willing to know, or what we are able to feel.

"But we are not willing to embody this idea; to accept it as a concrete, practical proposition.

"And the reason for that is that we are not willing to accept that culture also predetermines what we are able to perceive.

...

"Contrary to what people believe," he explained, "sorcerers are not practitioners of obscure esoteric rituals, but stand ahead of our times.

Version 2010.02.10


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 11.

I turned off the light and lay very still in my hammock, lulled by the noises of the house, strange creaking sounds and the trickling of water from an earthenware filter standing outside my door.

Abruptly, I sat up as the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed along the corridor. I thought, "Who could it be at this hour?"

I tiptoed across the room and pressed my ear against the door.

The footsteps were heavy. My heart beat fast and loud as the steps came closer. They stopped in front of my door.

The knock was urgent, and although I was expecting it, it nonetheless startled me. I jumped back, knocking over a chair.

Florinda stepped into the room and asked, "Did you have a nightmare?" She left the door half open, and the light from the corridor shone inside.

Smiling at me, she said mockingly, "I thought you would be happy to hear the sound of my steps. I did not want to sneak up on you."

She straightened up the chair, and draped a pair of khaki pants and a shirt over its backrest.

Florinda said, "Compliments of the caretaker. He says you can keep them."

I repeated, "Keep them?"

I eyed the garments suspiciously. They looked clean and ironed.

I asked, "What is wrong with my jeans?"

Florinda said, "You will be more comfortable in these pants during the long drive to Los Angeles."

I cried out in alarm, saying, "But I do not want to leave! I am staying here until Isidore Baltazar returns."

Florinda laughed, but then seeing that I was about to weep, she said, "Isidore Baltazar is back, but you are welcome to stay longer if you wish."

I blurted out, "Oh, no. I do not."

The anxiety I had felt for the past two days was all but forgotten. So were all the questions I had wanted to ask Florinda.

All I could think of was that Isidore Baltazar was back. I asked, "Can I see him now?"

Florinda stopped me from leaving the room, and said, "I am afraid you can not."

For a moment her statement did not register. I stared at her uncomprehendingly, and she repeated that it was not possible to see the new nagual tonight.

Bewildered, I asked, "Why not? I am sure he would want to see me."

Florinda readily agreed, saying, "I am sure he would. But he is sound asleep, and you can not wake him up."

It was such a fierce refusal that all I could do was stare at her, speechless.

Florinda looked at the floor for a long time, then gazed up at me.

Her expression was sad. For an instant I believed she would relent and take me to see Isidore Baltazar.

Instead, she repeated with sharp finality, "I am afraid you can not see him tonight."

Hastily, as if she were afraid she might still change her mind, she embraced and kissed me, and then left the room.

She switched off the light outside, then turned from the shadows of the corridor to look at me and said, "Go to sleep now."



Tossing and turning, I lay awake for hours.

Close to dawn I finally got up and put on the clothes Florinda had brought me.

They fit me well, except for the pants, which I had to cinch in at the waist with a piece of string since I had no belt with me.

Shoes in hand, I stole down the corridor past the caretaker's room to the back entrance. Mindful of the creaking hinges, I opened the door carefully and only a crack.

It was still dark outside, yet a soft, radiant blue was spreading across the eastern sky.

I ran to the arched doorway built into the wall, and stopped momentarily by the two trees outside it that guarded the path.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of orange blossoms.

Whatever lingering doubts I might have had about crossing the chaparral were dispelled as I dicovered that fresh ashes had been strewn on the ground.

Without another thought I dashed to the other house.

The door was ajar, but I did not go in right away.

I crouched beneath the window and waited for some kind of a sound.

I did not have to wait long before I heard a loud snoring.

I listened for a while and went inside. Guided by that distinct snoring sound, I went directly to the room at the back of the house.

In the darkness I could hardly make out the sleeping form on the straw mat, yet I had no doubt that it was Isidore Baltazar.

Fearing that he might be startled if I were to wake him too suddenly, I returned to the front room and sat on the couch.

I was so excited I could not sit still. I was beside myself with joy thinking that any moment now he would wake up.

Twice I tiptoed back into the room and looked at him. He had turned in his sleep and was no longer snoring.



I must have dozed off on the couch. I sensed through my fitful sleep that someone stood in the room.

I half roused and intended to murmur, "I am waiting for Isidore Baltazar to wake up," but I actually made no sound.

I made a conscious effort to sit up.

I swayed dizzily before I could focus my eyes on the man standing beside me. It was Mariano Aureliano.

I asked him, "Is Isidore Baltazar still asleep?"

The old nagual gazed at me for a long time.

Wondering whether I was dreaming, I boldly reached for his hand. It burnt as if it were on fire, and I dropped it abruptly.

He raised his brows, seemingly surprised by my actions.

As if it cost him a great effort to enunciate his words, he spoke slowly, saying, "You will not be able to see Isidore Baltazar until the morning."

Before I had a chance to say that it was almost morning and that I would wait for Isidore Baltazar on the couch, I felt Mariano Aureliano's burning hand on my back pushing me across the threshold.

He said, "Go back to your hammock."

There was a sudden rush of wind.

I turned around to protest, but Mariano Aureliano was no longer there.

The wind reverberated in my head like a deep gong. The sound grew softer and softer until it was but a bare vibration.

I opened my mouth to prolong the last faint echoes.



It was midmorning when I awoke in my hammock, wearing the clothes Florinda had brought me.

Automatically, and almost without thought, I went outside and across the clearing to the little house.

The door was locked.

I knocked repeatedly and I called out, but there was no answer.

I tried to force the windows open but they too were locked.

I was so shaken I was on the verge of tears.

I ran down the hill to the small clearing beside the road, the only spot where a car could be parked. Isidore Baltazar's van was not there.

I walked along the dirt road for quite some time, looking for fresh tire tracks. There were none.

More confused than ever, I returned to the house.

Knowing that it would be useless to look for the women in their rooms, I stood in the middle of the inside patio and yelled for Florinda at the top of my voice.

There was no sound, except for the echo of my own voice settling around me.

No matter how many times I reviewed what Florinda had said, I could not come up with a satisfying explaination.

The only thing I could be sure of was that Florinda had come to my room in the middle of the night to bring me the clothes I was wearing. Her visit and her statement that Isidore Baltazar was back must have triggered a vivid dream in me.

To stop myself from speculating why I was alone in the house-- not even the caretaker seemed to be about-- I began to mop the floors.

Cleaning always had a soothing effect on me. I was done with all the rooms including the kitchen when I heard the distinct sound of a Volkswagen engine.

I ran down the hill and flung myself at Isidore Baltazar even before he got out of the van-- almost jerking him to the ground.

He put his arms around me in a tight embrace, and laughed, "I still can not get over it. You were the one the nagual told me so much about. Do you know that I nearly passed out when they greeted you?"

He did not wait for my comment. He hugged me again, and laughing, lifted me off the ground.

Then, as if some restraint had broken free within him, he began to talk nonstop.

He said that he had known about me for a year. The nagual had told him that he was entrusting a weird girl to him.

The nagual had described that girl metaphorically as 'twelve o'clock in the morning of a clear day which is neither windy nor calm, neither cold nor hot, but alternates between all those, driving one nuts.'

Isidore Baltazar confessed that being the pompous ass that he was, he knew instantaneously that the nagual was referring to his girlfriend.

I cut him short by asking, "Who is your girlfriend?"

He made a sharp movement with his hand, as if positively displeased by my words.

He snapped, "This is not a story of facts. This is a story of ideas so that you would see how idiotic I am."

His annoyance quickly gave way to a brilliant smile. "I actually believed I could find out for myself who that girl was." He paused for an instant, and then added softly, "I had even involved a married woman with children in my search."

He heaved a deep sigh then grinned and said, "The moral of my story is that in the sorcerers' world one has to cancel out the ego or it is curtains for us; for in that world, there is no way for average persons like ourselves to predict anything."

Then, seeing that I was weeping, he held me off at arm's length and gazed at me anxiously. He asked, "What is the matter, nibelunga?"

I laughed in between my sobs, dried my tears, and said, "Nothing really."

I added cynically, "I do not have an abstract mentality that can worry about the world of abstract stories."

In as hard a tone as I could muster, I added, "I worry about the here and now. You have got no idea what I have been through in this house."

He retorted with deliberate harshness, "Of course, I have a very good idea. I have been at it for years."

He regarded me with an inquisitor's eye and asked, "What I want to know is, why did you not tell me you had been with them already?"

In confusion, I mumbled, "I was about to, but I did not feel it was important."

Then my voice acquired a firm and steady ring as words poured involuntarily out of me. I said, "It turns out that meeting them was the only important thing I have ever done."

To hide my surprise, I immediately began to complain that I had been left in the house all by myself.

With a sudden irrepressible smile, he whispered, "I did not have a chance to let you know that I was off to the mountains with the nagual."

I assured him, "I forgot all about that. I am talking about today.

"This morning when I awoke, I expected you to be here. I was certain you had spent the night in the little house, sleeping on a straw mat. When I could not find you, I panicked."

Seeing his puzzled face, I told him of Florinda's midnight visit, of my subsequent dream, and of finding myself alone in the house upon awakening this morning.

I sounded incoherent. My thoughts and words were all mixed up. However, I could not stop talking.

I finally put an end to my diatribe by saying, "There are so many things I cannot accept. Yet I cannot refute them either."

Isidore Baltazar did not say a word. He kept staring at me with his eyebrows raised in an inquiring, mocking arch; as if expecting me to continue.

His face was thin and drawn and the color of smoke. His skin exuded a strange coolness and a faint scent of earth, as if he had spent his days underground in a cave.

All thought of my turmoil vanished as I gazed into his ominous left eye, with its terrible, merciless gaze.

At that moment it no longer mattered what the authentic truth was nor what the illusion was-- the dream within a dream.

I laughed out loud, feeling as light as the wind. I could feel an unbearable weight being lifted off my shoulders as I kept staring into his wizard's eye.

I recognized the eye that mirrors emptiness. Florinda, Mariano Aureliano, Esperanza, and the caretaker all had such an eye. Preordained for all time to be without feeling and without emotion.

Then, as if his eye had revealed enough, an inside lid-- as in a lizard's eye-- shut over his left pupil.

Before I had a chance to comment on his wizard's eye, Isidore Baltazar closed both eyes for an instant.

When he opened them again, they were exactly alike; dark and shiny with laughter; the wizard's eye but an illusion.

He put one arm around my shoulders, and walked with me up the hill.

Just before reaching the house, he said, "Get your things. I will wait for you in the car."

I thought it odd that he would not come in with me, but at the time I did not think of asking him why.

Only as I was gathering my few belongings did it occur to me that perhaps he was afraid of the women.

But then that possibility made me laugh out loud because I suddenly knew, with a certainty that astonished me, that the only thing Baltazar was not afraid of was women.

I was still laughing when I reached the van at the bottom of the hill.

I opened my mouth to explain to Isidore Baltazar the cause of my mirth, when a strange, fierce emotion flooded me; a stab so strong I could not speak.

What I felt was not sexual passion. Neither was it platonic affection. And it was not the feeling I felt for my parents or brothers or friends.

I simply loved Isidore Baltazar with a love that was untainted by any expectation, doubts, or dread.

As if I had spoken out loud, Isidore Baltazar embraced me so fiercely I could hardly breathe.

We drove off very slowly.

I craned my neck out the window; hoping to catch a glimpse of the caretaker amidst the fruit trees.

I slumped back in my seat, and mused, "It feels odd to leave like this. In a way Florinda said goodbye to me last night. But I wish I could have thanked Esperanza and the caretaker."

The dirt road wound around the hill, and as we reached a sharp bend, the back of the little house came into view.

Isidore Baltazar stopped the car and turned off the engine. He pointed to the frail old man sitting on a crate in front of the house.

I wanted to get out of the car and run up the hill, but Isidore Baltazar held me back.

He whispered, "Just wave at him."

The caretaker rose from the crate. The wind made his loose jacket and pants flap against his limbs, as if they were wings.

He laughed out loud, then bent backwards, and seemingly with the wind's momentum did a double back flip.

For a moment he appeared to be suspended high in the air.

He never landed on the ground but vanished, as if the wind had sucked him away.

I whispered in awe, "Where did he go?"

Isidore Baltazar giggled with childlike delight, saying, "To the other side. That was his way of saying good-bye to you."

He set the car in motion again.

As if he were baiting me, he glanced at me mockingly from time to time. He finally asked, "What is it that is troubling you, nibelunga?"

I said accusingly, "You know who he is, do you not? He is not the caretaker, is he?"

Isidore Baltazar frowned slightly, then after a long silence he reminded me that, for me, the nagual Juan Matus was Mariano Aureliano.

He assured me that there must be a good reason that I knew him under that name. He said, "I am sure there is an equally sound justification for the old man not to reveal his name to you."

I argued that, since I knew who Mariano Aureliano was, I did not see the purpose of the old man's pretension.

Smugly, I stressed, "And, I do know who the caretaker is."

I glanced sideways to see Isidore Baltazar's reaction, but his face revealed nothing.

He said, "Like all the people in the sorcerers' world, the caretaker is a sorcerer, But you do not know who he is."

He turned to me briefly, then fixed his attention again on the road, and said, "After all these years, I do not know who any of them really is; including the nagual Juan Matus.

"As long as I am with him, I think I know who he is. The moment his back is turned, however, I am at a loss."

Almost dreamily, Isidore Baltazar went on to say that in the world of everyday life, our subjective states are shared by all our fellow men.

For this reason, we know at all times what our fellow men would do under given circumstances.

I shouted, "You are wrong. You are deadly wrong. Not to know what our fellow men would do under given circumstances is what is exciting about life.

"That is one of the few exciting things left. Do not tell me you want to do away with it."

Isidore Baltazar explained patiently, "We do not know what our fellow men would exactly do, but we could write down a list of possibilities which would hold true; a very long list, I grant you, yet a finite list.

"In order to write down this list, we do not have to ask our fellow men for their preferences. All we have to do is place ourselves in their position, and write down the possibilities pertinent to us. Those will be true to everybody because we share them. Our subjective states are shared by all of us."

He said that our subjective knowledge of the world is known to us as common sense.

It might be slightly different from group to group, and from culture to culture, yet in spite of all these differences, common sense is sufficiently homogeneous to warrant the statement that the everyday world is an intersubjective world.

Isidore Baltazar stressed, "With sorcerers, however, the common sense we are accustomed to is no longer in operation. They have another kind of common sense because they have other kinds of subjective states."

I asked, "Do you mean that they are like beings from another planet?"

Isidore Baltazar laughed, and said, "Yes. They are like beings from another planet."

I asked, "Is that why they are so secretive?"

He remarked thoughtfully, "I do not think secretive is the right term. They deal differently with the everyday world.

"Their behavior appears secretive to us because we do not share the same meaning.

"And since we do not have any standards to measure what is common sense to them, we opt for believing that their behavior is secretive."

I interjected, "They do whatever we do. They sleep. They cook their meals. They read. Yet I could never catch them in the act. Believe me, they are secretive."

Smiling, he shook his head, and he insisted, "You saw what they wished you to see. And yet they were not hiding anything from you. You could not see. That is all."

I was about to contradict him, but I did not want him to dislike me.

It was not so much that I felt he was right because I really did not understand what he was talking about. Rather, I felt that all my snooping around had not given me a clue as to who these people were or what they did.

Sighing, I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the backrest.

As we drove, I told him again of my dream; how real it was to have seen him asleep, snoring on the straw mat. I told him of my conversation with Mariano Aureliano; the heat of his hand.

The more I spoke, the more I was convinced that it had not been a dream at all. I drove myself into such a state of agitation I ended up weeping.

Finally I said, "I do not know what they did to me. Florinda kept telling me that I was dreaming-awake.

"I am not quite sure whether I am awake or dreaming even now."

Isidore Baltazar nodded, then said softly, "The nagual Juan Matus refers to it with me as 'heightened awareness'."

I repeated, "Heightened awareness."

The words rolled easily off my tongue even though they sounded exactly the opposite of dreaming-awake.

I vaguely remembered hearing them before. Either Florinda or Esperanza had used the term, but I could not recall in what connection.

The words were on the verge of suggesting some meaning, albeit vague, but my brain was already too dulled by my unsuccessful attempts to recount my daily activities at the witches' house.

Regardless of how hard I tried, there were certain episodes I could not recall.

I fumbled for words that somehow paled and died away in front on my very eyes, like a vision half seen and half remembered.

It was not that I had forgotten anything, but rather that images came to me fragmented like pieces in a puzzle that did not quite fit.

This forgetfulness was a physical sensation as if a fog had settled over certain parts of my brain.

I said, "So dreaming-awake and heightened awareness are the same?"

More than a question, that was a statement whose meaning escaped me.

I shifted in my seat, pulled my legs under me, and sat facing Isidoro Baltazar.

The sun outlined his profile. His black curly hair falling over his high forehead, his sculpted cheekbones, his strong nose and chin, and finely chiseled lips gave him a Roman appearance.

I said, "I must still be in heightened awareness. I never noticed you before."

The car swayed on the road as he threw his head back and laughed.

He slapped his thigh, and stated, "You are definitely dreaming-awake. Do you not remember that I am short, brown, and homely looking?"

I giggled. Not because I agreed with his description, but because it was the only thing I remembered him saying in the lecture he gave the day I formally met him.

My merriment was quickly replaced by an odd anxiety. It seemed that months had passed, instead of only two days, since we came to the house of the witches.

As if I had spoken out loud, Isidore Baltazar said, "Time passes differently in the sorcerers' world. And we experience it differently."

He went on to say that one of the most difficult aspects of his apprenticeship was dealing with sequences of events in terms of time. Often they were all mixed up in his mind; confused images that sank deeper whenever he tried to focus on them.

He said, "Only now, with the nagual's help, do I remember aspects and events of his teachings that took place years ago."

I asked, "How does he help you? Does he hypnotize you?"

He said, "He makes me shift levels of awareness. And when he does, it is not only that I remember past events, but I relive them."

I insisted, "How does he do that? I mean, make you shift?"

He answered, "Until recently I believed that it was accomplished by a sharp pat on my back, between my shoulder blades.

"But now I am quite certain that his mere presence makes me shift levels of awareness."

I insisted again, "Then he does hypnotize you?"

He shook his head, and said, "Sorcerers are experts at shifting levels of awareness. Some are so adept that they can shift the level of awareness of others."

I nodded. Already I had numerous questions, but he gestured for patience.

He went on, "Sorcerers make one see that the whole nature of reality is different from what we believe it to be; that is, from what we have been taught it to be.

"Intellectually, we are willing to tease ourselves with the idea that culture predetermines who we are, how we behave, what we are willing to know, or what we are able to feel.

"But we are not willing to embody this idea and accept it as a concrete, practical proposition.

"And the reason for that is that we are not willing to accept that culture also predetermines what we are able to perceive.

"Sorcery makes us aware of different realities and different possibilities-- not only about the world, but also about ourselves-- to the extent that we no longer are able to believe in even the most solid assumptions about ourselves and our surroundings."

I was surprised that I could absorb his words so easily, when I did not really understand them.

He went on, "A sorcerer is not only aware of different realities, but he or she uses that knowledge in practicalities.

"Sorcerers know-- not only intellectually but also practically-- that reality, or the world as we know it, consists only of an agreement extracted out of every one of us.

"That agreement could be made to collapse, since it is only a social phenomenon. And when it collapses, the whole world collapses with it."

Seeing that I could not follow his argument, he tried to present it from another angle.

He said that the social world defines perception to us in proportion to its usefulness in guiding us through the complexity of experience in everyday life.

The social world sets limits to what we perceive; sets limits to what we are capable of perceiving.

He stressed, "To a sorcerer, perception can go beyond these agreed-upon parameters. These parameters are constructed and buttressed by words, by language, and by thoughts. In other words, by agreement."

In an effort to understand his premise, I tentatively asked, "And sorcerers do not agree?"

Beaming at me, he said, "They do agree, but their agreement is different.

"Sorcerers break the normal agreement; not only intellectually, but also physically, or practically, or whatever one wants to call it.

"Sorcerers collapse the parameters of socially determined perception. But to understand what sorcerers mean by that, one has to become a practitioner.

"That is, one has to be committed. One has to lend the mind as well as the body.

"It has to be a conscious, fearless surrender."

I immediately wondered what kind of ritual might be involved and I asked suspiciously, The body? What do they want with my body?"

Isidore Baltazar laughed, and said, "Nothing, nibelunga."

Then, in a serious yet kind tone, he added that neither my body nor my mind was yet in any condition to follow the arduous path of the sorcerer.

Seeing that I was about to protest, he quickly allowed that there was nothing wrong with either my mind or my body.

I interjected forcefully, "Wait a minute now!"

Isidore Baltazar ignored my interruption and went on to say that the world of sorcerers is a sophisticated world; that it was not enough to understand its principles intuitively. One also needed to assimilate them intellectually.

He explained, "Contrary to what people believe, sorcerers are not practitioners of obscure esoteric rituals, but rather, they stand ahead of our times.

"And the mode of our time is reason. We are reasonable men as a whole.

"Sorcerers, however, are beings that reason, which is a different matter altogether. Sorcerers have a romance with ideas.

"They have cultivated reason to its limits, for they believe that only by fully understanding the intellect can they embody the principles of sorcery without losing sight of their own sobriety and integrity.

"This is where sorcerers differ drastically from us. We have very little sobriety and even less integrity."

He glanced at me briefly and smiled.

I had the unpleasant impression that he knew exactly what I was thinking, or rather, that I could not think at all.

I had understood his words, but their meaning had eluded me.

I did not know what to say. I did not even know what to ask.

For the first time in my life, I felt utterly stupid.

It did not make me feel inadequate, though, for I realized that he was right. My interest in intellectual matters had always been shallow and superficial. To have a romance with ideas was a totally alien concept to me.

We were at the U.S. border in Arizona in a few hours, yet the drive was unwarrantedly exhausting.

I wanted to talk, but I did not know what to say-- or rather, I could not find the words to express myself.

I felt somehow intimidated by all that had happened. It was a new feeling for me.

Sensing my uncertainty and discomfort, Isidoro Baltazar began to talk.

In a candid manner, he admitted to being baffled by the sorcerers' world even to this day, and even after so many years of studying and interacting with them.

He said, "And when I say studying, I really mean studying."

He laughed and slapped his thigh to emphasize his statement.

He said, "Only this morning I was clobbered by the sorcerers' world in ways impossible to describe."

He spoke in a tone that was half assertion and half complaint, yet there was such a delighted power in his voice; some wonderful inner strength in him, that I felt uplifted.

He gave me the impression that he could do anything, endure anything, and allow nothing to matter.

I sensed a will in him and an ability to overcome all obstacles.

He said, "Imagine, I really thought I was gone with the nagual for only two days."

Laughing, he turned to me and shook me with his free hand.

I had been so absorbed by the sound and the vitality of his voice, that I failed to understand what he was talking about.

I asked him to repeat what he had said. He did, and I still missed what he meant.

I was suddenly irritated by my inability to grasp what he was trying to tell me, and I finally said, "I do not get what is exciting you so much. You were gone for two days. What of it?"

He loudly exclamed,"What?" This made me jump in my seat, and I banged my head on the roof of the van.

He peered straight into my eyes but did not say a word.

I knew he was not accusing me of anything, yet I felt that he was making fun of my moroseness, my changing moods, or my lack of attention.

He parked the car on the side of the road, turned off the engine, then shifted in his seat to face me.

There was a nervous excitement in his voice-- a restlessness and vitality-- as he said, "And now I want you to tell me all you have experienced."

He assured me that the sequential order of events did not mean a thing.

His compelling, engaging smile was so reassuring, I told him at length all I remembered.

He listened attentively, chuckling from time to time, urging me with a movement of his chin every time I faltered.

When I finished, he said, "So, all this has happened to you in..."

He paused, gazing at me with shining eyes, then casually added, "two days?"

I said firmly, "Yes."

He crossed his arms over his chest in an expansive gesture.

He said, "Well, I have news for you."

The merry look in his eyes belied the seriousness of his tone and the set expression of his straight lips.

He continued, "I have been gone for twelve days. But I thought it was only two.

"I thought you were going to appreciate the irony of it because you had kept a better count of time. You did not, though. You are just like me. We have lost ten days."

Bewildered, I mumbled, "Ten days."

I turned to look out the window.

I did not say a word for the rest of the trip. It was not that I did not believe him. And it was not that I did not want to talk.

There was nothing for me to say-- even after I bought the L.A. Times in the first newsstand that carried it, and I corroborated that, indeed, I had lost ten days.

But were they really lost?

I asked myself that question, yet I did not wish a reply.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 12.


That enables us to see ourselves and our surroundings for what they really are; breathtaking events that bloom into transitory existence once, and are never to be repeated again.

...

Smiling, she said, "There is nothing any one of us would do to keep you against your will in this magical world.

"And yet we would do any imaginable or unimaginable thing to help you stay in it."

...

"The only thing I cannot and will not do, and neither will Isidore Baltazar for that matter, is to help you be your old ugly, greedy, indulgent self. That would be a travesty."

Version 2010.02.10


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 12.

Isidoro Baltazar's office-studio consisted of one rectangular room overlooking a parking lot, a small kitchen, and a pink-tiled bathroom. He took me there the night we returned from Sonora.

We had driven nonstop the whole way; alternating with each other at the wheel, and pausing only to eat or fill up the gas tank.

Too exhausted to notice anything, I followed him up the two flights of stairs, along a darkly carpeted corridor to apartment number 8. The instant my head hit the pillow, I was asleep and dreamt that we were still on the road.

The apartment was sparsely furnished. Beside the twin bed, he had a long, masonite folding picnic table that served as his desk, a folding chair, and two metal filing cabinets in which he kept his field notes. Several suits and half a dozen shirts hung in the two big closets in the hall. The rest of the space was taken up by books. They were stacked up in piles. There were no bookcases. The books appeared to have never been touched, let alone read. The cupboards in the kitchen were also crammed with books, except for one shelf, which had been set aside for a plate, a mug, a knife, a fork, and a spoon. On the gas stove stood a kettle and a saucepan.

Within three weeks I found myself a new apartment, about a mile down the street from the UCLA campus, and right around the corner from his office-studio.

Yet I continued to spend most of my time at his place. He set up a second twin bed for me, a card table, and a folding chair-- identical to his-- at the other end of the room.

In the six months that followed, Sonora became a mythological place for me. Having no longer any desire to block away my experiences, I juxtaposed the memories of the two times I had been there. But hard as I tried, I could not remember a thing about the eleven days I had lost-- one during the first trip, and ten during the second.

Isidoro Baltazar plainly refused even to mention the idea of having lost those days.

At times, I was in total agreement with him. The absurdity of considering those days lost simply because I could not remember them became so plain to me that I was filled with gratitude toward him for attaching no importance to the matter. It was clear that he was protecting me.

At other times, however, for no reason at all, I nursed a deep resentment. It was his duty to help me and to clarify the mystery for me. I repeated this to myself, until I was convinced he was purposely hiding things from me.

He finally said one day, "You will drive yourself nuts if you keep harping on it. And all your turmoil will be for nothing, because it will resolve nothing."

He hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to voice what he was about to say next, then shrugged and added in a challenging tone, "Why do you not use the same energy in a more practical manner, like lining up and examining your bad habits."

Instead of admitting to such a notion, I immediately counter-attacked with the other complaint that had been brewing inside me. I still had not met the other young women who had been entrusted to him by the old nagual.

Isidoro Baltazar had told me so much about them that I felt I already knew them. Whenever I had asked him about them, he had answered my questions at great length.

He spoke rapturously about them.

With profound and obviously sincere admiration he had said that an outsider would describe them as attractive, intelligent, accomplished-- they possessed advanced university degrees-- self-assured, and fiercely independent.

To him, however, they were much more than that. They were magical beings who shared his destiny. They were linked to him by ties of affection and commitment that had nothing to do with the social order.

They all shared in common their search for freedom.

Once, I even gave him an ultimatum. "You have got to take me to them, or else."

Isidoro Baltazar laughed gaily-- a deep, chuckling laugh-- and said, "All I can tell you is that nothing is as you imagine.

"And there is no way to tell when you will finally meet them. You will just have to wait."

I shouted, "I have waited long enough!"

But seeing no reaction on his face, I added derisively, "You are deluding yourself if you believe that I will find a bunch of women in Los Angeles. I do not even know where to start looking."

He stated, "You will find them the way you found me; the way you found Mariano Aureliano."

I regarded him suspiciously. I could not help but suspect that there was a sort of secret malice about him.

I pointed out peevishly, "I was not looking for you. Nor was I looking for Mariano Aureliano. Believe me, meeting you and him was purely accidental."

He noted casually, "There are no accidental meetings in the sorcerers' world."

I was on the verge of telling him that I did not need this kind of advice, when he added in a serious voice, "You will meet them when the time is right. You do not have to go looking for them."

Facing the wall, I counted to ten, then turned toward him smiling and said sweetly, "The problem with you is that you are a typical Latin. Tomorrow is always good enough for you. You have no concept of getting things done."

I raised my voice to prevent him from interrupting me, saying, "My insistence on meeting your friends is to speed things up."

He repeated uncomprehendingly, "To speed things up? What is there to speed up?"

I reminded him, "You have been telling me almost daily that there is so little left. You, yourself, are always talking about how important it is for me to meet them, and yet you act as if you had an eternity before you."

Impatiently, he said, "I tell you this constantly because I want you to hurry and clean your inner being; not because I want meaningless acts done as fast as you can.

"It is not up to me to introduce them to you. If it were up to me, I would not be sitting here listening to your inanities."

He closed his eyes and sighed exaggeratedly in mock resignation.

Then he smiled, and mumbled softly, "You are too dumb to see what is happening."

Stung by his insult, I retorted, "Nothing is happening. I am not as stupid as you think.

"I have noticed this air of ambivalence about your reactions toward me. Sometimes I have the distinct impression that you do not know what to do with me."

He contradicted me, "I know exactly what to do."

Words escaped me as if of their own accord as I said, "Then why do you always appear undecided when I propose something?"

Isidore Baltazar looked sharply at me. For a moment I expected that he would attack me with those quick, harsh words he could use, and would demolish me with some sharp criticism.

But his voice was surprisingly gentle when he said that I was quite right in my assessment.

He affirmed, "I always wait till events make a choice for me, and then I move with speed and vigor. I will leave you behind if you do not watch out."

I said in a self-pitying tone, "I am already far behind. Since you will not help me find these women, I am doomed to remain behind."

He said, "But that is not the real pressing problem. You have not yet made your decision. That is the trouble."

He lifted his brows expectantly as if waiting for my impending outburst.

I responded, "I do not know what you mean. What is it I have to decide?"

He replied, "You have not decided to join the sorcerers' world. You are standing at the threshold looking in, and waiting to see what is going to happen. You are waiting for something practical that will make it worth your while."

Words of protest rose in my throat. But before I could give vent to my profound indignation, he said that I had the mistaken idea that moving into a new apartment and leaving my old life-style behind was a change.

I asked sarcastically, "What is it then?"

Ignoring my tone, he said, "You have not left anything behind except your belongings. For some people that would be a gigantic step. For you, though, it is nothing. You do not care about possessions."

I agreed, "No, I do not."

I then insisted that regardless of what he believed, I had made my decision to join the sorcerers' world a long time ago. I asked, "Why do you think I am sitting here if I have not joined yet?"

He stated, "You may have certainly joined it in body, but not in spirit. Now you are waiting for some kind of map; some comforting blueprint before you make your final decision. Meanwhile, you will go on humoring them.

"The main problem with you is that you want to be convinced that the sorcerers' world has something to offer."

"Does it not?" I blurted out.

Isidoro Baltazar turned to me, his face crinkling with delight, and said, "Yes, it has something very special to offer. It is called freedom. However, there is no guarantee that you will succeed in attaining it; that any of us, for that matter, will succeed."

I nodded thoughtfully, then asked him what I had to do to convince him that I had indeed joined the sorcerers' world.

He replied, "You do not have to convince me. You have to convince the spirit. You have to close the door behind you."

I asked, "What door?"

He said,"The one you still keep open. The door that will permit you to escape if things are not to your liking or do not fit your expectations."

I insisted, "Are you saying that I will leave?"

He regarded me with an enigmatic expression, then shrugged his shoulders and in a voice that was but a mere murmur he said, "That is between you and the spirit."

I started to ask, "But if you yourself believe that--"

He cut me short, saying, "I do not believe anything. You came into this world the way everybody else did. It was none of anybody's doing. And it will be none of anybody's doing if you or anyone else decides to leave."

I gazed at him in confusion, and stammered, "But surely you will try to convince... if I..."

He shook his head before I had finished speaking, and said, "I will not convince you or anyone else. There will be no power in your decision if you need to be propped up every time you falter or doubt."

Stricken, I asked, "But who will help me?"

He replied, "I will. I'm your servant."

He smiled without cynicism, shyly and sweetly, and said, "But I serve the spirit first.

"A warrior is not a slave but rather a servant of the spirit. Slaves have no choice. Servants do.

"A warriors' choice is to serve impeccably.

He continued, "My help is exempt from calculation. I cannot invest in you, and neither, of course, can you invest in me or in the sorcerers' world.

"This is the basic premise of that world. Nothing is done in it that might be construed as useful. Only strategic acts are permitted.

"This is what the nagual Juan Matus taught me and the way I live: A sorcerer practices what he or she preaches. And yet nothing is done for practical reasons. When you get to understand and practice this, you will have closed the door behind you."

A long, breathless silence settled between us. I changed positions on the bed where I was sitting. Thoughts swarmed into my head.

Perhaps none of the sorcerers would believe me, but I had certainly changed; a change that had been almost imperceptible at first. I noticed it because it had to do with the most difficult thing some of us women can encounter.

Jealousy and the need to know.

My old fits of jealously were a pretense, and not necessarily a conscious one. But nevertheless there was something of a posturing about them. Something in me demanded that I be jealous of all the other women in Isidore Baltazar's life.

But then something in me was keenly aware that the new nagual's life was not the life of an ordinary man, and not even a man who might have many wives.

Our relation, if it could be called that, did not fit into any kind of habitual, known mold no matter how I tried to make it fit into that mold. In order for jealousy and possessiveness to have a grasp, it needs a mirror. And not only one's own mirror, but one's partner's as well.

And Isidore Baltazar no longer mirrored the drives, needs, feelings, and emotions of a man.

Yet, my need to know about Isidore Baltazar's life was an overpowering need. It simply consumed me that he never allowed me a real entry into his private world.

But I did nothing about it. I often reminded myself that it would have been quite simple to follow him, or to snoop through his papers and find out once and for all who he really was.

But I could not do it. Something in me knew that I could not proceed with him as I normally would have done.

What stopped me, more than any sense of propriety, was the trust he had bestowed on me. He had given me complete access to his belongings, and that made him, not only in practice but even in my thoughts, inviolable.

I laughed out loud. I did understand what a warrior's strategic act was. Isidore Baltazar was wrong. He was taking my lifelong habit of moodiness and Germanic finickiness as lack of commitment.

It did not matter. I knew that I had at least begun to understand and practice the warrior's strategy-- at least when he was present-- not necessarily present in the studio, but present in Los Angeles.

In his absence, however, I often began to falter. And when I did, I usually went to sleep in his studio.



One night, as I was inserting my key in the lock, I felt an arm reach out and pull me in.

I screamed in terror. "What... what...," I stammered as the hand that was holding my arm let go of me.

Trying to regain my balance, I leaned against the wall. My heart thumped wildly.

I stared at her, bewildered, "Florinda!" She had on a long robe, gathered at the waist. Her hair hung loose down the sides and back.

I wondered whether she was real or merely a shadowy apparition rimmed by the faint light behind her shoulders. I moved toward her, and I surreptitiously touched her sleeve.

I said, "Is that you, Florinda? Or am I dreaming?"

"It is the real thing, dear. The real me."

I was well aware of the futility of it, but asked, "How did you get here? Are you all by yourself?"

I tryied to smile, but my lips stuck to my teeth as I said, "Had I known that you would come, I would have started earlier with my cleaning. I love to clean Isidore Baltazar's studio at night. I always clean at night."

Instead of making any remark, Florinda turned sideways, so the light hit her face.

A wicked smile of delight dawned in her eyes as she said, "I told you never to follow any one of us or come uninvited. You are lucky. You are lucky it was not someone else who pulled you in here tonight."

I asked with a bravado I was far from feeling, "Who else could have pulled me in?"

Florinda gazed at me for a moment longer, then turned around and said over her shoulder, "Someone who would not have cared if you had died of fright."

She moved her head slightly, so her profile was outlined by the faint light. She laughed softly, and, waving her hand in the air as if to brush away the words.

She traveled the length of the room to the small kitchen. She seemed not to walk but to glide in a sort of undeliberate dance. It made her long white hair, hanging unbraided down her back, shimmer like a silvery curtain in the uncertain light.

Trying to imitate her graceful walk, I followed behind her. I said, "I do have a key, you know. I have been coming here every day, at any hour, since we returned from Sonora. In fact, I practically live here."

Florinda's tone was even and almost casual as she asked, "Did Isidore Baltazar not tell you not to come here while he is in Mexico?"

She was not accusing me, yet I felt she was.

I remarked with studied indifference, "He might have mentioned something."

Seeing that she frowned, I felt compelled to defend myself. I told her that I was often there by myself and that I did not think it would make any difference whether Isidore Baltazar was five miles or five hundred miles away.

Emboldened by her repeated nods, I confided that besides doing my schoolwork there, I spent hours rearranging the books in the closets. I had been restacking them by author and subject matter.

I explained. "Some of the books are so new the pages are still uncut. I have been separating them. In fact, that is what I came here to do tonight."

She exclaimed, "At three in the morning?"

Blushing, I nodded and said, "There are plenty of pages still to cut. It takes forever in that one has to be very careful not to damage the pages. It is soothing work, though. It helps me sleep."

Florinda said softly, "Extraordinary."

Encouraged by her obvious approval, I went on talking. I said, "I am sure you can understand what being here does to me.

"In this apartment, I feel detached from my old life, and from everything and everyone but Isidore Baltazar and his magical world. The very air fills me with a sense of utter remoteness."

I sighed, long and loudly. "Here I never feel alone, even though most of the time I am here by myself. Something about the atmosphere of this apartment reminds me of the witches' house.

"That same coldness and lack of feeling, which at first I had found so disturbing, permeates the walls. And it is precisely this lack of warmth and this remoteness that I seek day and night. I find it oddly reassuring. It gives me strength."

As if in disbelief, Florinda whispered, "Incredible."

She took the kettle to the sink, said something which I did not hear above the splash of water, and then put the water-filled kettle on the stove.

Florinda sighed dramatically, and said, "I am so happy that you feel so at home here.; the security you must feel in such a little nest, knowing you have a companion."

She added in a most facetious tone that I should do everything I could to make Isidore Baltazar happy and that included sexual practices which she described with horrendous directness.

Stupefied to hear such things, I stared at her open-mouthed. With the assuredness and efficiency of someone familiar with the peculiar setup of the kitchen, she produced the two mugs, my special teapot, and the bag of chocolate chip cookies I kept hidden in the cupboards behind the thick German and French Cassels' dictionaries.

Smiling, Florinda turned to me, and asked abruptly, "Whom did you expect to find here tonight?"

I blurted out, "Not you!" Then, realizing too late that my answer had given me away, I went into a lengthy and elaborate elucidation of why I believed I might find there, if not all of them, then at least one of the other young women.

Florinda said, "They will cross your path when the time is right," It is not up to you to force an encounter with them."

Before I knew what I was saying, I found myself blaming her, as well as Mariano Aureliano and Isidore Baltazar, for my sneakiness.

I told her that it was impractical-- not to mention impossible-- for them to expect me to wait until some unknown women crossed my path, or to believe that I would actually recognize them by something so inconceivable as their inner glow.

As usual, the more I complained, the better I felt.

Florinda ignored me, and chanted in an exaggerated British accent as she measured out the tea, "One, two spoonfuls, and one for the pot."

Then in a most casual manner she remarked that the only capricious and impractical thing was for me to think of and treat Isidore Baltazar as a man.

"I do not know what you mean," I said defensively.

She gazed at me intently until I blushed, and stated, "You know exactly what I mean."

She poured the tea into the mugs, and with a quick gesture of her chin she indicated which of the two I should take.

With the bag of cookies in her hand she sat on Isidore Baltazar's bed; the one nearest to the kitchen. Slowly, she sipped her tea. I sat beside her and did the same.

Florinda all of sudden said, "You have not changed at all."

I retorted, "That is pretty much what Isidore Baltazar said to me some days ago. I know, however, that I have changed a great deal."

I told her that my world had been turned upside down since my return from Sonora. At great length I explained about finding a new apartment, and about moving and leaving everything I owned behind.

She did not so much as nod but sat there silent and stiff like a stone.

I laughed nervously and faltered on through her silence. I then conceded, "Actually, I can not take much credit for disrupting routines or becoming inaccessible."

"Anyone in close contact with Isidore Baltazar will forget that there are boundaries between night and day; between weekdays and holidays."

I glanced at her sideways, pleased with my words, and started, "Time just flows by and gives way to some..." but I couldn't finish the sentence. I had been hit by a strange thought.

Nobody, in my memory, had ever told me about disrupting routines or becoming inaccessible.

I regarded Florinda intently, then my glance wavered involuntarily. Was it her doing? I asked myself. Where did I get these ideas?

And what was even more baffling was that I knew exactly what these ideas meant.

As if she had followed my train of thoughts, Florinda said, "This should be a warning that something is just about to pop out of you."

She went on to say that whatever I had done so far in dreams had not imbued my waking hours with the necessary hardness and the necessary self-discipline needed to fare in the sorcerers' world.

I said, "I have never done anything like this in my life. Give me a break. I am new at it."

She readily agreed, "Of course."

She reclined her head against the pillows and closed her eyes.

She was silent for so long I thought she had fallen asleep, and thus I was startled when she said, "A real change is not a change of mood or attitude or outlook. A real change involves a total transformation of the self."

Seeing that I was about to interrupt her, she pressed her finders against my lips and added, "The kind of change I am talking about cannot be accomplished in three months or in a year or in ten. It will take a lifetime."

She said that it was extraordinarily difficult to become something different than what we were raised to be.

Florinda proceeded, "The world of sorcerers is a dream; a myth. And yet it is as real as the everyday world."

"In order to perceive and to function in the sorcerers' world, we have to take off the everyday mask that has been strapped to our faces since the day we were born, and put on the second mask. The second mask that enables us to see ourselves and our surroundings for what they really are; breathtaking events that bloom into transitory existence once, and are never to be repeated again.

"You will have to make that mask yourself." She settled more comfortably on the bed, and cupping her hands around her mug, which I had refilled, she took noisy little sips.

I asked, "How do I make this mask?"

She murmured, "By dreaming your other self.

"Certainly not by just having a new address, new clothes, new books."

She glanced at me sideways, and grinning mockingly, added, "And certainly not by believing you have a new man."

Before I could deny her brutal accusation, she said that outwardly I was a fluid person capable of moving at great speed. But inside I was rigid and stiff.

As Isidore Baltazar had remarked already, she, too, maintained that it was fallacious for me to believe that moving into a new apartment and compulsively giving away all I possessed was a change.

I bowed my head, accepting her criticism. I had always had an urge to get rid of things. And as she had pointed out, it was basically a compulsion.

To my parents' chagrin, I had periodically disposed of my clothes and toys since early childhood. My joy at seeing my room and closets neatly arranged and nearly empty surpassed the joy of having things.

Sometimes my compulsion was so overpowering that I thinned out my parents' and brothers' closets as well. Hardly ever were these items missed, for I always made sure to get rid of clothes I had not seen anyone wear for a while.

Quite a few times, nevertheless, the whole household would explode in sudden and total confusion as my father went from room to room, opening wardrobes and yelling, searching for a specific shirt or a pair of pants.

Florinda laughed, then got to her feet and moved to the window overlooking the alley. She stared at the black-out curtain as though she could see through it.

Glancing backward over her shoulder, she said that for a woman it is a great deal easier than for a man to break ties with family and past.

She maintained, "Women are not accountable. This lack of accountability gives women a great deal of fluidity.

"Unfortunately, women rarely, if ever, make use of this advantage."

She moved about the room, her hand trailing over the large metal filing cabinet and over the folding card table.

Florinda said, "The hardest thing to grasp about the sorcerers' world is that it offers total freedom."

She turned to face me and added softly, "But freedom is not free."

I asked, "What does freedom cost?"

She said, "Freedom will cost you the mask you have on; The mask that feels so comfortable and is so hard to shed off, not because it fits so well, but because you have been wearing it for so long."

She stopped pacing about the room and came to stand in front of the card table.

She asked rhetorically, "Do you know what freedom is?"

Then, as she sat down beside me on the bed, she answered, "Freedom is the total absence of concern about yourself.

"And the best way to quit being concerned with yourself is to be concerned about others."

I assured her, "I am. I constantly think of Isidore Baltazar and his women."

Florinda readily agreed, "I am sure you do."

She shook her head and yawned. "It is time for you to begin to shape your new mask; the mask that cannot have anyone's imprint but your own.

"It has to be carved in solitude. Otherwise it will not fit properly; otherwise there will always be times when the mask will feel too tight, too loose, too hot, too cold ..." Her voice trailed off as she went on enumerating the most outlandish discomforts.

A long silence ensued, and then in that same sleepy voice she said, "To choose the sorcerers' world is not just a matter of saying you have. You have to act in that world.

"In your case, you have to dream. Have you dreamt-awake since your return?"

In a thoroughly morose mood, I admitted that I had not.

She observed severely, "Then you have not made your decision yet. You are not carving your new mask. You are not dreaming your other self.

"Sorcerers are bound to their world solely through their impeccability."

A definite gleam appeared in her eyes as she added, "Sorcerers have no interest to convert anyone to their views.

"There are no gurus or wise men among sorcerers; only naguals.

"They are the leaders, not because they know more or because they are in any way better sorcerers, but simply because they have more energy.

She qualified, saying, "I am not necessarily referring to physical strength, but to a certain configuration of their being that permits them to help anyone break the parameters of perception."

I interrupted her, "If sorcerers are not interested in converting anyone to their views, why then is Isidore Baltazar the old nagual's apprentice?"

She answered, "Isidore Baltazar appeared in the sorcerers' world the same way you did. Whatever it was that brought him could not be ignored by Mariano Aureliano. It was his duty to teach Isidore Baltazar all he knew about the sorcerers' world."

She explained that no one had been looking for Isidore Baltazar or for me. Whatever had brought us into their world had nothing to do with anyone's doing or volition.

Smiling, she said, "There is nothing any one of us would do to keep you against your will in this magical world.

"And yet we would do any imaginable or unimaginable thing to help you stay in it."

Florinda turned sideways as if she wanted to hide her face from me.

An instant later she looked back over her shoulder. Something cold and detached showed in her eyes, and the change of expression was altogether so remarkable that I was frightened. Instinctively, I moved away from her.

She said, "The only thing I cannot and will not do, and neither will Isidore Baltazar, for that matter, is to help you be your old ugly, greedy, indulgent self. That would be a travesty."

As if to soften the insult, she put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me.

She whispered, "I will tell you what you need." But then she was silent for so long I thought she had forgotten what she was going to say.

She finally murmured, "You need a good night's sleep."

I retorted, "I am not in the least tired."

My response was automatic, and I realized that most of my responses were contradictions of what was being said. For me, it was a matter of principle to be right.

Florinda laughed softly, then embraced me again, and murmured, "Do not be so Germanic. And do not expect everything to be spelled out clearly and precisely to you."

She added that nothing in the sorcerers' world was clear and precise. Instead, things unfolded slowly and vaguely.

She assured me, "Isidore Baltazar will help you. However, do remember that he will not help you in the way you expect to be helped."

I disentangled myself from her arms so that I could look at her, and asked, "What do you mean?"

She said, "He will not tell you what you want to hear. He will not tell you how to behave, for, as you already know, there are neither rules nor regulations in the sorcerers' world."

She giggled gleefully, seemingly enjoying my growing frustration.

She added, "Always remember, there are only improvisations."

Then Florinda yawned widely, and stretched out fully on the bed. She reached for one of the neatly folded blankets stacked on the floor.

Before she covered herself, she rose up on her elbow and looked at me closely. There was something hypnotic about her sleepy voice as she told me that I should always bear in mind that I traveled on the same warrior's path as Isidore Baltazar.

She closed her eyes, and in a voice that was almost too faint to be heard said, "Never lose sight of him. His actions will guide you in so artful a manner that you will not even notice it. He is an impeccable and peerless warrior."

I urgently shook her arm. I was afraid she would fall asleep before she finished talking.

Without opening her eyes, Florinda said, "If you watch him carefully, you will see that Isidore Baltazar does not seek love or approval.

"You will see that he remains impassive under any conditions.

"He does not demand anything, yet he is willing to give anything of himself.

"He avidly seeks a signal from the spirit in the form of a kind word, or an appropriate gesture. And when he gets it, he expresses his thanks by redoubling his efforts.

"Isidore Baltazar does not judge. He fiercely reduces himself to nothing in order to listen and to watch so that he can conquer and be humbled by his conquest, or be defeated and enhanced by his defeat.

"If you watch carefully, you will see that Isidore Baltazar does not surrender. He may be vanquished, but he will never surrender.

"And above all, Isidore Baltazar is free."

I was dying to interrupt her, to cry out that she had already told me all that, but before I could ask her anything else, Florinda was sound asleep.

Afraid I might miss her in the morning if I returned to my apartment, I sat down on the other bed.

Strange thoughts rushed into my awareness.

I relaxed. I let myself go completely as I realized that these strange thoughts were disconnected from the rest of my normal thoughts.

I saw them like beams of light; like flashes of intuition.

Following one of those flashes of intuition, I decided to feel with my seat the bed I was sitting on. And to my dumbfounded surprise, my buttocks felt as if they had sunk into the bed itself.

For an instant, I was the bed, and the bed was reaching out to touch my buttocks. I relished this sensation for quite some time.

I knew then that I was dreaming, and I understood with complete clarity that I had just felt what Esperanza had described as 'my feeling being thrown back at me.'

And then my whole being melted, or better yet, it exploded.

I wanted to laugh out loud for the sheer joy of it, but I did not want to wake Florinda. I had remembered it all!

Now I had no difficulty whatsoever in recalling what I had done in the witches' house in those ten lost days. I had dreamt!



Under Esperanza's watchful eye, I had dreamt on and on of waking up in the witches' house or in Esperanza's place or sometimes in other places I could not quite see at the moment.

Clara had insisted that before any particular thing I saw in dreams could be fixed permanently in my memory, I needed to see it twice.

I had seen all the women more than twice. They were permanently etched in my memory.

As I sat there on the bed watching Florinda sleep, I remembered the other women of the sorcerers' party with whom I had interacted in a dreamlike state during those forgotten days.

I saw them clearly, as if they had conjured themselves up before me; or rather, as if I had been transported, bodily, back to those events.

The most striking to me was Nelida, who looked so much like Florinda that at first I believed she was her twin. Not only was she is tall and thin as Florinda, but she had the same color eyes, hair, and complexion. Even their expressions were the same.

Temperamentally, they were alike, too, except that Nelida came across as more subdued, and less forceful. She seemed to lack Florinda's wisdom and energetic force. And yet there was a patient, silent strength to Nelida that was very reassuring.

Hermelinda could have easily passed as Carmela's younger sister. Her thin, five-foot two-inch body was delicately rounded and so were her exquisite manners.

Hermelinda appeared to be less self-assured than Carmela. She was soft-spoken and moved in quick jerks that somehow meshed into gracefulness. Her companions told me that Hermelinda's shyness and quietness brought out the best in others, and that she could not handle a group or even two people at the same time.

Clara and Delia made a stupendous team of pranksters. They weren't really as big as they first appeared. It was their robustness, their vigor and energy, that made one think they were large, indestructible women.

And they did play the most delightful competitive games. They paraded their outlandishly eccentric outfits at the slightest opportunity. Both played the guitar very well and had beautiful voices to match.

They sang, one trying to outdo the other, not only in Spanish, but in English, German, French, and Italian as well. Their repertoire included ballads, folk songs, every conceivable popular song including the latest pop songs. I only had to hum or recite the first line of a song and either Clara or Delia would immediately finish the whole song for me.

And then they had their poem writing contests; writing verse to the occasion. They had written poems to me and slipped them under my door, unsigned. I had to guess who had written the poem. Each claimed that if I truly loved her, as she loved me, I would intuitively know the author.

What made their competitiveness delightfully appealing was the fact that there was no edge to it. It was meant to entertain, not to put each other down. Needless to say, Clara and Delia had as much fun as their audience.

If Clara and Delia took a liking to someone, as they seemed to have done with me, there was no limit to their affection and loyalty. Both of them defended me with an astonishing perseverance, even when I was in the wrong. In their eyes, I was perfect and could do no wrong.

From them I learned that it was a dual responsibility to uphold that trust. It was not that I was afraid of disappointing them, nor that I tried to live up to their expectations. Rather, it was the most natural thing for me to believe that I was perfect and for me to behave with them in an impeccable manner.

The strangest among all the women sorcerers was my dreaming teacher, Zuleica, who never taught me anything. She did not even speak to me, or perhaps she had not noticed that I existed.

Zuleica was very beautiful just like Florinda; perhaps not as striking as Florinda, but she was beautiful in a more ethereal way.

Zuleica was petite with dark eyes and winged eyebrows. Her small, perfect nose and mouth were framed by wavy dark hair that was turning grey and which accentuated her aura of other-worldliness.

Hers was not an average beauty, but a sublime one, tempered by her relentless self-control. She was keenly aware of the comic element of being beautiful and appealing in the eyes of others.

She had learned to recognize it and used it as if it were a prize she had won. She was, therefore, totally indifferent to anything or anyone.

Zuleica had learned to be a ventriloquist and had turned it into a superior art. According to her, words voiced by moving the lips become more confusing than they really are.

I was delighted by Zuleica's habit of talking, as a ventriloquist, to walls, tables, china, or any other object in front of her, and so I kept on following her around whenever she made an appearance. She walked through the house without seeming to touch the ground, and without seeming to stir the air.

When I asked the other sorcerers whether this was an illusion, they explained that Zuleica abhorred leaving footprints.

After I had met and interacted with all the women, they explained to me the difference between the dreamers and the stalkers. They called it the two planets.

Florinda, Carmela, Zoila, and Delia were stalkers-- forceful beings with a great deal of physical energy; go-getters; inexhaustible workers; specialists on that extravagant state of awareness they called dreaming-awake.

The other planet-- the dreamers-- was composed of the other four women; Zuleica, Nelida, Hermelinda, and Clara. They had a more ethereal quality. It was not that they were less forceful or less energetic. It was rather that their energy was simply less apparent. They projected a sense of other-worldliness even when engaged in the most mundane activities.

They were the specialists on another peculiar state of awareness they called 'dreaming in worlds other than this world.' I was told that this was the most complex state of awareness women could reach.

When the dreamers and the stalkers worked together, the stalkers were like a protective, hard, outer layer that hid a deep core. The dreamers were that deep core. They were like a soft matrix that cushioned the hard, outer layer.

During those days in the witches' house, I was taken care of as if I were their most precious concern. They cossetted and fussed over me as if I were a baby.

They cooked me my favorite foods. They made me the most elegant and well-fitting clothes I had ever had. They showered me with presents; outright silly things and valuable jewels which they said they put away waiting for the day I would wake up.

There were two more women in the sorcerers' world. They were both stalkers. Two fat girls, Martha and Teresa. Both were lovely to look at and had glorious appetites to match.

Not that they fooled anyone, but they kept a cache of cookies, chocolates, and assorted candies hidden in a secret compartment in the pantry. To my great delight, they made me privy from the very beginning to their secret cache and encouraged me to dip freely into it, which, of course, I did.

Martha was the older of the two. She was in her mid-twenties, and was an exotic blend of German and Indian blood. Her color, if not altogether white, was pale. Her luxurious black hair was soft and wavy and framed a high-cheeked, broad face. Her slanted eyes were a brilliant green-blue, and her ears were small and delicate, like a cat's, soft and almost rosily transparent.

Martha was given to long, sorrowful sighs, which she claimed were Germanic; and to moody silences which were a heritage of her Indian soul. She had recently begun to take lessons on the violin. She would practice at any hour of the day. Instead of anyone criticizing her or getting angry, they unanimously agreed that Martha had a great ear for music.

Teresa was barely five feet tall, but her bulk made her seem much taller. Rather than looking Mexican, she looked like an Indian from India. Her flawless skin was a rich, creamy light brown. Her almond-shaped eyes, liquid and dark, were framed by long, curly lashes so heavy they kept her lids low, giving her a dreamy, far-away expression. Her gentleness and sweet disposition made one want to protect her.

Teresa was artistic, too. She painted watercolors late in the afternoon. With her easel before her, and with her brushes and tray with paint and water at the ready, she would sit for hours in the yard, waiting for the light and shadows to be just right. Then, with Zen-like control and fluidity, she would dash across the page with her paint-dipped brushes.



The bulk of my hidden memories had surfaced. I was exhausted. The rhythm of Florinda's faint snoring rising and falling across the room like a distant echo had been mesmerizing.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I did was to call out her name. She did not answer.

The bed was empty. The yellow sheet, tucked tightly under the mattress, showed no evidence that anyone had sat, let alone slept, there. The two pillows were back to their usual position- plopped against the wall- and the blanket she had used was stacked with the others on the floor.

Eagerly, I searched the apartment for a clue, some indication that she had indeed been there.

I found nothing, not even a long grey hair in the bathroom.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 13.


With great equanimity, he said, ""Nothing these sorcerers do is just to entertain themselves, or to impress someone, or to give way to their compulsiveness. Everything they do or say has a reason; a purpose."

Version 2010.02.10


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 13.

Whenever I was fully awake, I did not quite remember about those lost days, except that I knew, with absolute certainty, that they were not lost. Something had happened to me during that time; something with an inward meaning that escaped me.

I did not make a conscious effort to recapture all those vague memories. I simply knew they were there half-hidden like people one knows slightly but whose names one can not exactly recall.

I have never been a good sleeper, but since Florinda's appearance at Isidore Baltazar's studio that night, I went to sleep at all hours just to dream.

I simply passed out every time I lay down, and slept for inordinately long stretches of time. I even put on weight, which unfortunately did not go to the right places.

Yet I never dreamt with the sorcerers.

One afternoon I awoke abruptly to a loud clatter. Isidore Baltazar had dropped the kettle in the sink. My head hurt and my eyes were blurred. I had the immediate memory of a terrible dream that just as quickly escaped recall. I was sweating heavily.

I yelled at him, "It is all your fault. If you would only help me, I would not be sleeping my life away."

I wanted to rant and to give in to my frustration and impatience. But it suddenly flashed through my mind that I could not do that because I could no longer enjoy my complaining as I used to.

His face was radiant with pleasure, as though I had spoken my thoughts out loud. He grabbed his chair, sat astride it, and said, "You know that I can not help you. Women have a different dreaming avenue. I can not even conceive what women do to dream."

I retorted churlishly, "You ought to know, with so many women in your world."

He laughed. Nothing seemed to alter his good spirits.

He went on, "I can not even begin to conceive what women do to dream.

"Males have to struggle incessantly to arrange their attention in dreams. Women do not struggle, but they do have to acquire inner discipline."

His smile was brilliant as he added, "There is one thing that might help you. Do not approach dreaming in your usual compulsive manner. Let it come to you."

I opened and closed my mouth, then quickly my astonishment turned to rage. My former insight forgotten, I put on my shoes and stomped out in a huff, making sure to bang the door behind me. His laughter followed me all the way to my car in the parking lot below.

Dejected, feeling utterly unloved, alone, and above all, sorry for myself, I drove to the beach. It was deserted. It was raining at the beach. There was no wind, and the rain fell very gently, very straight.

There was something peaceful about the hushed sound of the lapping waves and the rain hitting the water. I took off my shoes, tucked up my pants, and walked until I was washed clean of my indulgent moods.

I knew that I was rid of those moods because I heard from the whispering, lapping waves Florinda's words, "It is a solitary fight."

I was not threatened. I simply accepted that I was indeed alone. And it was this acquiescence that brought me the conviction of what I had to do. And since I am not one to wait, I acted immediately.

After leaving a note under Isidore Baltazar's door-- I didn't want him to talk me out of it-- I set out for the witches' house. I drove all night, all the way to Tucson. I checked in at a motel, slept most of the day, then late in the afternoon set out again, taking the same route Isidore Baltazar had followed on our return trip.

My sense of direction is poor, yet that route is imprinted deep within me. With a baffling assurance, I knew exactly what roads to take and where to turn.

I reached the witches' house in no time at all. I did not bother to check my watch, for I did not want to lose the feeling that no time had elapsed between the time I got into my car in Tucson and my arrival at the witches' house.

That there was no one at the house did not bother me in the least. I was aware that no direct, formal invitation had been extended to me, but I remembered clearly that Nelida had told me, as she hid in a drawer a small basket with the gifts they had all given me, that I should come back any time I wished.

Nelida's words rang in my ears, "Day or night, this basket will pull you safely in."

With an assurance that ordinarily only comes from practice, I went directly to the room Esperanza had given me. The white, flouncy hammock was ready, as if waiting for me.

A vague uneasiness finally took hold of me, but I was not nearly as scared as I should have been. Not quite relaxed, I lowered myself in the hammock, one leg outside to rock myself back and forth.

I cried out, "To hell with my fears," and I pulled my leg in and stretched out luxuriously like a cat until all my joints cracked.

"Oh, you have made it back safely," a voice said to me from the corridor.

I did not see her and I did not necessarily recognize her voice, yet I knew it was Nelida. I waited expectantly for her to come in, but she did not.

I heard her say, "Your food is in the kitchen." Then her steps moved away from my door and down the corridor.

I jumped up and dashed after her. I shouted, "Wait, wait, Nelida!"

There was no one in the hall or in the rooms I passed on my way to the kitchen. There was no one in the whole house, for that matter.

Yet, I was sure they were there. I heard their voices, their laughter, the clatter of dishes, of pots and pans.

I spent the next few days in a perpetual state of anticipation, waiting for something significant to occur.

I could not imagine what was supposed to happen, but I knew that it had to be connected with the women.

For some unfathomable reason, the women did not want to be seen. Their astoundingly furtive behavior kept me in the corridors it all hours, prowling noiselessly, like a shadow.

Regardless of the ingeniously sneaky schemes I devised to surprise the women, I never caught so much as a glimpse of them. They glided in and out of their rooms, in and out of the house, as if in between worlds, leaving in their wake the sound of their voices and laughter.

Sometimes I wondered whether the women were indeed there, and whether the sounds of footsteps, of murmurs and giggles, were but figments of my imagination.

Whenever I was about to believe it was my imagination, I would hear one of them tinkering on the patio. Then, seized by renewed fervor, expectation, and excitement, I would run to the back of the house, only to discover that once again I had been outwitted.

At those times I was convinced that the women, being real witches, had some kind of a bat-like internal echo location system that alerted them to my sounds.

My disappointment at not being able to catch them in front of the stove always vanished at the sight of the exotic little meals they left behind for me. The deliciousness of the dishes amply compensated for the meagerness of the portions. With great gusto I ate their wonderful food. Yet I was still hungry.

One day just before twilight, I heard a man's voice softly calling my name from the back of the house. I jumped out of my hammock and ran down the corridor. I was so glad to see the caretaker, I nearly jumped on him like a dog does. Unable to contain my joy, I kissed him on the cheeks.

In the same voice and manner of Isidore Baltazar, he said, "Watch out, nibelunga."

I sprang back; my eyes wide with surprise. He winked at me and added, "Do not get carried away, because the next thing you know, you will be taking advantage of me."

For an instant I did not know what to make of his words. But then he laughed, and patted my back reassuringly. I completely relaxed.

He said softly, "It is good to see you."

I giggled self-consciously, saying, "It is wonderful to see you!" Then I asked him where everybody else was.

He said vaguely, "Oh, they are around. At the moment they are mysteriously inaccessible, but ever present."

Seeing my disappointment he added, "Have patience."

I murmured, "I know they are around. They leave food for me." I glanced over my shoulder to ham it up and confided, "But I'm still hungry. The portions are too little."

According to the caretaker, this was the natural condition of power food. One could never get enough of it.

He said that he cooked his own food-- rice and beans with either chunks of pork, beef, or chicken-- and ate only once a day, but never at the same hour.

He took me then to his quarters. He lived in the large, cluttered room behind the kitchen, amidst the odd wood and iron sculptures, where the air, thick with the scents of jasmine and eucalyptus, hung heavy and motionless around the drawn curtains.

He slept on a cot, which he kept folded in the armoire when it was not in use, and ate his meal at a small chippendale table with spindly legs.

He confided that he, like the mysterious women, disliked routines. Day or night, morning or afternoon, was all the same to him.

He swept the patios and raked the leaves outside the clearing whenever he felt like doing so. Whether there were blossoms or leaves on the ground was immaterial.

In the days that followed, I had a hellish time trying to adjust to this seemingly unstructured way of life. Out of compulsion, rather than out of any desire to be useful, I helped the caretaker with his chores.

Also, I invariably accepted his invitations to share his meals. His food was as delicious as his company.

Convinced that he was more than the caretaker, I did my best to get him off-guard with my devious questions; a useless technique, for I never got any satisfactory answers.



I bluntly asked him one day while we were eating, "Where do you come from?"

He looked up from his plate, and as if he had been expecting an outright interrogation, he dutifully pointed to the mountains toward the east, framed by the open window like a painting.

My voice betrayed my disbelief as I mumbled disconcertedly, "The Bacatete Mountains? But you are not an Indian. The way I see it, only the nagual Mariano Aureliano, Delia Flores, and Genaro Flores are Indians."

Emboldened by the surprised, expectant look on his face, I added that, in my opinion, Esperanza transcended racial categories. I leaned across the table and in a secretive tone confided to him what I had already told Florinda. "Esperanza was not born like a human being. She was established by an act of witchcraft. She is the very devil."

Leaning back in his chair, the caretaker shrieked with joy and said, "And what do you have to say about Florinda? Did you know she is French? Or rather, her parents were French. They were from the families that came to Mexico with Maximilian and Carlota."

I tried to remember when, exactly, in the eighteen hundreds that the Austrian prince was sent by Napoleon to Mexico. I murmured, "She is very beautiful."

The caretaker gushed, "You have not seen her when she is all dolled up. She is something else. Age means nothing to her."

I, in a fit of vanity and wishful thinking, said, "Carmela told me that I am like Florinda."

Propelled by the laughter bubbling up inside him, the caretaker sprang up from his chair, he said, "That will be the day."

He had said those words with no particular feeling as though he did not care in the least how they would be received.

Irritated by his remark and his lack of feeling, I glared at him with ill-concealed animosity. Then, eager to change the subject, I asked him about the nagual Mariano Aureliano. "Where exactly does he come from?"

Moving toward the window, he muttered, "Who knows where naguals come from?"

For a long while he gazed at the distant mountains, then he turned toward me once again and said, "Some people say that naguals come from hell itself. I believe it. Some people say that naguals are not even human."

Again he paused, and I wondered if the long silence was to be repeated.

As if sensing my impatience, he came to sit beside me and added, "If you ask me, I would say that naguals are superhuman. That is the reason they know everything about human nature.

"You can not lie to a nagual. They see through you. They see through anything. They even see through space to other worlds in this world, and to other worlds out of this world."

I moved uneasily in my chair, wishing he would stop talking. I regretted engaging him in this conversation. There was no doubt in my mind that the man was insane.

He assured me, "No, I am not insane," and I let out a loud shriek.

"I am saying things that you have never heard before. That is all."

Feeling oddly on the defensive, I blinked repeatedly. But my uneasiness gave me a surge of courage, and I asked him point blank, "Why are they hiding from me?"

He shot back, "It is obvious."

But then seeing that it was not at all obvious to me, he added, "You should know it. You and your kind are the crew, not me. I am not one of them. I am merely the caretaker. I oil the machine."

Irritated, I muttered, "You are getting me more confused than I was."

Then a momentary flash of insight hit me and I asked, "Who are the crew you are referring to?"

The caretaker replied, "All the women you met the last time you were here. The dreamers and the stalkers. They told me that the stalkers are your kind, and you are one of them."

He poured himself a glass of water and went with it to the window. He took a few sips then informed me that the nagual Mariano Aureliano had tried out my stalking abilities in Tucson, Arizona, when he sent me into the coffee shop to put a cockroach in my food.

The caretaker turned his back to the window, looked straight into my face, and added, "You failed."

I cut him short, "I do not want to hear about that nonsense." I had no desire to hear the rest of the story.

His face crinkled with mischief as he said, "But then, after your failure, you exonerated yourself by kicking and yelling at the nagual Mariano Aureliano without shame or regard."

He stressed, "Stalkers are people who have a knack for dealing with people."

I opened my mouth to say that I did not understand a word he was saying, but quickly shut it again.

He went on, "What has been baffling is that you are a great dreamer. If it would not be for that, you would be like Florinda-- less the height and the looks, of course."

Smiling venomously, I cursed the old creep silently.

He asked all of a sudden, "Do you remember how many women were there at the picnic?"

I closed my eyes to better visualize the picnic. I clearly saw six women sitting on the canvas cloth, spread out under the eucalyptus trees. Esperanza was not there, but Carmela, Zoila, Delia, and Florinda were.

I asked, more mystified than ever, "Who were the other two?"

A brilliant smile creased his face, and he murmured appreciatively, "Ah. Those two were dreamers from another world.

"You saw them clearly, but then they disappeared, and your mind did not acknowledge their vanishing because it was simply too outlandish."

I nodded absentmindedly, unable to conceive that I had actually seen only four women, when I knew that there had been six.

The thought must have seeped through to him, for he said that it was only natural to have focused on the four. He added, "The other two are your source of energy. They are incorporeal and not from this world."

Lost and bewildered, all I could do was stare at him. I had no more questions to ask.

Continuing, he clarified, "Since you are not in the planet of the dreamers, your dreams are nightmares, and your transitions between dreams and reality are very unstable and dangerous to you and to the other dreamers. So Florinda has taken it upon herself to buffer and protect you."

I rose with such impetus my chair turned over. I cried out, "I do not want to know anything else!" Just in time, I stopped myself from blurting out that I was better off not knowing about their mad ways and rationales.

The caretaker took me by the hand and walked with me outside, across the clearing, across the chaparral to the back of the small house.

He said, "I need you to help me with the generator. It needs fixing."

I laughed out loud and told him that I did not know anything about generators. Only when he opened the trap door of a concrete encasement did I realize that the electric current for the lights in the house was generated there.

I had completely taken for granted that the electrical lights and appliances of rural Mexico were like those I was familiar with.



From that day on, I tried not to ask the caretaker too many questions. I felt that I was not prepared for his answers.

Our meetings acquired the nature of a ritual in which I did my best to match the old man's exquisite usage of the Spanish language. I spent hours pouring over the various dictionaries in my room, searching for new and often archaic words with which to impress him.

One afternoon, as I was waiting for the caretaker to bring in the food-- it was the first time since I discovered his room that I was alone in it-- I remembered the old, strange mirror. I carefully examined its spotty, misty surface.

A voice behind me said, "You will get trapped in the mirror if you look at yourself too much."

Expecting to see the caretaker, I turned around, but there was no one in the room.

In my eagerness to reach the door, I almost knocked over the wood and iron sculpture behind me.

Automatically, I reached out to steady it, but before I so much as touched it, the figure seemed to spin away from me in an odd circular motion, then came to its original position with an astonishingly human sigh.

The caretaker stepped into the room and asked, "What is the matter?" He placed a large tray on the rickety table, and looking up into my ashen face asked once more what was wrong with me.

I gestured with my chin toward the nearby sculpture, and said, "Sometimes, I have the feeling that these monstrosities are alive; watching me."

Noticing his grave, unsmiling face, I hastened to reassure him that I did not mean monstrous in terms of ugliness but rather in terms of being big.

I took several deep, shuddering breaths and repeated that his sculptures gave me the impression of being alive.

the caretaker glanced furtively around, and lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper, he said, "They are alive."

I felt so uncomfortable that I began to babble about the afternoon I first discovered his room; how I had been lured to it by an eerie-sounding murmur that turned out to be the wind pushing the curtain through a broken window.

I confided, giggling nervously, "Yet at the time I believed it to be a monster; an alien presence feeding on the twilight shadows."

Chewing his lower lip, the caretaker regarded me with keen eyes. Then his gaze drifted unfocused around the room. He finally said, "We better sit down to eat. We do not want to let our food get cold."

He held out the chair for me, and as soon as I was comfortably seated, he added in a vibrant tone, "You are quite right to call them presences, for they are not sculptures. They are inventions."

He confided in a conspiratorial tone, "They were conceived from patterns glimpsed at in another world by a great nagual."

I asked, "By Mariano Aureliano?"

He shook his head and said, "By a much older nagual, named Elias."

I asked, "Why are these inventions in your room? Did this great nagual make them for you?"

He said, "No. I only take care of them."

Rising, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded white handkerchief and proceeded to dust the nearby invention with it.

He then said, "Since I am the caretaker, it falls upon me to take care of them. One day, with the help of all these sorcerers you have already met, I will deliver these inventions where they belong."

I asked, "And where is that?"

He replied, "Infinity; the cosmos; the vacuum."

I wondered, "How do you propose to take them there?"

He answered, "Through the same power that got them here in the first place; the power of dreaming-awake."

I tried hard to conceal the triumph in my voice, as I began cautiously, "If you dream like these sorcerers dream, then you must also be a sorcerer yourself."

"I am, but I am not like them."

His candid admission confused me. "What is the difference?"

He exclaimed knowingly, "Ah! All the difference in the world. But I can not explain it now.

"If I do, you would get even more morose and angry. Someday, though, you will know all about it by yourself and without anyone having to tell you."

I could feel the wheels churning in my head as I desperately tried to come up with something else to say; another question to ask.

I inquired, "Can you tell me how the nagual Elias came to have the inventions?"

The caretaker confided, "He saw them in his dreaming and captured them."

"Some of them are copies, done by him, of inventions he could not cart away.

"Others are the real thing; inventions transported by that great nagual all the way to here."

I did not believe a word he said, yet I could not help but add, "Why did the nagual Elias bring them?"

He replied, "Because the inventions themselves asked him to."

I asked, "Why did they?"

The caretaker dismissed my probings with a wave of his hand, and urged me to eat my food.

His unwillingness to satisfy my curiosity only piqued my interest. I could not imagine why he did not want to talk about the contraptions when he was so good at evasive answers. He could have told me anything.

The instant we finished our meal, he asked me to retrieve his cot from the armoire.

Knowing his preference, I unfolded it for him in front of the curtained French door.

Sighing contentedly, he lay down, resting his head on the rectangular little pillow that was attached to one end of the cot. It was filled with dried beans and maize kernels. According to him, the pillow ensured sweet dreams.

He said, "I am ready for my nap now," and he loosened the belt on his pants. It was his polite way of dismissing me.

Peeved by his refusal to talk about the inventions, I piled our plates on the tray and stormed out of the room. His snores followed me all the way to the kitchen.



That night I awoke to the strumming of a guitar. Automatically, I reached for the flashlight I kept beside my low-hanging hammock and checked my watch. It was a bit past midnight. I wrapped my blanket tightly around me and tiptoed out into the corridor that led to the inside patio.

On the patio, sitting on a rush chair, was a man playing a guitar. I could not see his face, but I knew it was the same man Isidororo Baltazar and I had seen and heard the first time I was there.

As he had done then, the man stopped playing the moment he saw me. He got up from his chair and went inside the house.

As soon as I was back in my room, his plucking resumed. I was about to doze off when I heard him sing in a clear, strong voice. He sang to the wind, beckoning it to come from across miles of silence and emptiness.

As if responding to his haunting invocation, the wind gathered force. It whistled through the chaparral. It tore the withered leaves from the trees and swept them into rustling heaps against the walls of the house.

On an impulse, I opened the door to the patio. The wind filled the room with an unspeakable sadness, not the sadness of tears but the melancholic solitariness of the desert, of dust and ancient shadows.

The wind circled around the room like smoke. I inhaled it with every breath. It sat heavy in my lungs, yet the deeper I breathed, the lighter I felt.

I went outside and, squeezing between the tall bushes, made my way to the back of the house. The white-washed walls caught the moonlight and reflected it brightly onto the windswept ground of the wide clearing.

Afraid I might be seen, I darted from fruit tree to fruit tree, hiding in the dark shadows cast by the moonlight until I reached the two blooming orange trees outside the wall guarding the path to the little house.

The wind brought the sound of giggles and dim murmurings from across the chaparral. Daringly, I dashed along the path, only to lose my nerve once I reached the front door of the small, dark house.

Quivering with excitement, I inched my way to an open window. I recognized Delia's and Florinda's voices, but the window was too high for me to see what the women were doing.

I listened, expecting to hear something profound; to be transported by some mind-shattering revelation that would help me resolve what I had come there for; my inability to dream.

But I only heard gossip. I became so engrossed in their malicious insinuations that I laughed out loud several times, forgetting that I was eavesdropping.

At first I thought they were gossiping about outsiders, but then I realized they were talking about the women dreamers, and their most insidious remarks were directed against Nelida.

They said that she had so far been unable, after so many years, to break away from the grip of the world. Not only was she vain-- they claimed she spent all day in front of the mirror-- but she was lusty as well. She did everything in her power to be a sexually desirable woman in order to entice the nagual Mariano Aureliano. Someone pointed out, cattily, that, after all, she was the only one who could accommodate his enormous, intoxicating organ.

Then they talked about Clara. They called her a pompous elephant who believed that it was her duty to bestow blessings on everyone. The recipient of her attention was, at the moment, the nagual Isidore Baltazar, and the treat was her naked body.

He was not to have it; only to see it. Once in the morning and again once at night she would regale him with the sight of her nakedness. She was convinced that by doing this, she would ensure the young nagual's sexual prowess.

The third woman they talked about was Zuleica. They said that she had delusions of being a saint and the Virgin Mary. Her so-called spirituality was nothing but craziness. Periodically she would lose her marbles, and whenever she had one of her fits of insanity, she would clean the house from top to bottom, even the rocks in the patio or around the grounds.

Then there was Hermelinda. She was described as being very sober, very proper, the paragon of middle-class values. As Nelida, she was incapable, after so many years, of stopping herself from seeking to be the perfect woman and the perfect homemaker.

Although she could not cook or sew or embroider or play the piano to entertain her guests, Hermelinda wanted to be known, they said in between fits of giggles, as the paragon of good femininity, just as Nelida wanted to be known as the paragon of naughty femininity.

If the two of them would only combine their talents, one voice remarked, then they would have the perfect woman to please the master; perfect in the kitchen and in the living room, wearing an apron or an evening dress, and perfect in bed with her legs up whenever the master wanted it.

When they grew silent, I ran back to the house, to my room and into my hammock, but hard as I tried, I could no longer go back to sleep.

I felt that some kind of a protective bubble had burst around me, obliterating my sense of delight; of enchantment at being at the witches' house. All I could think of was that, by my own doings this time, I was stuck there in Sonora with a bunch of crazy old women who did nothing else but gossip when I could have been in Los Angeles having fun.

I had come looking for advice. Instead, I was ignored; reduced to the company of a senile old man who I believed to be a woman.

By the time I sat down to eat with the caretaker in the morning, I had driven myself into such a state of righteous indignation that I could not swallow a bite.

Gazing at me intently, the old man asked, "What is the matter?" Normally, he avoided direct eye contact. He asked, "Are you not hungry?"

I glared back at him. Giving up any attempt at self-control, I unburdened all my pent-up anger and frustration.

As I went on complaining, I had a flash of sobriety. I told myself that I should not blame the old man and that I should be grateful because he had shown me nothing but kindness.

But it was too late to stop myself. My petty grievances had acquired a life of their own. My voice became shriller still as I magnified and deformed the events of the past few days. With malicious satisfaction, I told him that I had eavesdropped on the women.

I asserted with resonant authority, "They do not want to help me in the least. All they do is gossip. They said horrible things about the women dreamers."

He prodded me, "What did you hear them say?"

With great relish I told him everything. I surprised myself with my extraordinary power to recollect every detail of the women's wicked remarks.

The moment I finished my accoun, he declared, "Obviously, they were talking about you; in a symbolic fashion, of course."

He waited for the words to sink in, and before I could protest, he asked innocently, "Are you not quite a bit like all this?"

I exploded, "Like hell I am! And do not give me any psychological shit. I will not take this kind of crap, not even from an educated man, much the less from you, you fucking peon."

The caretaker's eyes opened wide in bewilderment and his frail shoulders sagged. I felt no sympathy for him, only pity for myself. I had wasted my time telling him what I had heard.

I was about to say what a mistake it had been for me to make that long, arduous journey and all for nothing, when the caretaker looked at me with such contempt that I felt ashamed of my outburst.

He said with great equanimity, "If you hold your temper, you will understand that nothing these sorcerers do is just to entertain themselves, or to impress someone; nor to give way to their compulsiveness. Everything they do or say has a reason; a purpose."

He stared at me with an intensity that made me want to move away, but I could not. He stressed, "Do not go around thinking that you are here on a vacation. For the sorcerers you have fallen prey to, there are no holidays."

I demanded angrily, "What are you trying to tell me? Do not beat around the bush, just say it."

His voice was deceptively mellow and loaded with more meaning than I could fathom as he said, "How can anyone be more clear? The witches already told you last night what you are. They used the four women of the dreamers' planet as a false front to describe to you, the eavesdropper, what you really are; a slut, with delusions of grandeur."

So great was my shock, I was momentarily stunned. Then anger, hot as lava, shot through my whole body.

I yelled, "You miserable, insignificant piece of shit." And I kicked him in the groin.

Before my kick had landed I already had a flash image of the little old bastard on the ground, wriggling with pain, except that my kick never landed anywhere but in the air. With the speed of a prize fighter he had jumped out of the way.

He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were flat and cold as he watched me puffing and groaning. "You are playing on the nagual Isidore Baltazar all those tricks the witches talked about. You were trained for it. Think about it. Do not just get angry."

I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound emerged. It was not so much his words that had left me speechless as his devastatingly indifferent, icy tone. I would have preferred he had yelled at me, for then I would have known how to react. I would have yelled louder.

There was no point in fighting him. He was not right, I assured myself. He was simply a senile man with a bitter tongue. No, I was not going to get mad at him, but I was not going to take him seriously either.

Before I recovered from my shock, he warned me, "I hope you are not going to weep."

Despite my determination not to get mad at the senile bastard, my face grew red with anger. I snapped, "Of course, I am not."

Before I tried another kick, I yelled at him that since he was only a chicken-shit servant he deserved to be beaten for his impertinence, but the hard, relentless expression in his eyes made me lose my momentum.

Without the faintest change in his courteous yet inexpressive tone, somehow he managed to convince me that I should apologize to him.

I finally said, and truly meant it, "I am sorry. My bad temper and bad manners always get the best of me."

He said seriously, "I know it. They all warned me about you." Then he added, smiling, "Eat your food."

I was ill at ease all through the meal. Chewing slowly, I watched him surreptitiously.

Although he did not make the slightest effort to be friendly, I knew that he was not angry with me. I tried to comfort myself with that thought, but I did not find it very comforting.

I sensed that his lack of concern was not deliberate or studied. He was not punishing me. Nothing of what I had said or done would have had any effect on him.

I swallowed the last bite and said the first thing that entered into my head with an assurance that astonished me, "You are not the caretaker."

He looked at me and asked, "And who do you think I am?"

His face relaxed into an amused grin. His smile made me lose all caution.

A tremendous recklessness came over me. I blurted out-- and naturally as an insult-- that he was a woman; that he was Esperanza.

Relieved that I had finally gotten it off my chest, I sighed loudly and added, "That is why you are the only one who has a mirror. You need to look convincing as either a man or a woman."

He mused, "The Sonoran air must have affected you. It is a known fact that the thin desert air affects people in the most peculiar manner."

He reached for my wrist and held it in a tight grip as he added, "Or it is perhaps your nature to be mean and onerous, and blurt out with an air of absolute authority anything that enters your head?"

Chuckling, the caretaker leaned closer toward me, and suggested that I take a nap with him. "It will do us a lot of good. We are both onerous," he said.

Uncertain whether I should take offense or laugh at his suggestion, I exclaimed, "So that is it! You want me to sleep with you, eh?" I added that Esperanza had already warned me about him.

Rubbing the nape of my neck, he asked, "Why do you object to taking a nap with me if you believe me to be Esperanza?" His hand was warm and soothing.

I defended myself feebly, saying, "I do not object. I simply hate naps. I never take a nap. I was told that even as a baby I hated naps."

I spoke rapidly and nervously; tripping over my words, and repeating myself. I wanted to get up and leave, but the slight pressure of his hand on my neck kept me pinned down to the chair.

I insisted rashly, "I know that you are Esperanza. I recognize her touch. It has the same soothing effect as yours."

I could feel my head sway, and my eyes closed against my will.

He agreed gently, "So it has. It will do you good to lie down, even if only for a moment."

Taking my silence for acquiescence, he went to the armoire and pulled out his cot and two blankets. He gave me one.

It was a time of endless surprises for me. Without knowing why, I lay down without protest.

Through half-closed lids, I watched him stretch until all his joints cracked.

He shook off his boots, unfastened his belt, then lowered himself on the cot next to me.

Under the cover of his thin cotton blanket, he wiggled out of his pants, casually dropping them on the floor, next to his boots.

He lifted his blanket and showed himself to me.

Blushing, I stared at him with wild curiosity and wonder.

His naked body, like Esperanza's, was the antithesis of what I had taken it to be. His body was supple, hairless, and smooth. He was thin as a reed and yet muscular. And he was definitely a male and young!

I did not even pause to think, but holding my breath, I gingerly lifted my blanket.

The sound of a woman's faint giggle made me close my eyes and pretend I was asleep.

But knowing that she was not going to come into the room, I relaxed.

Putting my arms behind my head I became absorbed in an uncanny sense that the caretaker and the faint giggles coming from the corridor had restored a balance, and had renewed the magic bubble all around me.

What exactly I meant by this, I did not know, except that the more my body relaxed, the closer I was getting to an answer.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 14.


They were on a perpetual warpath. And the enemy was the idea of the self.

...

Only superficially, Isidore Baltazar claimed, are we willing to accept that what we call reality is a culturally determined construct.

We need to accept at the deepest level possible that culture is the product of a long, cooperative, highly selective, highly developed, and last but not least, highly coercive process that culminates in a mutually shared agreement that shields us from other possibilities.

Version 2010.02.10


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 14.

After my return from the witches' house I never needed any more coaxing or encouragement.

The women sorcerers had succeeded in giving me a strange coherence; a sort of emotional stability I never had before.

It was not that I was suddenly a changed person, but rather there was a clear purpose to my existence. My fate was delineated for me.

I had to struggle to free my energy.

And that was that. Simplicity itself.

But I did not remember, clearly or even vaguely, all that had transpired in the three months I spent at their house.

The task of remembering it took me years; a task into which I plunged with all my might and determination.



The nagual Isidore Baltazar, nevertheless, warned me about the fallaciousness of clear-cut goals and emotionally charged realizations.

He said that they were worthless because the real arena of a sorcerer is day-to-day life, and in this arena superficial rationales do not withstand pressure.

The women sorcerers had said more or less the same but in a more harmonious way.

They explained that since women are used to being manipulated, they agreed easily. But a woman's agreements are simply empty adaptations to pressure.

But if it is possible to convince a women of the need to change her ways, then half the battle is won.

Even if they do not intellectually agree, their emotional realization is infinitely more durable than that of men.

I had the two opinions to weigh. I thought that both were right. From time to time, all my sorcery rationales crumbled under the pressures of the everyday world, but my original commitment to the sorcerers' world was never in need of revision.

Little by little I began to acquire enough energy to dream.

This meant that I finally understood what the women had told me. Isidore Baltazar was the new nagual, and he was no longer a man.

This realization also gave me enough energy to return periodically to the witches' house.

That place, known as the witches' house, belonged to all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's group. A big and massive house from the outside, it was indistinguishable from other houses in the area; hardly noticeable in spite of the exuberantly blooming bougainvillea hanging over the wall that encircled the grounds.

What made people pass the house without noticing it, the sorcerers said, was the tenuous fog that covered it, thin as a veil, visible to the eye, but unnoticeable to the mind.

Once inside the house, however, one was acutely and inescapably aware of having stepped into another world. The three patios, shaded by fruit trees, gave a dreamlike light to the dark corridors and the many rooms that opened on these corridors. What was most arresting about the house were the brick and tile floors which were laid out in the most intricate designs.

The witches' house was not a warm place, yet it was friendly. It was not a traditional home by any stretch of the imagination because there was something crushing about its impersonality and its relentless austerity.

It was the place where the old nagual Mariano Aureliano and his sorcerers conceived their dreams and realized their purpose.

Since the concern of those sorcerers had nothing to do with the daily world, their house reflected their otherworldly preoccupations. Their house was the true gauge of their individuality; not as persons, but as sorcerers.

At the witches' house, I interacted with all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's party.

They did not teach me sorcery or even dreaming. According to them, there was nothing to teach.

They said that my task was to remember everything that had transpired between all of them and me during those initial times that we were together. In particular, I was to remember everything that Zuleica and Florinda did or said to me-- but as I remembered it, Zuleica had never talked to me.

Whenever I tried to ask any of them for help, they outright refused to have anything to do with me. They all argued that without the necessary energy on my part, all they could do would be to repeat themselves, and they said they did not have time for that.

At first, I found their refusal ungenerous and unfair. After a while, however, I gave up every attempt to probe them, and I simply enjoyed their presence and their company.

I realized that they were, of course, totally right in refusing to play our favorite intellectual game; that of pretending to be interested by asking so-called soul-searching questions which usually have no meaning to us whatsoever.

And the reason they have no meaning to us is that we do not have the energy to do anything with the answer we might hear; except to agree or disagree with it.

Via our daily interaction, however, I realized scores of things about their world.

The women dreamers and stalkers embodied two modes of behavior among women; as different as they could be.

Initially, I wondered whether the group that was described to me as the dreamers-- Nelida, Hermelinda, and Clara-- were the actual stalkers. As far as I could ascertain, my interaction with them was on a strictly everyday, worldly level.

Only later did I fully realize that their mere presence elicited-- without even any hint of it-- a new modality of behavior on my part. That is, I felt no need to reassert myself with them. There were no doubts and there were no questions on my part whenever I was with them.

They had the singular ability to, without ever having to state it verbally, make me see the absurdity of my existence. And yet I felt no need to defend myself.

Perhaps it was this lack of forcefulness or of directness that made me acquiesce and accept them without any resistance.

It was not long before I realized that the women dreamers, by interacting with me on a worldly level, were giving me the necessary model to rechannel my energies.

They wanted me to change the manner in which I focused on mundane matters such as cooking, cleaning, laundering, staying in school, or earning a living.

These were to be done, they told me, under different auspices. They were not to be mundane chores but artful endeavors; one as important as the other.

Above all, it was their interaction with each other and with the women stalkers that made me aware of how special they were.

In their humanness and in their ordinariness they were devoid of ordinary human failings.

Their total awareness coexisted easily with their individual characteristics; be it short-temperedness, moodiness, rudeness, forcefulness, madness, or cloy sweetness.

In the presence and company of any of those sorceresses, I experienced the most peculiar feeling that I was on a perpetual holiday. But that was but a mirage.

They were on a perpetual warpath, and the enemy was the idea of the self.

At the witches' house, I also met Vicente and Silvio Manuel, the other two sorcerers in the nagual Mariano Aureliano's group.

Vicente was obviously of Spanish descent. I learned that his parents had come from Catalonia. He was a lean, aristocratic-looking man with deceptively frail-looking hands and feet.

Vicente shuffled around in slippers, and he preferred pajama tops, which hung open over his khaki pants, to shirts. His cheeks were rosy, but otherwise he was pale. His beautifully cared for goatee added a touch of distinction to his otherwise absentminded demeanor.

Not only did Vicente look like a scholar, but he was one. The books in the room I slept in were his; or rather, it was he who collected them, who read them, and who cared for them.

Although there seemed to be nothing he did not know about, what made his erudition so appealing was that he conducted himself as though he was always the learner.

I felt sure that this could seldom be the case, for it was obvious that he knew more than the others. Yet, it was his generous spirit that made him give his knowledge away with a magnificent naturalness and without ever shaming anyone for knowing less.

Then there was Silvio Manuel.

He was of medium height, corpulent, beardless, and brown skinned. A mysterious, sinister-looking Indian, he was the perfect image of what I expected an evil-looking brujo to look like. His apparent moodiness frightened me, and his sparse answers revealed what I believed to be a violent nature.

Only upon knowing him better did I realize how much Silvio Manuel enjoyed cultivating this image. He was the most open, and for me, delightful, of all the sorcerers.

Secrets and gossip were his passion. Whether they were truths or falsehoods did not matter to him. It was his recounting of them that was priceless to me, and to everyone else for that matter.

Silvio Manuel also had an inexhaustible supply of jokes; most of them downright dirty. He was the only one who enjoyed watching TV and thus was always up to date on world news. He would report it to the others with gross exaggerations; salting it with a great deal of malice.

And Silvio Manuel was a magnificent dancer. His expertise in the various indigenous, sacred dances was legendary. He moved with rapturous abandon and would often ask me to dance with him. Whether it was a Venezuelan joropo, a cumbia, a samba, a tango, the twist, rock and roll, or a cheek-to-cheek bolero, he knew them all.

I also interacted with John, the Indian I had been introduced to by the nagual Mariano Aureliano in Tucson, Arizona. His round, easygoing, jovial appearance was but a facade. He was the most unapproachable of all the sorcerers. He drove around in his pickup truck on errands for everyone else. He also fixed whatever needed to be mended in and around the house.

If I did not bother him with questions or comments, and kept silent, he would take me with him on his errands and show me how things were fixed. From him I learned how to change washers, and adjust a leaking faucet or toilet tank; how to fix an iron, and a light switch; how to change the oil and spark plugs in my car. Under his guidance, the proper use of a hammer, a screwdriver, a saw, and an electric drill became quite natural to me.

The only thing none of them did for me was answer my questions and probes about their world. Whenever I tried to engage them, they referred me to the nagual Isidore Baltazar. Their standard rebuff was to say, "He is the new nagual. It is his duty to deal with you. We are merely your aunties and uncles."



At the beginning, the nagual Isidore Baltazar was more than a mystery to me. Where he actually lived was not clear to me. Oblivious to schedules and routines, he appeared at and disappeared from the studio at all hours. Day and night were all the same to him. He slept when he was tired-- hardly ever-- and ate when he was hungry-- almost always.

Between his frantic comings and goings, he worked with a concentration that was astounding. His capacity to stretch or compress time was incomprehensible to me. I was certain that I spent hours or even entire days with him when in reality it could have been only moments I snatched here and there either during the day or the night; and from whatever else he did-- whatever that might have been.

I had always considered myself an energetic person. However, I could not keep up with him. He was always in motion-- or so it appeared; agile and active; ever ready to undertake some project. His vigor was simply incredible.

It was much later that I fully understood that the source of Isidore Baltazar's boundless energy was his lack of concern with himself.

It was his unwavering support and his imperceptible yet masterful machinations that helped me stay on the right track. It was the lightheartedness in him, and my pure delight in his subtle yet forceful influence that made me change without my noticing that I was being led along a new path; a path on which I no longer had to play games nor needed to pretend or use my womanly wiles to get my way.

What made his guidance so tremendously compelling was that he had no ulterior motive. He was not in the least possessive, and his guidance was not adulterated with promises or sentimentality.

He did not push me in any particular direction. That is, he did not advise me on what courses I should take or what books I should read. That was left entirely up to me.

There was only one condition he insisted upon. I was to work on no particular goal other than the edifying and pleasurable process of thinking.

A startling proposition! I had never considered thinking in those terms; nor thinking in any other manner, for that matter.

Although I had not disliked going to school, I had certainly never thought of schoolwork as particularly pleasurable. It was simply something I had to do; usually in a hurry and with the least possible effort.

I could not help but agree with what Florinda and her cohorts had so bluntly pointed out to me the first time I met them. I had gone to school not to pursue knowledge but to have a good time. That I had good grades was more a matter of luck and loquaciousness than studiousness. I had a fairly good memory, I knew how to talk, and I knew how to convince others.

Once I got past my initial embarrassment over having to admit and to accept the fact that my intellectual pretensions were a sham, and that I did not know how to think except in the most shallow manner, I felt relieved. I was ready to put myself under the sorcerers' tutelage, and to follow Isidore Baltazar's study plan.

To my great disappointment, he did not have one. All he did was insist that I stop studying and reading outdoors. He believed that the thinking process was a private and almost secret rite that could not possibly occur outdoors in public view. He compared the process of thinking with leavened dough. It can only rise inside a room.

Isidore Baltazar said to me once, "The best way to understand anything, of course, is in bed." He then stretched out on his bed, propped his head against several pillows, and crossed his right leg over the left, and rested his ankle on the raised knee of his left leg.

I did not think much of that absurd reading position, yet I practiced it whenever I was by myself. With a book propped on my chest, I would fall into the most profound sleep. Keenly sensitive to my insomniac tendencies, I was more pleased with sleep than with knowledge.

Sometimes, however, just prior to that moment of losing consciousness, I would feel as if hands were coiling around my head, pressing ever so lightly against my temples.

My eyes would automatically scan the open page before I was even conscious of it and I would lift entire paragraphs off the paper. The words would dance before my eyes until clusters of meaning exploded in my brain like revelations.

Eager to uncover this new possibility opening up before me, I pushed on as if driven by some relentless taskmaster.

There were times, however, when this method of cultivating reason exhausted me physically as well as mentally. At those times I asked Isidore Baltazar about intuitive knowledge, and about the sudden insightful flash of understanding that sorcerers are supposed to cultivate above all else.

He always said to me at those times that to know something only intuitively is meaningless. Flashes of insight need to be translated into some coherent thought. Otherwise they are purposeless.

He compared flashes of insight to sightings of inexplicable phenomena. Both wane as swiftly as they come. If they are not constantly reinforced, doubt and forgetfulness will ensue because the mind has been conditioned to be practical and accept only that which is verifiable and quantifiable.

He explained that sorcerers are men of knowledge rather than men of reason. As such, they are a step ahead of Western intellectual men who assume that reality-- which is often equated with truth-- is knowable through reason.

A sorcerer claims that all that is knowable through reason is our thought processes, and that it is only by understanding our total being at its most sophisticated and intricate level that we can eventually erase the boundaries by which reason defines reality.

Isidore Baltazar explained to me that sorcerers cultivate the totality of their being. That is, sorcerers do not necessarily make a distinction between our rational and our intuitive sides. They use both to reach the realm of awareness which lies beyond language and beyond thought; a realm they call silent knowledge.

Again and again Isidore Baltazar stressed that for one to silence one's rational side one first has to understand his or her thought process at its most sophisticated and intricate level.

He believed that philosophy, beginning with classical Greek thought, provided the best way of illuminating this thought process. He never tired of repeating that, whether we are scholars or laymen, we are nonetheless members and inheritors of our Western intellectual tradition.

And that means that regardless of our level of education and sophistication, we are captives of that intellectual tradition and the way it interprets what reality is.

Only superficially, Isidore Baltazar claimed, are we willing to accept that what we call reality is a culturally determined construct.

What we need is to accept at the deepest level possible that culture is the product of a long, cooperative, highly selective, highly developed, and last but not least, highly coercive process that culminates in an agreement that shields us from other possibilities.

Sorcerers actively strive to unmask the fact that reality is dictated and upheld by our reason; and that ideas and thoughts stemming from reason become regimes of knowledge that ordain how we see and act in the world; and that incredible pressure is put on all of us to make certain ideologies acceptable to ourselves.

He stressed that sorcerers are interested in perceiving the world in ways outside of what is culturally determined.

What is culturally determined is that our personal experiences, reinforced by a shared social agreement on what our senses are capable of perceiving, is what dictates the limits of what we perceive.

Anything out of this sensorially agreed-upon perceptual realm is automatically encapsulated and disregarded by the rational mind.

In this manner, the frail blanket of human assumptions is never damaged.

Sorcerers teach that perception takes root in a place outside the sensorial realm. Sorcerers know that something more vast exists than what we have agreed our senses can perceive. Perception takes place at a point outside the body and outside the senses.

But it is not enough for one to merely believe this premise, not is it simply a matter of reading or hearing about it from someone else.

In order for one to embody it, one has to experience it.

Isidore Baltazar said that sorcerers continually and actively strive to break that frail blanket of human assumptions.

However, sorcerers do not plunge into the darkness blindly. They are prepared. They know that whenever they leap into the unknown, they need to have a well-developed rational side. Only then will they be able to explain and make sense of whatever they might bring forth from their journeys into the unknown.

He added that I was not to understand sorcery through reading the works of philosophers. Rather, I was to see that both philosophy and sorcery are highly sophisticated forms of abstract knowledge. Both for sorcerer and philosopher, the truth of our Being-in-the-world does not remain unthought. A sorcerer, however, goes a step further. He acts upon his findings which are already by definition outside our culturally accepted possibilities.

Isidore Baltazar believed that philosophers are intellectual sorcerers. However, their probings and their pursuits always remain mental endeavors. Philosophers cannot act upon the world they understand and explain so well except in the culturally agreed-upon manner. Philosophers add to an already existing body of knowledge. They interpret and reinterpret existing philosophical texts. New thoughts and ideas resulting from this intense studying don't change them, except perhaps in a psychological sense. They might become kinder, more understanding people-- or, perhaps, the opposite.

However, nothing of what philosophers do philosophically will change their sensorial perception of the world because they work from within the social order.

Philosophers uphold the social order even if intellectually they do not agree with it. Philosophers are sorcerers manque.

Sorcerers also build upon an existing body of knowledge.

However, they do not build upon this knowledge by accepting what has already been established and proven by other sorcerers.

Sorcerers have to prove to themselves anew that that which already stands as accepted does indeed exist and does indeed yield to perceiving.

To accomplish this monumental task, sorcerers need an extraordinary amount of energy which they obtain by detaching themselves from the social order without retreating from the world.

Sorcerers break the agreement that has defined reality, without breaking up in the process themselves.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 15.

Version 2010.02.10


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 15.

Uncertainty took hold of me shortly after we crossed the border into Mexico at Mexicali. My justification for going to Mexico with Isidore Baltazar, which had seemed so brilliant to me before, now seemed only a shady excuse for forcing him to take me along.

I doubted now that I would be able to read sociological theory at the witches' house as I said I would.

I knew that I would do there exactly what I did on all previous occcasions; sleep a great deal, dream weird dreams, and try desperately to figure out what the people in the sorcerers' world wanted me to do.

Isidore Baltazar's voice made me jump when he asked, "Any regrets?" He was looking at me sideways and had probably been watching me for a while.

I hastened to assure him, "Of course not." I wondered whether he was referring to my general feeling or to my quietness.

I stammered some inanities about the heat, then turned to look out the window.

I did not speak anymore mainly because I was scared and morose. I could feel anxiety crawling on my skin like a swarm of ants.

Isidore Baltazar, on the other hand, warmed up to his ebullient best. He was elated. He sang and told me inane jokes. He recited poetry in English, Spanish, and Portuguese. Even tidbits of spicy gossip about people we both knew at UCLA failed to dispel my gloom.

That I was not a responsive audience did not mean a thing to him.

Even my yelling at him to leave me alone did not dampen his high spirits.

In between fits of laughter he commented, "If people were watching us, they would believe that we have been married for years."

If sorcerers were watching us, I thought dejectedly, they would know that something is wrong. They would know that Isidore Baltazar and I are not equals.

I am factual and final about my actions and my decisions.

For him, actions and decisions are fluid, whatever their outcome, and their finality is measured in that he assumes full responsibility for them regardless of how trivial or how significant they are.

We drove, straight south. We did not meander, as we usually did in order to get to the witches' house. When we left Guaymas-- never before had we been that far south on our way to the witches' house-- I asked him, "Where are you taking me?"

He casually responded, "We are taking the long way. Do not worry."

That was the same answer he gave me when I asked again, during our dinner in Navojoa.

We left Navojoa behind and drove south, heading toward Mazatlan. I was beside myself with worry.

Around midnight, Isidore Baltazar veered off the main highway and turned into a narrow dirt road. The van swayed and rattled as he drove over potholes and stones. Behind us the main highway was visible only for an instant in the scant flicker of the taillights, then it disappeared altogether, swallowed by the bushes that fringed the road.

After an excruciatingly long ride, we came to an abrupt halt, and he switched off the headlights.

"Where are we?" I asked, looking all around me.

For a moment I saw nothing. Then, as my eyes got accustomed to the darkness, I saw tiny white specks not too far ahead of us. Tiny stars that appeared to have fallen from the sky.

The exuberant fragrance of the jasmine bushes climbing up the roof and tumbling down over the ramada had been so entirely blocked out of my mind that, when I suddenly recognized it, I felt as though I had inhaled that perfumed air before only in a dream.

I began to giggle. It all gave me an almost childlike sense of wonder and delight. We were at Esperanza's house.

I mumbled to myself, "It was here I first came with Delia Flores."

Then in one instant I was nearly choking with anxiety, and reached for Isidore Baltazar's hand and asked, "But how can this be possible?"

In a bewildered tone he asked, "What?"

He was agitated and ruffled. His hand which usually was always warm was icy cold.

"This house was in the outskirts of Ciudad Obregon, more than a hundred miles north," I yelled. "I drove here myself. And I never left the paved road."

I looked all around me in the darkness, and I recalled that I had also driven from that house to Tucson, and I had never been in or near Navojoa in my life.

Isidore Baltazar was silent for a few minutes. He seemed preoccupied searching in his mind for an answer.

I knew there was none that would have pleased me.

Shrugging, he turned to face me.

There was a force, an edge to him-- much like there was to the nagual Mariano Aureliano-- as he said that to him there was no doubt that I had been dreaming-awake when, together with Delia, I left Hermosillo for the healer's house.

He admonished, "I suggest that you let it go at that. I know from personal experience how the mind can go in circles trying to arrange the unarrangeable."

I was about to protest when he cut me off, and pointed to the light moving toward us. He smiled in anticipation, as though he knew exactly to whom that enormous, swaying shadow on the ground belonged.

As he came to stand in front of us, I murmured in astonishment, "It is the caretaker."

Impulsively, I put my arms around his neck and kissed him on both cheeks. I muttered, "I never expected to see you here."

He smiled sheepishly but did not talk to me.

He embraced Isidore Baltazar, patting him repeatedly on the back the way Latin men are wont to do when greeting each other, then mumbled something to him.

Hard as I tried to listen, I could not understand a single word.

The caretaker led us to the house.

There was something forbidding about the massive front door. It was closed.

So were the barred windows. No light and no sound escaped the thick walls.

We circled the house to the backyard enclosed by a high fence, and to the door that led directly to a square room.

I felt reassured upon recognizing the four doors. It was the same room I had been taken to by Delia Flores.

It was as sparsely furnished as I remembered it; a narrow bed, a table, and several chairs.

The caretaker placed the oil lamp on the table, and then urged me to sit down.

Turning to Isidore Baltazar, he draped an arm around his shoulders and walked with him out into the dark corridor.

The suddenness of their departure left me stunned.

Before I fully recovered from my surprise and my indecision as to whether I should follow them, the caretaker reappeared.

He handed me a blanket, a pillow, a flashlight, and a chamber pot.

I said primly, "I would rather use the outhouse."

The caretaker shrugged his shoulders, then pushed the chamber pot under the bed, and said, "Just in case you have to go in the middle of the night."

His eyes glinted with emphatic glee as he told me that Esperanza kept a big, black watchdog outside. "He does not take kindly to strangers wandering across the yard at night."

As if on cue, I heard a loud barking.

I tried to ignore the ominous note in the beast's barking as I casually said, "I am not a stranger. I have been here before. I know the dog."

The caretaker lifted his brows in surprise, then asked, "Does the dog know you?"

I glared at him.

He sighed, and reaching for the oil lamp on the table, he turned toward the door.

I stepped quickly in front of him to block his way, and said, "Do not take away the light."

I tried to smile, but my lips stuck to my teeth.

I managed to ask, "Where is everybody? Where are Esperanza and Florinda?"

He said, "At the moment, I am the only person who is here."

Panic-stricken, I asked, "Where is Isidore Baltazar? He promised to take me to the witches' house. I have to work on my paper."

My thoughts and my words were all jumbled and confused as I talked about my reasons for accompanying Isidore Baltazar to Mexico.

I was close to tears as I told the caretaker how important it was for me to finish my work.

He patted my back most reassuringly and made soothing noises, as if he were talking to a child.

He told me, "Isidore Baltazar is asleep. You know how he is. The instant his head hits the pillow, he is gone out of the world."

He smiled faintly and added, "I will leave my door open in case you need me. Just call me if you have a nightmare or something, and I will come right away."

Before I had a chance to tell him that I had not had one since the last time I was in Sonora, the caretaker disappeared down the dark corridor.

The oil lamp on the table began to sputter, and moments later it went out.

It was pitch dark.

I lay down fully clothed and closed my eyes.

All was silent except for a soft, raspy breathing coming from far away. Conscious of that breathing sound and the hardness and narrowness of my bed, I soon gave up the effort to sleep.

Flashlight in hand, I crept down the corridor on noiseless feet, hoping to find Isidore Baltazar or the caretaker.

Softly, I rapped on door after door.

No one answered. No sound came from any of the rooms. An odd, almost oppressive silence had settled over the house. Even the rustlings and chirpings outside had ceased. As I suspected, I had been left alone in the house.

Rather than worry about it, I decided to look into the rooms.

There were eight bedrooms of the same size and disposition. They were rather small, perfectly square, and furnished only with a bed and a night table.

The walls and the two windows in all of them were painted white, and the tile floors were of an intricate design.

I opened the sliding doors of the closets by gently pushing their bottom left corners with my foot. I knew, without knowing how I knew, that a tap or gentle kick on that spot released a mechanism that opened the doors.

I moved the folded blankets stacked up on the floor in one of the closets and got to a small secret door. I released the concealed dead bolt disguised as a wall light socket.

Since I was beyond being surprised, I accepted my knowledge of the trap doors; a knowledge that was, of course, inadmissible to my conscious mind.

I opened the small, secret door, crawled through the tiny opening, and found myself in the closet of the next room. With no great astonishment-- since I already knew it-- I discovered that by squatting through these secret openings I could go from one to another of the seven rooms.

I swore under my breath as my flashlight went out.

Hoping to revive the batteries, I took them out and screwed them back in again.

It was no use. They were dead.

The darkness was so intense in these rooms that I could not see my own hands. Afraid of hitting myself against a door or a wall, I slowly felt my way into the corridor.

The effort was so great that I was gasping and shaking as I pulled myself upright and leaned against the wall.

I stood in the corridor for a long time, wondering in which direction to go to find my own room.

From the distance came fragments of voices.

I could not tell whether the sound came from inside the house or from the outside.

I followed the sound. It led me to the patio.

I vividly recalled that green, almost tropical patio past the stone archway with its ferns and thick foliage, its fragrance of orange blossoms, and its honeysuckle vines.

I had not taken but a few steps when I saw the enormous silhouette of a dog shadowed against the wall.

The beast growled. Its blazing eyes sent a chill running up my spine.

Instead of giving in to my fear, or perhaps because of it, I felt the strangest thing happen.

It was as if I had been folded like a Japanese fan or like a folded cutout figurine.

Suddenly, I unfolded. The physical sensation was almost painful.

The dog watched me, confused. It began to whine like a puppy. It flapped its ears and coiled on the ground.

I stood there glued to the spot.

I was not afraid. I simply could not move.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I folded back, turned around, and left. This time I had no trouble finding my room.



I awoke with a headache and the illusion of not having slept at all, which, as an insomniac, I knew so well.

The muscles of my body were disconnected.

I groaned out loud as I heard a door open and light fell over my face.

Feebly, I tried to turn on my other side without falling off the narrow bed.

Stepping into the room in a sweep of skirts and petticoats, Esperanza exclaimed, "Good morning! Actually, good afternoon," she corrected herself, pointing at the sun through the open door.

There as a wonderful gaiety in her and a delightful power in her voice when she told me that it was she who had thought of retrieving my books and papers from the van before Isidoro Baltazar left with the old nagual.

Abruptly, I sat up. I was fully awake.

I blurted out, "Why did the nagual Mariano Aureliano not come to say hello to me? Why did Isidore Baltazar not tell me he was leaving?"

I mentioned to her that now I would never be able to finish my paper and enter graduate school.

Esperanza regarded me with a curious expression, and said that, if writing my paper was such a mercenary act, I would never be able to bring it through.

Before I had a chance to tell her that personally I did not care if never entered graduate school, she added, "You do not do your paper to get into graduate school.

"You do it because you love doing it; because there is nothing else at the moment you would rather do."

I remarked, "There is plenty I would rather do."

She challenged me, asking, "Like what?"

I thought for a moment but I could not come up with anything specific.

I had to admit, if only to myself, that I had never enjoyed working on a paper as much as I did on this one.

For once, I had started with the reading and research at the beginning of the term instead of waiting, as I usually did, until a few days before the paper was due.

It was the knowledge that it was my ticket into graduate school that had spoiled my enjoyment.

Esperanza, as if again privy to my thoughts, said that I should forget about graduate school and only think of writing a good paper.

"Once you are part of the sorcerers' world and begin to grasp the nature of dreams, you are on your way to understanding what sorcery is all about, and that understanding frees you."

I looked at her, puzzled. I could not figure out what she was trying to tell me.

As if I were deaf, Esperanza enunciated her next sentence very carefully, saying, "It frees you from wanting anything."

She regarded me thoughtfully then added, "Greed becomes your middle name, and yet you do not need or want anything..."

Her voice trailed off as she began to arrange my books, papers, and stacks of index cards on the table.

Her face was radiant as she turned to look at me.

In her hands, she held several pencils. She said, "I sharpened them for you with a razor blade. I will sharpen them for you whenever they get dull."

She placed the pencils beside my legal-sized writing pad and then flung her arms wide, as if to encompass the whole room, and said, "This is a wonderful place for you to work. No one will bother you here."

I remarked, "I am sure of that."

Then seeing that she was about to leave, I asked her where Isidore Baltazar had slept last night.

She answered, "On his straw mat. Where else?"

Giggling softly, she gathered up her skirts and petticoats and stepped out into the yard. I watched her until she disappeared behind the stone arch. My eyes hurt; dazzled from staring into the light.

Moments later, there was a loud knock on one of the doors that opened into the corridor.

The caretaker asked, "Are you decent?" and he pushed the door open before I had a chance to say that I was.

Placing a bamboo tray on the table, he said, "Nourishment for your brain."

He poured me a bowl of clear broth, then urged me to eat the machaca Sonorense. He informed me, "I made it myself."

The mixture of scrambled eggs, shredded meat, onions, and hot chilies was delicious.

He said, "When you finish, I will take you to the movies."

I asked excitedly, "When I finish eating?" and I stuffed a whole tortilla in my mouth.

He clarified, "When you finish with your paper."

As soon as I was done with the meal, the caretaker said that I had to get acquainted with the dog, "Otherwise, you will not be able to go outside-- not even to the outhouse."

I was about to tell him that I had actually met the dog and had gone to the outhouse last night, when with a swift gesture of his chin he motioned me to follow him into the yard.

The big black dog lay curled up in the shade of the high fence of plaited cane. The caretaker squatted beside the animal and scratched it behind the ears. Bending even lower, he whispered something in the animal's ear.

The caretaker rose abruptly. Startled, I stepped backward and fell on my seat. The dog whined, and the caretaker, with one incredible leap, cleared the high fence. I scrambled to my feet and was about to run out of there fast when the dog stretched its forepaws and placed them on my feet. I could feel the pressure of the paws through my shoes. The dog looked up at me and opened its muzzle in a wide, drawn-out yawn. Its tongue and gums were blue-black.

I heard, "That is a sign of the finest pedigree."

I was so startled to hear the caretaker behind me that I wheeled around. I lost my balance again and fell over the dog. I did not dare to move at first, but then slowly I eased my head to the side. The dog's amber-colored eyes were fixed on me. The dog bared its teeth, not in a growl but in a most friendly, doggish smile.

Helping me up, the caretaker pronounced, "Now you are friends. And it is time for you to start on your paper."

The next three days were dominated entirely by my desire to finish my task. I worked for long stretches but somehow I did not feel the passing of time.

It was not that I was so engrossed in my work that I lost track of the hours. Rather, time seemed to have transformed itself into a matter of space. That is, I began to count time as interludes; interludes between my sightings of Esperanza.

Every day around midmorning, when I was eating my breakfast-- whatever she had left for me in the kitchen-- she would suddenly appear. Soundlessly, she seemed to materialize out of the perpetual bluish smoke that hung about the kitchen like a cloud.

Invariably she combed my hair with a coarse wooden comb, but she never said a word. Neither did I.

I would see her again in the afternoons. As soundlessly as she had appeared in the kitchen, she would abruptly materialize in the yard, and sit in her custom-made rocking chair under the stone archway.

For hours, she would stare into space, as if she could see beyond the limits of human vision.

Other than a brief nod or a quick smile, there was no interaction between us at that hour, yet I knew that I was protected in her silence.

The dog, as if it had been directed by the caretaker, never left my side. It followed me around day and night, even to the outhouse.

I particularly looked forward to our late afternoon outings, when the dog and I would race across the fields toward the row of trees that divided the plots of land.

There we would sit in the shade, staring into space like Esperanza.

It sometimes seemed to me that I could reach out and touch the distant mountains.

I would listen to the breeze rustling through the branches, and would wait until the yellow light of the setting sun turned the leaves into golden chimes. Then I waited until the leaves turned blue and finally black.

Then the dog and I would race back to the house, to escape the faint voice of the wind telling about the loneliness of that arid land.

On the fourth day I awoke, startled.

From beyond the door that opened to the yard, a voice called out, "Time to get up, lazy bones." The caretaker's voice was drowsily indifferent.

I asked, "Why do you not come in? Where were you all these days?"

There was no answer.

I sat wrapped in my blanket, waiting for him to appear. I was too tense and sleepy to go out and see for myself why he was hiding.

After a while I roused myself and went outside.

The yard was deserted.

In an effort to chase my sleepiness away, I drew bucket after bucket of cold water over my head.

My breakfast was different that morning. Esperanza did not show up.

It was only after I had settled down to work that I realized that the dog had also vanished.

Listlessly, I thumbed through my books. I had very little energy and even less desire to work. I just sat at my table for hours, gazing at the distant mountains through my opened door.

The transparent silence of the afternoon was broken now and then by the faint clucking of hens scratching the ground for seeds, and by the penetrating cry of the cicadas vibrating in the blue, cloudless light as if it were still noon.

I was about to doze off when I heard some noise in the yard.

I looked up quickly.

The caretaker and the dog lay side by side on a straw mat in the shade of the fence.

There was something odd about the way they lay, sprawled out on the straw mat. They were so still, they appeared dead.

With a mixture of concern and curiosity, I tiptoed toward them.

The caretaker noticed my presence before the dog did. He opened his eyes wide in an exaggerated fashion, then in one swift motion sat up crosslegged and asked, "Did you miss me?"

I exclaimed, "I did!" and then I laughed nervously.

It seemed an odd question for him to ask. "Why did you not come into my room this morning?"

Seeing his blank expression, I added, "Where have you been for the past three days?"

Instead of answering, he asked in a harsh tone, "How is your work coming along?"

I was so taken aback by his brusqueness, I did not know what to say.

I did not know whether I should tell him that my paper was none of his business or whether I should confess that I was stuck.

He said, "Do not upset yourself trying to think up an explanation. Just tell me the truth.

"Tell me that you need my expert opinion on your term paper."

Afraid I would burst out laughing, I squatted beside the dog and scratched its head.

The caretaker demanded, "Well? Can you not admit that without me you are lost?"

Uncertain about the state of his mind, I decided it was better to humor him than to contradict him.

I said that, indeed, I had not written a single line the whole day and that I had been waiting for him knowing that only he could rescue me.

I assured him that it was not really up to my professors at school, but up to him, to decide my fate as a graduate student.

The caretaker beamed at me, then asked that I bring him my paper. He wanted to have a look at it.

I said pointedly, "It is in English. You will not be able to read it."

My impulse was to add that even if it were in Spanish he would not be able to understand it, but I checked myself by the certainty that I was not that ill mannered after all.

He insisted I bring him the paper.

I did.

He spread out the pages all around him-- some on the mat, others on the dusty ground, and then he retrieved from his shirt pocket a pair of metal-rimmed glasses and put them on.

Leaning toward the dog, he whispered, "It is important to look like an educated man."

The animal pricked up one ear, then made a soft growling sound, as if to agree with him.

The dog shifted positions, and the caretaker motioned me to sit between him and the animal.

He looked like an owl; erudite and austere as he pored over the loose sheets on the ground.

He made disapproving, clucking sounds with his tongue. He scratched his head. He shuffled and reshuffled the sheets as if trying to find some order that eluded him.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders ached from sitting in that position.

Sighing with impatience, I reclined against the fence and closed my eyes.

In spite of my growing irritation, I must have dozed off, for I was suddenly startled by a faint yet insistent buzz.

I opened my eyes.

Sitting nearby and facing me, sat a gorgeously dressed, beautiful-looking woman. She said something to me, but I could not hear what it was because the buzzing in my ears rose.

The woman leaned forward, toward me, and in a loud, clear voice asked, "Are you not going to say hello to me?"

I cried out, "Nelida! When did you get here?"

I explained, "I was trying to shake off the buzzing in my ears."

She nodded, then drew up her long, shapely legs under the skirt she was wearing and wrapped her arms around them.

Dreamily she said, "It is good to see you."

With frowning brows, the caretaker mumbled to himself as he studied the pages before him.

After a while he pronounced, "Your scribbles are not only hard to read, but they do not make much sense."

Nelida stared at me with narrow, critical eyes as if daring me to contradict him.

I fidgeted, eager to get away and to escape the scrutiny of her unnerving gaze.

She leaned forward and grabbed my arm in a firm grip.

The caretaker began to read from the pages with an exasperating slowness.

What he read sounded familiar, but whether he actually followed the text I could not tell because I could not concentrate. I was too irritated by the capricious manner in which he cut the sentences, the phrases, and sometimes even the words.

Upon finishing with the last page, he stated, "All in all, it is a badly written paper."

He stacked the loose sheets in a pile, then leaned against the fence.

Very deliberately he bent his knees up in the same position Isidore Baltazar had taught me-- the right leg crossed over with the ankle resting on the left thigh-- and closed his eyes.

He was silent for so long I thought he had fallen asleep, and was thus startled when in a slow, measured voice he began to talk about anthropology, history, and philosophy.

His thoughts seemed to come into being while he was talking, and words flowed out of him clearly and precisely with a simplicity that was easy to follow and easy to understand.

I listened to him attentively. Yet at the same time I could not help thinking, "How could he possibly know so much about Western intellectual trends? How educated was he? Who was he really?"

The instant he finished speaking, I asked, "Could you repeat everything again? I would like to take notes."

The caretaker assured me, "Whatever I said is all in your paper, but it is buried under too many footnotes, quotes, and undeveloped ideas."

He leaned closer until his head almost touched mine.

"It is not enough to cite works in an effort to supply your paper with the veracity it lacks."

Dumbfounded, I could only stare at him.

I asked, "Will you help me write my paper?"

With a grave look in his eyes, he said, "No, I can not do that. That is something you must do on your own."

I protested, "But I can not. You just pointed out how badly written my paper is. Believe me, that is my best shot."

He contradicted me forcefully, saying, "It is not!"

Then he gazed at me with an air of astonishment that was mingled with a friendly warmth.

He said, "I am sure your professors would accept the paper once it is neatly typed. But I would not. There is nothing original about it."

I was too stunned to be upset.

The caretaker continued, "You are only paraphrasing what you have read. I demand that you rely more on your own opinions even if they contradict what is expected of you."

I said defensively, "It is only a term paper. I know it needs more work, but I also need to please my professors.

"Whether I agree with the expressed views is beside the point. I need to get accepted into graduate school, and that entails, in part, pleasing my professors."

But he said, "If you want to draw strength from the sorcerers' world, you can no longer work under such premises.

"Ulterior motives are not acceptable in this magical world of ours.

"If you want be a graduate student, then you have to behave like a warrior and not like a woman who has been trained to please. You know, even when you are beastially nasty, you strive to please.

"But from now, whenever you write, since you were not trained to do writing, you can certainly adopt a new mood; the warriors' mood."

I asked, "What do you mean by the warriors' mood? Do I have to fight my professors?"

The caretaker explained, "Not your professors. You have to fight yourself, and every inch of the way.

"And you have to do it so artfully and so cleverly that no one will notice your struggle."

I was not quite sure what he meant, and I did not want to know, either.

Before he could say anything else, I asked him how he knew so much about anthropology, history, and philosophy.

Smiling, he shook his head, and asked, "Did you not notice how I did it?"

He then proceeded to answer his own question, saying, "I picked the thoughts out of thin air. I simply stretched my energy fibers and hooked those thoughts, as one hooks fish with a fishing line, from the immeasurable ocean of thoughts and ideas that are out there."

He made a wide gesture with his arms as though to encompass the very air around him.

I argued, "To pick up thoughts, Isidore Baltazar told me, one must know which are the ones that might be useful. So you must have studied history, philosophy, and anthropology."

He said undecidedly, "Perhaps I did at one time." Then he scratched his head in perplexity and said, "I must have."

As if I had made a great discovery, I stated sententiously, "You had to have!"

Sighing loudly, he leaned against the fence and closed his eyes.

Nelida asked, "Why do you insist on always being right?"

Startled to hear her speak, I stared at her open-mouthed.

The corners of her lips curled up into a mischievous, secret smile. Then she motioned me to close my mouth.

I had been so engrossed in listening to what the caretaker had to say about my paper that I had forgotten all about her even though she had been sitting right in front of me.

Or had she? The thought that she might have gone and returned without me noticing it filled me with anxiety.

As if I had voiced my fears out loud, Nelida said softly, "Do not let that bother you. We are in the habit of coming and going without anyone ever noticing us."

Her gentle tone canceled the chilling effect of her statement.

Gazing from one to the other, I wondered whether they would actually vanish, unperceived, right before my very eyes.

I tried to make sure that they would not.

Stretching like a cat, I lay flat on the straw mat and inched my foot toward the hem of Nelida's dress which trailed on the ground. My hand went to the caretaker's jacket.

He must have noticed the tug on his sleeve, for he sat up abruptly and stared at me.

I closed my eyes, but kept watching them through my lashes.

They did not move. Their straight postures betrayed no trace of fatigue whereas I had to fight to keep my eyes open.

A cool breeze, fragrant with the scent of eucalyptus, sprang up. Streaks of colored clouds trailed across the sky, and the deep, transparent blue grew slowly more diffused. It melted away so languidly, it was impossible to distinguish what was cloud and what was sky; what was day and what was night.

With my foot on the hem of Nelida's dress and clutching onto the caretaker's jacket as if my life depended on it, I fell asleep.

It seemed that only moments had passed when I was awakened by a hand touching my face.

I heard a woman murmering something as she sat next to me, and I knew instinctively that it was someone besides Nelida. I whispered, "Florinda?"

I had the feeling that she had been murmuring for a long time, and that I had awakened just to hear what she was saying.

I wanted to sit up, but the woman prevented me from doing so with a gentle but firm touch on my shoulder.

A small flame flickered somewhere unsteadily in the darkness.

It shed a gentle, wavering pallor upon her face. It made her look ghostlike.

She seemed to grow as she moved closer. Her eyes, too, grew larger as they stared down into mine. The arch of her brows, like a curve drawn with a black marker, was concentrated in a frown.

I sighed with relief, saying, "Nelida!"

Smiling faintly, she nodded.

I wanted to ask her about the caretaker and about my term paper, but she pressed her fingers against my lips and continued with her murmurings.

The sound grew fainter and fainter. It seemed to come from a great distance, and then it finally faded away all together.

Nelida rose and motioned me to do the same.

I did so and noticed that we were not outside in the yard but in one of the empty bedrooms along the corridor.

I was alarmed at the possibility that the wind might have scattered my pages as I asked, "Where is my term paper?"

The idea that I might have to begin my work from scratch made me feverish.

Nelida made an imperious gesture with her chin, motioning me to follow her.

She was much taller than I, and looked exactly like Florinda.

Had it not been that she was so delicate, I would not have been able to tell them apart.

At that moment, she appeared as an infinished version of Florinda; as Florinda must have been when she was younger.

There was something so very ethereal about Nelida; so frail, and yet so appealing. I used to joke with Isidore Baltazar that if I were a man I would go for her.

He had retorted-- I had hoped in jest-- that that was perhaps the reason why Nelida hardly ever talked to me.

Nelida and I headed toward my room.

I heard steps all around me.

It could not be Nelida, I decided, for she walked so quietly she seemed not to touch the ground. The absurd notion that I was hearing my own steps made me tiptoe as silently as a cat, yet I still kept hearing the steps.

Someone's feet moved like mine did with the same rhythm echoing slightly on the tile floor.

I glanced backward several times, but there was, of course, no one behind me. Hoping to dispel my fear, I giggled out loud.

Nelida turned around abruptly. I thought she was going to reprimand me, but she too began to laugh.

She put her arm around my shoulders. Her touch was not particularly warm or tender.

I did not care. I liked her, and her touch was very reassuring to me.

Still giggling, and with the sound of footsteps all around us, we entered my room.

A strange brilliance hung about the walls as if a fog had seeped in through the four doors of the room; a fog which at that moment I could not see.

The fog had changed the shape of the room and gave it strange contours; almost making it round.

Regardless of how much I blinked and squinted, all I could see was the table I had been working on for the past three days. I stepped closer.

To my relief, I saw my paper arranged in a neat pile. Next to it were all my pencils. They had been sharpened.

"Nelida!" I cried out excitedly, and wheeled around. But I could no longer see her.

The fog was denser now. It closed around me with every breath I drew. It seeped inside me, and filled me with a deep, excited feeling of lightness and lucidity.

Guided by some invisible source, I sat at the table and spread the pages out all around me.

Right under my watchful eyes the entire structure of my paper emerged, and superimposed itself on my original draft like a double exposure on a frame of film.

I lost myself in admiration of the skilled development of the themes.

As if they were being maneuvered by some invisible hand that thought and wrote, the paragraphs rearranged themselves and imposed a new order. It was all so gorgeously clear and simple that I laughed out of joy.

I heard, "Write it down."

The words echoed softly in the room. Curious, I glanced all around me, but I saw no one.

Knowing that whatever I was experiencing was definitely more than a dream, I reached for my notepad and a pencil. I began to write with a furious speed.

Ideas came to me with an incredible clarity and ease. They pulsated in my head and in my body like sound waves. I simultaneously heard and saw the words.

Yet it was not my eyes or my ears that perceived what was there before me. Rather, it was some filaments within me that were coming out, and like some noiseless vacuum cleaner, were sucking up the words shining before me like dust particles.

After a while, the order superimposed on my paper began to blur. One by one the lines faded away.

Desperately, I tried to hold on to this splendid structure, knowing that it would all vanish without a trace.

But only the memory of my awareness of that magnificent lucidity remained. And then that, too, was extinguished, as if a candle had been blown out.

A curl of fog, as fine as a thread, lingered in the room. Then it withdrew in little ripples, and an oppressive darkness closed in around me.

I was so drained, I knew I was going to faint.

I heard, "Lie down!"

Knowing that I would not be able to see anyone, I did not even bother to look up. With great effort, I rose from my chair and staggered to my bed.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 16.

Version 2010.02.11


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 16.

For a moment, I just lay on my bed, vaguely aware of my amazing, astonishing dream, so unlike any other dream. For the first time ever I was conscious of all I had done.

As a soft, raspy, murmuring, came from the other end of the room and intruded on my reveries, I whispered, "Nelida?"

I sat up only to lie back quickly as the room began to spin around me.

I waited for a few moments, then tried again. I stood up and took a few hesitant steps, but I collapsed on the floor and hit my head against the wall.

When the room kept spinning around me, I cried out, "Shit! I am fainting."

Florinda said, "Do not be so dramatic." Then she giggled as she saw my bewildered face.

She touched my forehead first and then my neck as if she were afraid I might be running a fever. She pronounced, "You are not fainting. You need to replenish your energy."

I asked, "Where is Nelida?"

Florinda responded, "Are you not happy to see me?" She took my arm and helped me back to the bed, and said, "You are faint with hunger."

I contradicted her, more out of habit than conviction, saying, "I am not."

Although I did not feel hungry, I was certain my dizziness was caused by a lack of food. Except for breakfast, I had not eaten at all during the day.

Responding to my thoughts, Florinda said, "We wondered why you had not. We prepared such a delicious stew for you."

I asked, "When did you get here? I have been silently calling you for days."

Closing her eyes, Florinda made a humming sound, as if the noise would help her remember. Finally she said, "We have been here for several days. I think."

I was completely taken aback, and my temper was getting the better of me as I snapped, "You think!"

I quickly recovered, and asked, "Why did you not let me know that you were here?"

More than hurt, I was puzzled that I had failed to notice their presence. I mumbled, more to myself than to her, "How could I have been so unaware?"

Florinda regarded me with a curious expression in her eyes. She seemed surprised by my bafflement.

She remarked sagaciously, "If we had let you know that we were here, you would not have been able to concentrate on your work. As you well know, instead of writing your paper, you would have been focused on our comings and goings. All your energy would have been spent in trying to find out what we do. Would it not?"

Her voice was low and raspy, and a strange, excited light made her eyes even more shiny than usual. She assured me, "It was a deliberate act on our part that you should work without distractions."

Then she went on to explain that the caretaker had helped me with my paper only after he was satisfied with what I had done so far. She claimed that in dreaming he found the inherent order of my notes.

I said smugly, "I, too, saw the inherent order of my notes. I too saw it in a dream."

Florinda readily agreed, saying, "Of course you did. We pulled you into dreaming so you could work on your paper."

There was something startlingly normal about her statement, and yet at the same time it made me feel apprehensive.

I had an uncanny sense that I was finally close to understanding what dreaming-awake was, but somehow I could not quite grasp it.

I repeated, "You pulled me into dreaming?"

In an effort to make sense, I told Florinda all that had happened from the moment I saw the caretaker and the dog in the yard.

It was difficult to make it sound coherent because I could not decide myself when I had been awake and when I had been dreaming.

To my utter bewilderment, I could recall the exact outline of my paper as I had seen it superimposed on my original draft.

I pointed out, "My concentration was far too keen for me to have been dreaming."

Florinda interrupted me, saying, "That is precisely what dreaming-awake is. That is why you remember it so well."

Her tone was that of an impatient teacher explaining a simple but fundamental point to a backward child. She said, "I have already told you that dreaming-awake has nothing to do with falling asleep and having a dream."

As if it would invalidate her statement, I said, "I took notes."

Seeing her nod, I asked her if I would find whatever I saw in dreaming-awake jotted down in my own handwriting on my pad.

Florinda said, "You will. But before you do, you will have to eat first."

She rose, and holding out her hand, helped me to my feet. To put a semblance of order to my appearance, she tucked my shirt into my jeans and brushed off the pieces of straw sticking to my sweater.

She held me at arm's length and regarded me critically. Not satisfied with the results, she began to fuss with my hair, tweaking the unruly strands this way and that.

She pronounced, "You look quite frightful with your hair sticking out all over the place."

I told her, "I am used to taking a hot shower upon awakening."

I followed her out into the corridor, but seeing that she was heading toward the kitchen, I told her that I had to go to the outhouse first.

Florinda said, "I will walk with you."

Noticing my displeased face, she added that she only wanted to make sure I did not get dizzy and fall into the shit hole.

Actually, I was glad to hold on to her arm as we made our way to the yard.

I almost fell as we stepped outside, but not so much from weakness as from the shock of seeing how late in the day it was.

Florinda asked, "What is the matter? Do you feel faint?"

I pointed up at the sky. A faint gleam was all that remained of the sun's light. I said, "I can not possibly have lost a day." My voice had all but vanished even before I finished speaking.

I struggled to assimilate the idea that indeed a whole night and the whole day had passed, but my mind would not accept it. Not being able to account for time as measured in the usual manner unhinged me.

Florinda answered my thoughts, saying, "Sorcerers break time's flux. Time, in the fashion we measure it, does not exist when one dreams the way sorcerers dream.

"Sorcerers stretch or compress time at will. For sorcerers, time is not a matter of minutes or hours or days but is an altogether different matter.

She proceeded in a patient, measured tone, "When dreaming-awake, our perceptual faculties are heightened.

"However, when it comes to perceiving time, something altogether different happens. The perception of time does not become heightened but is canceled out completely."

She added that time is always a factor of consciousness; that is, to be aware of time is a psychological state that we automatically transform into physical measurements.

It is so ingrained in us that we can hear, even when we are not consciously aware of it, a clock ticking inside us subliminally keeping track of time.

She emphasized, "In dreaming-awake that capacity is absent. A thoroughly new and unfamiliar structure, which somehow is not to be understood or interpreted as we normally do with time, takes over."

I tried to come to grips with her elucidation, and said, "Then all I will ever consciously know about dreaming-awake is that time has either been stretched or compressed."

She assured me emphatically, "You will come to understand a great deal more than that.

"Once you become adept at entering heightened awareness, as Mariano Aureliano calls it, you will be aware then of whatever you wish because sorcerers are not involved in measuring time. They are involved in using it; in stretching or compressing it at will."

I said, "You mentioned earlier that you all helped me into dreaming. Then some of you must know how long that state lasted."

Florinda said that she and her companions were perennially in a state of dreaming-awake, and that it was precisely their joint effort that pulled me into dreaming-awake, but that they never kept track of it.

I asked, "Are you implying that I might be dreaming-awake now?"

But I knew the answer before she responded, and so I asked, "If I am, what did I do to reach this state? What steps did I take?"

Florinda said, "The simplest step imaginable. You did not let yourself be your usual self. That is the key that opens doors.

"We have told you many times and in many ways that sorcery is not at all what you think it is.

"To say that to stop yourself from being your usual self is sorcery's most complex secret sounds like idiocy, but it is not. It is the key to power, and therefore the most difficult thing a sorcerer does.

"And yet, it is not something complex or impossible to understand. It does not boggle the mind, and for that reason no one can even suspect its importance or take it seriously.

"Judging by the result of your latest dreaming-awake, I can say that you have accumulated enough energy by preventing yourself from being your usual self."

She patted my shoulder and as she turned away she whispered, "I will see you in the kitchen."



The kitchen door was ajar but no sound came from the inside. I whispered, "Florinda?"

A soft laughter answered my call, but I could not see anyone.

As soon as my eyes became accustomed to the penumbra, I saw Florinda and Nelida sitting around the table. Their faces were unnaturally vivid in that tenuous light. Their same hair, their same eyes, and their same noses and mouths gleamed as if lit by an inner light. It was the most eerie thing to see two beings so totally alike.

As I stepped closer, I said, "You two are so beautiful that you are scary."

The two women gazed at each other as if to validate my statement, and then burst into a most disturbing laughter. I felt a curious prickle running down my spine. Before I had a chance to comment on their odd sounding laughter, they stopped.

Nelida beckoned me to sit on the empty chair beside her.

I took a deep breath. I had to stay calm I told myself as I sat down.

There was a tenseness and a crispness about Nelida that unnerved me. She served me a plateful of a thick soup from the tureen standing in the middle of the table.

Nelida pushed the butter and a basket with warm tortillas toward me and said, "I want you to eat everything."

I was famished. I attacked my food as if I had not eaten for days. It tasted wonderful.

I ate all there was in the tureen and washed down the buttered tortillas with three mugfuls of hot chocolate.

Satiated, I slumped back in my chair. The door to the yard was wide open and a cool breeze rearranged the shadows in room.

Twilight seemed to be lasting forever. The sky was still streaked with heavy layers of the colors vermilion, deep blue, violet, and gold.

The air had that transparent quality that brought close the distant hills.

As if propelled by some inner force, the night seemed to shoot out of the ground. The shadowed movements of the fruit trees in the wind, rhythmic and graceful, swept the darkness up into the sky.

Esperanza burst into the room then and placed a lit oil lamp on the table. She regarded me with unblinking eyes, as if she had difficulty in focusing.

She gave the impression that she was concerned with some otherworldly mystery, and that she was not yet quite there. Then slowly her eyes thawed, and she smiled as if she knew now that she had returned from a great distance.

Then when I noticed my notepad and my loose sheets under her arm, I cried out, "My paper!"

Grinning broadly, Esperanza handed me my notes.

Eagerly, I examined the sheets and laughed out loud upon seeing the pages on the pad filled with precise and detailed instructions-- written half in Spanish and half in English-- on how to proceed with my term paper. The handwriting was unmistakably mine.

I said excitedly, "It is all there. That is how I saw it in my dream."

The thought that I might be able to zoom through graduate school without having to work so hard made me forget all my anxiety.

Esperanzaa said, "There are no shortcuts to writing good term papers, not even with the aid of sorcery. You should know that without the preliminary reading, the note taking, and the writing and rewriting you would never have been able to recognize the structure and order of your term paper in dreaming."

I nodded wordlessly. She had spoken with such an incontestable authority that I did not know what to say.

I finally managed to ask, "What about the caretaker? Was he a professor in his youth?"

Nelida and Florinda turned to Esperanza, as if it were up to her to answer.

Esperanza said evasively, "I would not know about that. Did he not tell you that he is a sorcerer in love with ideas?"

She was silent for a moment, then added softly, "When he is not taking care of our world as befits a caretaker, he reads."

Nelida elucidated, "Besides reading books, he reads a most extraordinary number of scholarly journals. He speaks several languages, so he is quite up to date with the latest of everything. Delia and Clara are his assistants. He taught them to speak English and German."

"Is the library in your house his?" I asked.

Nelida said, "It belongs to all of us. However, I am sure he is the only one, beside Vicente, who has read every book on the shelves."

Noticing my incredulous expression, she advised me that I should not be fooled by appearances regarding the people in the sorcerers' world.

Nelida assured me, "To reach a degree of knowledge, sorcerers work twice as hard as normal people. Sorcerers have to make sense of the everyday world as well as the magical world. To accomplish that, they have to be highly skilled and sophisticated mentally as well as physically."

She regarded me with narrowed, critical eyes then chuckled softly.

She explained, "For three days, you worked on your paper. You worked very hard, did you not?" She waited for my assent and then added that while dreaming-awake I worked on my term paper even harder than I did while awake.

I hastened to contradict her, saying, "Not at all. It was all quite effortless."

I explained that all I did was see a new version of my paper superimposed on my old draft, and then I copied what I saw.

Nelida maintained, "To do that took all the strength you had. While dreaming-awake you channeled all your energy into a single purpose. All your concern and effort went into finishing your paper.

"Nothing else mattered to you at the moment. You had no other thoughts to interfere with your endeavor."

I asked, "Was the caretaker dreaming-awake when he looked at my paper? Did I see what he saw?"

Nelida rose and walked slowly to the door. For a long moment she peered out into the darkness then returned to the table.

She whispered something to Esperanza which I did not hear, and then she sat down again.

Esperanza chuckled softly and then said that what the caretaker saw in my paper was different from what I saw and wrote down.

She ended by saying, "and quite naturally so, because his knowledge is by far more vast than yours."

Esperanza stared at me with her quick, dark eyes that somehow made the rest of her face seem lifeless.

She continued, "Guided by his suggestions, and according to your own capabilities, you saw what your paper ought to read like. That is what you wrote down."

Nelida said, "While dreaming-awake, we have access to hidden resources which we never use ordinarily."

She explained that the instant I saw my paper, I remembered the clues the caretaker had given me.

Noticing my incredulous expression, she reminded me what the caretaker had said about my paper, "Too many footnotes, too many notes and sloppily developed ideas."

Her eyes radiated sympathy and amusement as she went on to say that since I was dreaming and since I am not as stupid as I pretended to be, I immediately saw all kinds of links and connections within my material that I had not noticed before.

Nelida leaned toward me with a half-smile playing over her lips as she waited for my reaction.

"It is time you know what made you see a better version of your original paper."

Esperanza sat up straight and gave me a wink as if to emphasize that Nelida was about to reveal a major secret.

Nelida said, "When dreaming-awake we have access to direct knowledge."

I could see the disappointment in her eyes as she regarded me for a long moment.

Nelida snapped impatiently, "Do not be so dense!

"Dreaming-awake should have made you realize that you have, as all women do, a unique capacity to receive knowledge directly."

Esperanza made a silencing gesture with her hand and said, "Did you know that one of the basic differences between males and females is how they approach knowledge?"

I had no idea what she meant.

Slowly and deliberately, she tore off a clean sheet from my notepad and drew two human figures.

One head she 'crowned' with a cone and said that it was a man. On the other head, she drew the same cone, but upside down, and said that it was a woman.

Esperanza, with her pencil poised on the figure crowned with a cone, explained, "Men build knowledge step by step."

"Men reach up. They climb toward knowledge. Sorcerers say that men cone toward the spirit. They cone up toward knowledge. This coning process limits men on how far they can reach."

She retraced the cone on the first figure. "As you can see, men can only reach a certain height. Their path toward knowledge ends up in a narrow point seen here as the tip of the cone."

She looked at me sharply. "Pay attention," she warned me and pointed her pencil to the second figure with the inverted cone on its head.

"As you can see, the cone is upside down, and open like a funnel. Women are able to open themselves directly to the source. Or rather, the source reaches them directly at the broad base of the cone.

"Sorcerers say that women's connection to knowledge is expansive. On the other hand, men's connection is quite restricted.

She proceeded, "Men are close to the concrete, and aim at the abstract.

"Women are close to the abstract, and yet try to indulge themselves with the concrete."

I interrupted her, "Why are women, being so open to knowledge, or the abstract, considered inferior?"

Esperanza gazed at me with rapt fascination.

She rose swiftly, stretched like a cat until all her joints cracked, then sat down again.

She explained, "That women are considered inferior, or, at the very best, that female traits are equated as complementary to the male's has to do with the manner in which males and females approach knowledge.

"Generally speaking, women are more interested in power over themselves than over others.

"Power over others is clearly what males want."

Nelida interjected, "Even among sorcerers."

The women all laughed.

Esperanza went on to say that she believed that originally women saw no need to exploit their facility to link themselves broadly and directly to the spirit.

She said women saw no necessity to talk about or to intellectualize this natural capacity of theirs because it was enough for them to put their natural capacity into action, and to know that they had it.

Esperanza stressed, "Men's incapacity to link themselves directly to the spirit was what drove them to talk about the process of reaching knowledge. And they have not stopped talking about it.

"And it is precisely this insistence on knowing how they strive toward the spirit, and this insistence on analyzing the process that gave them the certainty that being rational is a typically male skill."

Esperanza explained that the conceptualization of reason has been done exclusively by men, and that this has allowed men to belittle women's gifts and accomplishments.

And even worse, it has allowed men to exclude feminine traits from the formulation of the ideals of reason.

She emphasized, "So by now, of course, women believe what has been defined for them.

"Women have been reared to believe that only men can be rational and coherent.

"Now men carry with them a load of unearned assets that makes them automatically superior regardless of their preparation or capacity."

I asked, "How did women lose their direct link to knowledge?"

Esperanza corrected me, "Women have not lost their connection. Women still have a direct link with the spirit.

"They have only forgotten how to use it. Or rather, they have copied men's condition of not having it at all.

"For thousands of years, men have struggled to make sure that women forget it.

"Take the Holy Inquisition, for example. That was a systematic purge to eradicate the belief that women have a direct link to the spirit.

"All organized religion is nothing but a very successful maneuver to put women in a lower place. Religions invoke a divine law that says that women are inferior."

I stared at her in amazement, wondering to myself how she could possibly be so erudite.

Esperanza went on, "Men's need to dominate others and women's lack of interest in expressing or formulating what they know and how they know it has been a most nefarious alliance."

"It has made it possible for women to be coerced from the moment they are born into accepting that fulfillment lies in homemaking, in love, in marriage, in having children, and in self-denial.

"Women have been excluded from the dominant forms of abstract thought and educated into dependence.

"Women have been so thoroughly trained in the belief that men must think for them that women have finally given up thinking."

I interrupted her, "Women are quite capable of thinking."

Esperanza corrected me, "Women are capable of formulating what they have learned, but what they have learned has been defined by men.

"Men define the very nature of knowledge, and from that knowledge they have excluded that which pertains to the feminine. Or if the feminine is included, it is always in a negative light.

"And women have accepted this."

I interjected, "You are years behind the times. Nowadays women can do anything they set their hearts to do. They pretty much have access to all the centers of learning, and to almost anything men can do."

Esperanza argued, "But this is meaningless as long as women do not have a support system and a support base.

"What good is it that women have access to what men have when women are still considered inferior beings who have to adopt male attitudes and behaviors in order to succeed?

"The truly successful women are the perfect converts. They too look down on women.

"According to men, the womb limits women both mentally and physically.

"This is the reason why women, although they have access to knowledge, have not been allowed to help determine what this knowledge is.

Esperanza proposed, "Take, for instance, philosophers. The pure thinkers.

"Some of them are viciously against women.

"Others are more subtle in that they are willing to admit that women might be as capable as men were it not for the fact that women are not interested in rational pursuits.

"And if women are interested in rational pursuits they should not be because it is more becoming for a woman to be true to her nature as a nurturing and dependent companion of the male."

Esperanza expressed all this with unquestionable authority.

Within moments, however, I was assailed by doubts. I asked, "If knowledge is but a male construct, then why your insistence that I go to school."

Esperanza replied, "Because you are a witch, and as such you need to know what impinges on you and how it impinges on you."

"Before you refuse something, you must understand why you refuse it.

"You see, the problem is that knowledge in our day is derived purely from reasoning things out.

"But women have a different track that is never, ever, taken into consideration.

"That track can contribute to knowledge, but it would have to be a contribution that has nothing to do with reasoning things out."

I asked, "What would it deal with, then?"

Esperanza replied, "That is for you to decide after you master the tools of reasoning and understanding."

I was very confused.

Esperanza explained, "What sorcerers propose is that men can not have the exclusive right to reason.

"Men seem to have it now simply because the ground where men apply reason is a ground where maleness prevails.

"Let us, then, apply reason to a ground where femaleness prevails. And that ground is, naturally, the inverted cone I described to you, a women's connection with the spirit itself."

She tilted her head slightly to one side as if considering what to say.

She said, "That connection has to be faced with a different aspect of reasoning-- an aspect never, ever used before-- the feminine side of reasoning."

I asked, "What is the feminine side of reason, Esperanza?"

She answered, "Many things. One of them is definitely dreaming."

She regarded me questioningly, but I had nothing to say.

Her deep chuckle caught me by surprise. She said, "I know what you expect from sorcerers.

"You want rituals and incantations. Odd, mysterious cults. You want to sing. You want to be one with nature. You want to commune with water spirits. You want paganism. Some romantic view of what sorcerers do. Very Germanic.

She went on, "To jump into the unknown you need guts and mind. Only with them both will you be able to explain to yourself and to others the treasures you might find."

She leaned toward me, eager, it seemed, to confide something.

She scratched her head and sneezed repeatedly, five times as the caretaker had. She said, "You need to act on your magical side."

I asked, "And what is that?"

Esperanze answered, "The womb."

She said this so distantly and calmly, and as if she were not interested in my reaction, that I almost missed hearing it.

Then suddenly I realized the absurdity of her remark, and I straightened up and looked at the others.

Esperanza repeated, "The womb! The womb is the ultimate feminine organ.

"It is the womb that gives women that extra edge and the extra force to channel their energy."

She explained that men, in their quest for supremacy, have succeeded in reducing woman's mysterious power, her womb, to a strictly biological organ whose only function is to reproduce; to carry man's seed.

As if obeying a cue, Nelida rose, walked around the table, and came to stand behind me. "Do you know the story of the Annunciation?" she whispered in my ear.

Giggling, I turned to face her and said, "No. I do not."

In that same confidential whisper, Nelida proceeded to tell me that in the Judeo-Christian tradition, men are the only ones who hear the voice of God.

Women have been excluded from that privilege, with the exception of the Virgin Mary.

Nelida said that an angel whispering to Mary was, of course, natural.

But what was not natural was the fact that all the angel had to say to Mary was that she would bear the son of God.

The womb did not receive knowledge but rather the promise of God's seed.

A male god, who engendered another male god in turn.

I wanted to think and to reflect on all that I had heard, but my mind was in a confused whirl.

I asked, "What about male sorcerers? They do not have a womb, yet they are clearly connected to the spirit."

Esperanza regarded me with undisguised pleasure, then looked over her shoulder, as though she were afraid to be overheard, and whispered, "Sorcerers are able to align themselves to intent and to the spirit because they have given up what specifically defines their masculinity, and they are no longer males."





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 17.

Version 2010.02.11


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 17.

The manner in which Isidore Baltazar was pacing about the room was different from the way he usually covered the length of his rectangular studio.

Before, I had always been soothed by his pacing. This time, however, his steps rang with a disturbing, oddly menacing sound.

The image of a tiger prowling in the bushes came to mind. Not a tiger ready to pounce on a victim, but rather one sensing that something that was not quite right.

I turned away from my paper and was about to ask him what was the matter, when he said, "We are going to Mexico!"

The way he said it made me laugh. The gruffness and seriousness of his voice warranted my joking question, "Are you going to marry me there?"

Glaring at me, he came to an abrupt halt. He snapped angrily, "This is no joke. This is the real thing."

No sooner had he spoken than he smiled and shook his head. He made a humorously helpless gesture and said, "What am I doing? I am getting angry at you as if I had time for that.

"What a shame! The nagual Juan Matus warned me that we are crap to the very end."

He hugged me fiercely, as if I had been gone for a long time and had just returned.

I said, "I do not think it is such a good idea for me to go to Mexico."

He sounded like a military man giving orders as he said, "Cancel anything pending. There is no more time."

Since I was in a festive mood, I could not help retorting, "Jawohl, mein Gruppenfuehrer!"

He lost his tightness and laughed.



As we drove through Arizona, a most peculiar feeling suddenly flooded me.

It was a bodily sensation something like a chill that extended from my womb to my entire body and brought goose bumps all over my skin. It was the knowledge that something was wrong.

There was in that feeling a new element I had not encountered before. I was absolutely certain without a tinge of being right or wrong.

With my voice rising against my will, I said, "I just had an intuition. Something is wrong!"

Isidore Baltazar nodded, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "The sorcerers are leaving."

Quite involuntary I cried out, "When?"

He replied, "Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Or perhaps a month from now, but their departure is imminent."

Sighing in relief, I slumped on my seat and consciously relaxed.

I murmured, "They have been saying that they're leaving since the day I met them more than three years ago,"

But I did not really feel right about saying that.

Isidore Baltazar turned to glance at me, his face a mask of sheer contempt.

I could see the effort he was making to erase his dissatisfaction.

He smiled, then patted my knee and said softly, "In the sorcerers' world we can not be that factual. If sorcerers repeat something to you until you are cynically bored with it, it is because they want to prepare you for it."

He fixed me momentarily with his hard, unsmiling eyes and added, "Do not confuse their magical ways with your dumbo ways."

I nodded wordlessly. His statement did not anger me because I was too scared for that. I kept quiet.

The journey took no time at all, or so it seemed to me. We took turns sleeping and driving, and by noon of the following day we were at the witches' house.

The instant the car's engine was shut off, we both jumped out of the car, slammed the doors shut, and ran up to the witches' house.

The caretaker said, "What is the idea?"

He was standing by the front door, seemingly bewildered by our abrupt and loud arrival, he asked, "Are you two fighting? Or chasing each other?"

He looked at Isidore Baltazar, then at me, and said, "Gee! Running like this."

Unable to contain my growing anxiety and fear any longer, I repeated mechanically, "When are you leaving? When are you leaving?"

Laughing, the caretaker patted my back reassuringly and said, "I am not going anyplace. You are not going to get rid of me that easily."

His words sounded genuine enough, but they did not relieve my anxiety.

I searched his face and his eyes to see if I could detect a lie. All I saw was kindness and sincerity.

Upon realizing that Isidore Baltazar was no longer standing beside me, I tensed up again. He had vanished as noiselessly and swiftly as a shadow.

Sensing my agitation, the caretaker pointed with his chin to the house.

I heard Isidore Baltazar's voice, rising as if he were protesting, and then I heard his laughter.

Trying to move past the caretaker, I asked, "Is everybody here?"

He blocked my way with his outstretched arms, and said, "They are inside, but they can not see you at the moment."

Seeing that I was about to protest, he added, "They were not expecting you, and they want me to talk to you before they do."

He took my hand and led me away from the door.

He proposed, "Let us go to the back and pick up some leaves. We will burn them and leave the ashes for the water fairies. Perhaps they will turn them into gold."

We did not talk at all as we gathered pile after pile of leaves, but the physical activity and the sound of the rake scratching the ground soothed me.

It seemed we had been gathering and burning leaves for hours when suddenly I knew that there was someone else in the yard.

I turned my head quickly and saw Florinda.

Dressed in white pants and jacket, and sitting on the bench under the zapote tree, she was like an apparition. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat, and in her hand she held a lace fan. She seemed not quite human and so remote that I just stood motionless; absolutely amazed.

Wondering whether she was going to acknowledge me, I took a few hesitant steps toward her.

Upon noticing that she did not in any way register my presence, I waited undecidedly.

It was not that I was trying to protect myself against being refused or being slighted by her, but rather, some undetermined yet unconsciously understood rule kept me from demanding that she pay attention to me.

However, when the caretaker joined Florinda on the bench, I reached for the rake propped against a tree and inched my way toward them.

Grinning absentmindedly, the caretaker looked up at me, but his attention was on what Florinda was saying.

They spoke in a language I did not understand, yet I listened to them, entranced.

Whether it was the language or her affection for the old man, I did not know, but her raspy voice was unusually soft and strange, and hauntingly tender.

Abruptly, she rose from the bench.

As if she were propelled by some hidden spring, she zigzagged across the clearing like a hummingbird. She paused for an instant beside each tree; touching a leaf here and a blossom there.

I raised my hand to call her attention, but I was distracted by a bright blue butterfly weaving blue shadows in the air.

It flew toward me and alighted on my hand.

The butterfly's wide, quivering wings fanned out and their shadow fell darkly over my fingers. It rubbed its head with its legs, and after opening and closing its wings several times, it took off again, leaving on my middle finger a ring in the shape of a triangular butterfly. Certain that it was but an optical illusion, I shook my hand repeatedly.

I asked the caretaker in a shaky voice, "It is a trick, is it not? It is an optical illusion?"

The caretaker shook his head, and his face crinkled into a most radiant smile. Holding my hand in his, he said, "It is a lovely ring. It is a magnificent gift."

I repeated, "A gift." I had the briefest flash of insight, but it disappeared, leaving me lost and bewildered.

The antennae and the thin, elongated body dividing the triangle were fashioned in white gold filigree and were studded with tiny diamonds.

I stared at the jewel and asked, "Who put the ring on my finger?"

The caretaker asked, "Did you not notice the ring before?"

Baffled, I repeated, "Before? Before what?"

He replied, "You have been wearing that ring since Florinda gave it to you."

I asked, "But when?" I held my hand over my mouth to stifle my shock, and said more to myself than to him, "I can not remember Florinda giving me the ring.

"And why have I not noticed the ring before?"

The caretaker shrugged as if he were at a loss to explain my oversight, and then suggested that perhaps I had not noticed the ring because it fit so perfectly on my finger.

He seemed about to say something else but stopped himself, and instead suggested that we pick up some more leaves.

I said, "I can not. I have to talk to Florinda."

He mused in the manner of someone hearing a ridiculous and probably unsound idea, saying, "You do?"

But he did not persuade me to the contrary, and said, "She is gone for her walk."

He pointed with his chin toward the path that led to the hills.

I could see her white-clad figure weaving in and out of the high chaparral in the distance.

I stated, "I will catch up with her."

The caretaker warned me, "She goes far."

I assured him, "That is no problem." I ran after Florinda, but then slowed down before I caught up with her.

She had the most beautiful walk. She moved with a vigorous, athletic motion; effortlessly; her back erect.

Sensing my presence, she came to an abrupt halt, then turned and held out her hands in a gesture of greeting.

Gazing at me, she said, "How are you, darling?" Her raspy voice was light and clear, and very soft.

In my eagerness to learn about the ring, I did not even greet her properly. Stumbling over my words, I asked her if she had put the ring on my finger.

I asked, "Is it mine now?"

She said, "Yes. It is yours by right."

There was something in her tone. Her sense of certainty both thrilled and terrified me. Yet it did not even occur to me to refuse the no-doubt expensive gift.

I held up my hand against the light so that each stone sparkled with a dazzling radiance, and asked, "Does the ring have magical powers?"

She laughed, "No. It does not have powers of any sort.

"It is a special ring, though. Not because of its value or because it belonged to me, but because the person who made this ring was an extraordinary nagual."

I inquired, "Was he a jeweler? Was he the same person who built the odd-looking figures in the caretaker's room?"

She replied, "The same one. He was not a jeweler, though, and he was not a sculptor either. The mere thought that he might be considered an artist made him laugh.

"Yet anyone who saw his work could not help but see that only an artist could have executed the extraordinary things he did."

Florinda moved a few steps away from me and let her eyes roam across the hills as if she were searching for memories in the distance.

Then she turned once more toward me and in a barely audible whisper said that whatever this nagual made, whether it was a ring, a brick wall, tiles for the floor, the mysterious inventions, or simply a cardboard box, it invariably turned out to be an exquisite piece; not only in terms of its superb craftsmanship, but because it was imbued with something ineffable.

I insisted, "If such an extraordinary individual made this ring, then it has to have some kind of power."

Florinda assured me, "The ring in itself has no power, regardless of who made it. The power was in the making.

"The nagual who made this ring was aligned so thoroughly with what sorcerers call intent that he was able to produce this lovely jewel without himself being a jeweler.

"The ring was an act of pure intent."

Reluctant to sound stupid, I did not dare admit that I had no inkling what she meant by intent.

So I asked her what had prompted her to make me such a marvelous gift. I added, "I do not think I deserve it."

She said, "You will use the ring to align yourself with intent."

A wicked grin spread across her face as she added, "But, of course, you already know about aligning yourself with intent."

I mumbled defensively, "I know nothing of the sort." Then I confessed that I really did not know what intent was.

She said off-handedly, "You might not know what the word means, but something in you intuits how to tap that force."

She brought her head close to mine and whispered that I had always used intent to move from dream to reality, or to bring my dream-- whatever it might have been-- to reality.

She glanced at me expecting, no doubt for me to draw the obvious conclusions.

Seeing my uncomprehending expression, she added, "Both the inventions in the the caretaker's room and the ring were made in dreams."

I complained, I still do not get it."

She said equably, "The inventions frighten you, and the ring delights you. Since both are dreams, it can easily be the reverse..."

I interupted her, saying, "You frighten me, Florinda. What do you mean?"

She answered, "This, dear, is a world of dreams. We are teaching you how to bring them about all by yourself."

Her dark, shiny eyes held mine for a moment, and then she added, "At the moment, all the sorcerers of the nagual Mariano Aureliano's party help you enter into this world and are helping you to stay in it now."

I asked, "Is it a different world? Or is it that I am different myself?"

Florinda answered, "You are the same, but in a different world."

She was silent for a moment then conceded that I had more energy than before.

She explained, "Your energy comes from your savings, and from the loan all of us made you."

Her banking metaphor was very clear to me. What I still did not grasp was what she meant by a different world.

Florinda held her arms out wide, and exclaimed, "Look around you! This is not the world of everyday life."

She was silent for a long time, and then in a voice that was but a low, gentle murmur, she added, "Can butterflies turn into rings in the world of daily affairs; in a world that has been safely and rigorously structured by the roles assigned to all of us?"

I had no answer.

I looked around me; at the trees, at the bushes, at the distant mountains.

Whatever she meant by a different world still eluded me. The thought that finally occurred to me was, "The difference had to be a purely subjective one."

Reading my thoughts, Florinda insisted, "It is not! This is a sorcerer's dream. You got into it because you have the energy."

She regarded me quite hopelessly, and said, "There is really no way to teach dreaming to women. All that can be done is to prop them up so as to make them realize the enormous potential they carry in their organic disposition.

"Since dreaming for a woman is a matter of having energy at her disposal, the important thing is to convince her of the need to modify her deep socialization in order to acquire that energy.

"The act of making use of this energy is automatic. Women dream sorcerers' dreams the instant they have the energy."

She confided that a serious consideration about sorcerers' dreams, stemming from her own shortcomings, was the difficulty of imbuing women with the courage to break new ground.

Most women-- and she said she was one of them-- prefer their safe shackles to the terror of the new.

She whispered in my ear, "Dreaming is only for courageous women."

Then she burst into loud laughter and added, "Or for those women who have no other choice because their circumstances are unbearable; a category to which most women belong without even knowing it."

The sound of her raspy laughter had an odd effect on me.

I felt as if I had suddenly awakened from a deep sleep and remembered something quite forgotten while I had slept. I said, "Isidoro Baltazar told me about your imminent departure. When are you leaving?"

She replied, "I am not going anywhere yet." Her voice was firm, but it rang with a devastating sadness.

"Your dreaming teacher and I are staying behind. The rest are leaving."

I did not quite understand what she meant, and to hide my confusion I made the joking comment, "My dreaming teacher, Zuleica, has not said a single word to me in three years. In fact, she has never even talked to me. You and Esperanza are the only ones who have really guided me and taught me."

Florinda's gales of laughter reverberated around us. It was a joyous sound that brought me intense relief, and yet I felt puzzled.

I said, "Explain something to me, Florinda. When did you give me this ring? How come I went from picking leaves with the caretaker to having this ring?"

Florinda's face was full of enjoyment as she explained that it could easily be said that picking leaves is one of the doors into a sorcerers' dream provided one has enough energy to cross that threshold.

She took my hand in hers and added, "I gave you the ring while you were crossing. Therefore, your mind did not record the act.

"Suddenly, when you were already in the dream, you discovered the ring on your finger."

I looked at her curiously. There was something in her elucidation I could not grasp; something so vague and so indistinct.

Florinda suggested, "Let us return to the house, and recross that threshold. Perhaps you will be aware of it this time."

Leisurely, we retraced our steps, and approached the house from the back.

I walked a few steps ahead of Florinda so that I could be perfectly aware of everything. I peered at the trees, the tiles, and the walls, eager to detect the change, or anything that might give me a clue to the transition.

I did not notice anything except that the caretaker was no longer there.

I turned around to tell Florinda that I most definitely had missed the transition, but she was not behind me.

She was nowhere in sight. She was gone and had left me all alone there.

I walked into the house. As had happened to me before, I found it deserted.

The feeling of aloneness no longer frightened me, and it no longer gave me the sensation I had been abandoned.

Automatically, I went to the kitchen and ate the chicken tamales that had been left in a basket.

Then I went to my hammock and tried to put my thoughts in order.



I woke up and found myself lying on a cot in a small, dark room.

I looked desperately about me, searching for some inkling of what was going on.

I sat bolt upright as I saw big, moving shadows lurking by the door.

Eager to find out whether the door was open and the shadows were inside, I reached under the cot for the chamber pot, which somehow I knew to be there, and threw it at the shadows. The pot landed outside with an excessively loud clatter.

The shadows vanished.

Wondering whether I had simply imagined them, I went outside.

Still undecided, I stared at the tall mesquite fence encircling the clearing, and then I knew in a flash where I was. I was standing in back of the small house.

All this went through my mind as I searched for the chamber pot, which had rolled all the way to the fence.

As I bent to pick it up, I saw a coyote squeeze through the mesquite fence.

Automatically, I threw the pot at the animal, but the pot hit a rock instead.

Indifferent to the loud bang and to my presence, the coyote crossed the clearing.

It turned its head audaciously several times to look at me.

Its fur shimmered like silver. Its bushy tail swept over the various rocks like a magic wand. Each rock it touched came to life. The rocks hopped about with shiny eyes and moved their lips, asking peculiar questions in voices too faint to be heard.

I screamed, and the rocks moved appallingly fast toward me.

I immediately knew that I was dreaming.

I mumbled to myself, "This is one of my usual nightmares, with monsters and fear, and everything else."

Convinced that once I had recognized and voiced the problem I had neutralized its effects on me, I was about to give in and settle down to live a nightmare terror.

But when I heard a voice say, "Test the track of dreams," I wheeled around.

Esperanza was standing under the ramada tending to a fire on a raised platform made of cane heavily coated with mud. She looked strange and remote in the gleaming, moving light of the fire as if she were separated from me by a distance that had nothing to do with space.

She ordered, "Do not be frightened."

Then she lowered her voice to a murmur and said, "We all share one another's dreams, but now you are not dreaming."

Doubt must have been written all over my face because she assured me, "Believe me, you are not dreaming."

I stepped a bit closer.

Not only did her voice sound unfamiliar, but she herself was different.

From where I was standing, she was Esperanza. Nonetheless, she looked like Zuleica.

I moved very close to her. She was Zuleica!

Young, strong, and very beautiful, she could not have been more than forty years old. Her oval face was framed by curly, black hair that was turning grey. Hers was a smooth, pale face, highlighted by liquid, dark eyes set wide apart.

Her gaze was indrawn, enigmatic, and very pure. Her short and thin upper lip hinted at severeness, while the full, almost voluptuous lower lip gave an indication of gentleness and also passion.

Fascinated by the change in her, I simply stared at her, enthralled.

I definitely must be dreaming, I thought.

Her clear laughter made me realize that she had read my thoughts.

She took my hand in hers and said softly, "You are not dreaming, my dear. This is the real me.

"I am your dreaming teacher. I am Zuleica.

"Esperanza is my other self. Sorcerers call it the dreaming body."

My heart thumped so violently it made my chest ache.

I almost choked with anxiety and excitement. I tried to pull my hand away, but she was holding me with a firm grip that I could not break.

I pressed my eyes tightly shut. More than anything I wanted her to be gone when I opened them again.

She was there, of course, and her lips parted in a radiant smile.

I closed my eyes again, then jumped up and down and stomped on the ground as if I had gone berserk. With my free hand, I slapped my face repeatedly, until it burned with pain.

All to no avail. I could not wake up. Every time I opened my eyes, she was there.

She laughed, "I think you have got enough."

I commanded her to hit me.

She readily obliged, striking two sharp blows on my upper arms with a long, hard walking stick.

She spoke slowly as if she were very tired, saying, "It is no use, dear."

She took a deep breath, and let go of my hand.

Then she spoke again, saying, "You are not dreaming. And I am Zuleica.

"But when I dream, I am Esperanza. And something else, too, but I am not going to go into that now."

I wanted to say something, anything, but I could not speak. My tongue was paralyzed and all I managed to produce was a whimpering, doglike sound.

I tried to relax with breathing I had learned in a yoga class.

She chuckled, seemingly taken with my antics. It was a reassuring sound that had a soothing effect on me. It radiated so much warmth and such deep confidence that my body relaxed instantaneously.

She proceeded by saying, "You are a stalker, and you belong, by all rights, to Florinda."

Her tone brooked no argument, and no contradiction.

She continued, "You are also a somnambulist and a great natural dreamer. So, by virtue of your ability, you also belong to me."

One side of me wanted to laugh out loud and tell her that she was raving mad. But another side of me was in complete agreement with her claim.

I asked hesitantly, "By which name do you want me to call you?"

She gazed at me as if it should have been self-evident, and said, "By which name? I am Zuleica. What do you think this is? A game? We do not play games here."

I was taken aback by her vehemence, and I could only mumble, "No. I do not think this is a game."

In a voice sharp with intensity, she continued, "When I dream, I am Esperanza."

Her face was stern, but radiant and open, and without pity-- all at the same time.

"When I do not dream, I am Zuleica.

"But whether I am Zuleica or Esperanza or anything else, it should not matter to you. I am still your dreaming teacher."

All I could do was nod idiotically. Even if I had had something to say, I would not have been able to do so.

A cold, clammy sweat of fear ran down my sides. My bowels were loose and my bladder about to burst. I wanted to go to the bathroom and relieve myself, and puke.

I finally could not hold it any longer. It was a matter of disgracing myself right there, or of running to the outhouse.

I had enough energy to opt for the latter.

Zuleica's laughter was the laughter of a young girl, and it followed me all the way to the outhouse.

When I returned to the clearing, she urged me to sit beside her on the nearby bench.

I automatically obeyed her and sat down heavily on the edge. Nervously, I put my hands over my closed knees.

There was an undeniable gleam of hardness, but also of kindness, in her eyes.

It came to me in a flash, as if I had known it before, that her ruthlessness was, more than anything else, an inner discipline.

Her relentless self-control had stamped her whole being with a most appealing elusiveness and secretiveness. It was not the secretiveness of overt and furtive behavior, but rather the secretiveness of the mysterious and the unknown.

That was the reason I had followed her around like a puppy dog whenever I saw her.

Zuleica explained, "You have had two transitions today. One was from being normally awake to dreaming-awake, and the other was from dreaming-awake to being normally awake.

"The first was smooth and unnoticeable. The second was nightmarish.

"That is the normal state of affairs. All of us experience those transitions just like that."

I forced a smile, and said, "But I still do not know what I did. I am not aware of any steps. Things just happen to me, and I find myself in a dream without knowing how I got there."

There was a glint in her eyes.

"What is ordinarily done," she said, "is to start dreaming by sleeping in a hammock or in some kind of a strapping contraption hanging from a roof beam or a tree. Suspended in that fashion, we do not have any contact with the ground.

"The ground grounds us. Remember that. In a suspended position, a beginning dreamer can learn how energy shifts from being awake to dreaming, and from dreaming a dream to dreaming-awake.

"All this, as Florinda already told you, is a matter of energy. The moment you have it, off you go.

"Your problem now is going to be whether you will be able to save enough energy yourself since the sorcerers will not be able to lend it to you anymore."

Zuleica raised her brows in an exaggerated manner and added, "We will see. I will try to remind you the next time we share one another's dreams."

Seeing the dismay on my face, she laughed with childlike abandon.

I gazed into her astonishing eyes. They were dark and shiny with beams of light radiatingting from the pupils. I asked, "How do we share one another's dreams?"

Instead of answering, Zuleica dropped a few more sticks into the fire. Embers burst and spilled, and the light grew brighter.

For an instant she stood still with her eyes fixed on the flames as if she were gathering in the light.

She turned sharply and glanced briefly at me, and then she squatted and wrapped her strong, muscular arms around her shins.

Looking into the darkness, and listening to the crackling fire, she rocked from side to side.

I asked again, "How do we share one another's dreams?"

Zuleica stopped rocking. She shook her head, and then looked up startled, as if suddenly awakened.

She stated, "That is something impossible for me to explain now.

"Dreaming is incomprehensible. One has to feel it; not discuss it.

"As in the everyday world, before one explains something and analyzes it, one has to experience it."

She spoke slowly and deliberately. She admitted that it was important to explain as one went along. "Yet, explanations are sometimes premature. This is one of those times."

Seeing the disappointment in my face, Zuleica promised, "One day it will all make sense to you."

With a quick, light motion, she rose to her feet and went to stare at the flames, as if her eyes needed to feed on the light.

Her shadow, thrown by the fire, grew enormous against the wall and the ceiling of the ramada.

Without so much as a nod, she turned with a sweep of her long skirt and disappeared inside the house.

Unable to move, I stood rooted to the spot.

I could barely breathe as the clatter of her sandals grew fainter and fainter.

I yelled in a panic-stricken voice, "Do not leave me here! There are things I need to know."

Zuleica materialized by the door instantly. In a detached, almost distracted tone, she asked, "What do you need to know?"

Glancing into her shiny eyes, I gabbled, "I am sorry."

I examined her, almost hypnotized, and added apologetically, "I did not mean to shout. I thought you had gone into one of the rooms."

I looked at her beseechingly, and hoped she would explain something to me.

She did not. All she did was ask me again what it was I wanted to know.

I was afraid she would leave if I did not keep on talking, so I blurted out the first thing that came into my head, and said, "Would you talk to me when I see you again?"

She said, "When I see you again, we will not be in the same world as before. Who knows what we will do there?"

I insisted, "But a while ago you yourself told me you are my dreaming teacher.

"Do not leave me in darkness. Explain things to me. The torment I experience is more than I can bear. I am split."

She admitted casually, "You are. You certainly are split."

She looked at me with eyes brimming with kindness, and continued, "But that is only because you do not let go of your old ways.

"You are a good dreamer. Somnambulist brains have formidable potential. That is... if you would cultivate your character."

I hardly heard what she said.

I tried to put my thoughts in order, but I could not.

A succession of images of events I did not quite remember went through my mind with incredible speed.

My will exercised no control upon their order or their nature.

Those images were transformed into sensations that, however precise, refused to be defined, and refused to be formulated into words, or even into thoughts.

Obviously aware of my incapacity, Zuleica's face lit up in an expansive grin.

She said slowly and softly, "We have all helped the nagual Mariano Aureliano to push you into the second attention all along.

"In there we find fluency and continuity as we do in the world of everyday life.

"In both states the practical is dominant. We act efficiently in both states.

"What we can not do in the second attention, however, is to break what we experience into pieces so that we can handle it, nor so we can feel secure, and neither can we understand it."

While she talked, I was thinking to myself, "She is wasting her time telling me all this. Does she not know that I am too stupid to understand her explanations?"

But she continued to speak and smiled broadly. She obviously knew that for me to admit that I was not too bright meant that I had changed somehow. Otherwise, I would never admit such a notion, even to myself.

She continued, "In the second attention, or as I prefer to call it, when dreaming-awake, one has to believe that the dream is as real as the everyday world.

"In other words, one has to acquiesce.

"For sorcerers, all worldly or otherworldly pursuits are ruled by irreproachable acts, and in back of all irreproachable acts lies acquiescence.

"And acquiescence is not acceptance. Acquiescence involves a dynamic element. It involves action."

Her voice was very soft, and there was a feverish gleam in her eyes as she continued, "The moment one begins dreaming-awake, a world of enticing, unexplored possibilities opens up. It is a world where the ultimate audacity becomes a reality and where the unexpected is expected.

"That is the time when man's definitive adventure begins. The world becomes limitless with possibilities and wonder."

Zuleica was silent for a long time. She seemed to be debating what else to say.

Her soft voice turned wistful, and became softer still as she said, "With the help of the nagual Mariano Aureliano, you once even saw the glow of the surem.

"The surem are magical creatures that exist only in Indian legends. They are beings that sorcerers can see only while dreaming-awake at the deepest level.

"The surem are beings from another world that glow like phosphorescent human beings."

She wished me good night, turned, and disappeared inside the house.

For a second I stood numbed, then I dashed after her.

Before I reached the threshold I heard Florinda behind me say, "Do not follow her!"

Florinda's presence was so unexpected that I had to lean against the wall, and wait for my heartbeat to return to normal.

Florinda was sitting on the bench, feeding the fire. She said, "Come and keep me company."

The elusive light in her eyes, and the ghostly whiteness of her hair was more like a memory than a vision.

I stretched out on the bench beside her, and, as if it were the most natural thing to do, I placed my head in her lap.

Florinda combed her fingers through my hair, and said, "Never follow Zuleica, or any one of us for that matter, unless you are asked to do so.

"As you know now, Zuleica is not what she appears to be. She is always more-- much more than that.

"Never try to figure her out, because when you think you have covered all the possibilities, she will flatten you out by being more than you can imagine in your wildest fantasies."

I sighed contentedly, saying, "I know."

I could feel the tension draining From my face. I could feel it leaving my body.

I said with absolute conviction, "Zuleica is a surem From the Bacatete Mountains. I have known about these creatures all along."

Seeing the astonishment in Florinda's face, I went on daringly, "Zuleica was not born like an ordinary human being. She was established. She is sorcery itself."

Florinda contradicted me emphatically, saying, "No. Zuleica was born. Esperanza was not."

She smiled down into my face and added, "This should be a worthy riddle for you."

I murmured, "I think I understand, but I am too insensitive and can not formulate what I understand."

Florinda chuckled softly, and said, "You are doing fine. Being as insensitive as you normally are, you must wait until you are really, really awake, 100 percent in order to understand. Now you are only 50 percent awake.

"The trick is to remain in heightened awareness. In heightened awareness, nothing is impossible to comprehend for us."

Feeling that I was about to interrupt her, she covered my lips with her hand and added, "Do not think about it now.

"Always remember that you are compulsive, even in heightened awareness, and your thinking is not thorough."

I heard someone moving in the shadows behind the bushes. Sitting up, I asked, "Who is there?"

I looked all around me but I could not see anyone.

Women's laughter echoed across the yard.

Florinda said sleepily, "You can not see them."

I asked, "Why are they hiding from me?"

Florinda smiled and explained, "They are not hiding from you. It is just that you can not see them without the nagual Mariano Aurliano's help."

I did not know what to say to that. On one level it made perfect sense, yet I found myself shaking my head. I asked, "Can you help me see them?"

Florinda nodded, and said, "But your eyes are tired. They are tired from seeing too much. You need to sleep."

Purposefully I kept my eyes wide open. I was afraid to miss whoever was going to come out of the bushes the moment my attention slackened.

I stared at the leaves and the shadows, no longer knowing which was which, until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 18.


Esperanza said, "It is very hard to teach something so unsubstantial as dreaming, especially to women.

"We women are extremely coy and clever. After all, we have been slaves all our lives.

"We know how to precisely manipulate things when we do not want anything to upset what we have worked so hard to obtain; our status quo."

...

Esperanza explained, "To reach a point of detachment, where the self is just an idea that can be changed at will, is a true act of sorcery, and the most difficult of all.

"When the idea of the self retreats, sorcerers have the energy to align themselves with intent, and be more than what we believe is normal.

Version 2010.02.11


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 18.

HTML EDITOR:

Esperanza said, "It is very hard to teach something so unsubstantial as dreaming, especially to women.

"We women are extremely coy and clever. After all, we have been slaves all our lives.

"We know how to precisely manipulate things when we do not want anything to upset what we have worked so hard to obtain; our status quo."

...

Esperanza explained, "To reach a point of detachment, where the self is just an idea that can be changed at will, is a true act of sorcery, and the most difficult of all.

"When the idea of the self retreats, sorcerers have the energy to align themselves with intent, and be more than what we believe is normal.

END HTML EDITOR

The caretaker was dozing on his favorite bench in the shade of the zapote tree. That was all he had been doing for the past two days.

He no longer swept the patios or raked the leaves outside, but instead sat for hours on that bench and dozed, or stared into the distance as if he had a secret understanding with something that only he could see.



Everything had changed in the house.

I asked myself incessantly. "Did I do wrong to come to see them?" And I felt, as usual, guilty and defensive.

All I did was to sleep uninterrupted for hours on end.

When awake, however, I was disturbingly aware that nothing was the same.

Aimlessly, I wandered about the house, but it was to no avail. Something seemed to have fled from the house.



The caretaker's long and loud sigh intruded on my thoughts.

Unable to contain my anxiety any longer, I pushed my book aside, rose to my feet, and covered the short distance between us.

I asked, "Will you not rake and burn some leaves today?"

He looked up, startled, but did not answer.

He was wearing sunglasses. I could not see the expression in his eyes through the dark lenses.

I did not know whether to leave, or to stay and wait for his reply.

Afraid he might doze off again, I asked in a loud, impatient tone, "Is there a reason why you are not raking and burning leaves any longer?"

He parried my question with one of his own, asking, "Have you seen or heard a leaf fall for the past two days?"

His eyes seemed to drill through me as he lifted his glasses.

It was the seriousness of his tone and demeanor rather than his statement, which I found ridiculous, that compelled me to answer, "No."

He beckoned to me to sit beside him on the bench.

Leaning close to me, he whispered in my ear, "These trees know exactly when to let go of their leaves."

He glanced all around him as if he were afraid we might be overheard, then added in that same confidential whisper, "And now the trees know that there is no need for their leaves to fall."

I pronounced pompously, "Leaves wilt and fall regardless of anything. It is a law of nature."

He maintained stubbornly, "These trees are utterly capricious," "They have a mind of their own. They do not follow the laws of nature."

I tried to keep an earnest expression as I asked, "What has prompted the trees not to drop any leaves?"

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he mused, "That is a good question.

"I am afraid I do not know the answer yet. The trees have not told me."

He smiled at me inanely and added, "I have already told you, these trees are temperamental."

Before I had a chance to retort, he asked, out of the blue, "Did you make yourself your lunch?"

His abrupt change of subject took me by surprise.

I admitted, "I did," but then I hesitated for a moment.

An almost defiant mood took hold of me. "I do not care all that much about food. I am quite used to eating the same food day in and day out. If it were not for the fact that I get pimples, I would live on chocolates and nuts."

I threw all caution to the winds, and began to complain.

I told the caretaker that I wished the women would talk to me. I said, "I would appreciate if they would let me know what is going on. Anxiety is taking its toll on me."

After I had said all I wanted to say, I felt much better and much relieved.

I asked, "Is it true that they are leaving forever?"

"They have already left forever," the caretaker said.

Seeing my noncomprehending expression, he added, "But you knew that, did you not? You are just making conversation with me, are you not?"

Before I had a chance to recover from my shock, he asked me in a genuinely puzzled tone, "Why should this be shocking to you?"

He paused for a moment, as if to give me time to think, then answered the question himself. "Ah, I have got it!

"You are furious because they took Isidore Baltazar with them." He patted me repeatedly on my back as though to emphasize each word.

His gaze told me that he did not care if I gave in to either anger or tears.

To know that I had no audience gave me an instantaneous sense of equanimity.

I murmured, "I did not know that. I swear I did not know it."

I stared at him in mute despair.

I felt all the blood drain from my face. My knees ached. My chest was so tight I could not breathe.

Knowing that I was about to faint, I held on to the bench with both hands.

I heard the caretaker's voice like a distant sound. "No one nows if he will ever be back. Not even I know that."

Leaning toward me, he added, "My personal opinion is that he has gone with them temporarily, but he will come back; if not right away, some day. That is my opinion."

I searched his eyes, wondering whether he was mocking me.

His cheerful face radiated sheer goodwill and honesty, and his eyes were as guileless as a child's.

The caretaker warned me, "However, when he returns, he will not be Isidore Baltazar anymore. The Isidore Baltazar you think you knew is already gone.

He paused, and then answered his own question, saying, "And do you know what the saddest part is? You took him so for granted that you did not even thank him for all his care, his help, and his affection for you.

"Our great tragedy is to be buffoons, oblivious to anything else, except our buffoonery."

I was too devastated to say a word.

Abruptly, the caretaker rose to his feet.

Without another word, and as if he were too embarrassed to stay with me, he walked toward the path that led to the other house.

I shouted after him, "You can not just leave me here by myself."

He turned, waved at me, and then began to laugh. It was a loud, joyful sound that raised echoes across the chaparral.

He waved once again, then vanished, as if the bushes had swallowed him.

Incapable of following him, I waited for him to return or to appear suddenly in front of me and scare me half to death. I was almost bracing myself for a fright I intuited in my body more than I anticipated in my mind.

As it had happened before, I did not see or hear Esperanza approach, but I sensed her presence.

I turned around and there she was, sitting on the bench under the zapote tree.

I became elated just watching her.

I sighed, "I thought I was never going to see you again, and I had nearly resigned myself to it. I thought you were gone."

She chided me in mock consternation, "Goodness gracious!"

I blurted out, "Are you really Zuleica?"

She retorted, "Not a chance. I am Esperanza.

"What are you doing? Driving yourself nuts with questions no one can answer?"

Never in my life have I been so close to a total breakdown as at that moment.

I felt that my mind was not going to take in all that pressure, and I was going to be ripped apart by my anguish and turmoil.

Esperanza said harshly, "Brace yourself, girl. The worst is yet to come.

"We can not spare you. For us to stop the pressure now because you are about to go bonkers is unthinkable to sorcerers.

"It is your challenge to be tested today. You either live or you die, and I do not mean this metaphorically."

I was hardly able to speak through my tears, but I asked, "I will never see Isidore Baltazar?"

"I can not lie to you to spare your feelings.

"No, he will never be back.

"Isidore Baltazar was only a moment of sorcery. A dream that passed after being dreamed. Isidore Baltazar, as the dream, is gone already."

A small, almost wistful smile curved her lips, and she continued, "What I do not know yet, is if the man, the new nagual, is gone forever as well.

"You understand, of course, that even if he returns, he will not be Isidore Baltazar. He will be someone else you have to meet all over again."

I was not quite sure whether I wanted to know, but I asked, "Would he be unknown to me?"

She said with the weariness of uncertainty, "I do not know, my child. I simply do not know.

"I am a dream myself, and so is the new nagual.

"Dreams like us are impermanent because it is our impermanence that allows us to exist.

"Nothing holds us, except the dream."

Blinded by my tears, I could barely see her.

She said softly, "To ease your pain, sink deeper into yourself.

"Sit up with your knees raised and grab your ankles with crossed arms. Grab your right ankle with the left hand. Put your head on your knees, and let the sadness go.

"Let the earth soothe your pain. Let the earth's healing force come to you."

I sat on the ground in exactly the manner she prescribed.

Within moments my sadness vanished.

A deep bodily sensation of well-being replaced my anguish.

I lost sight of myself in any context except the context of the moment at hand. Without my subjective memory I had no pain.

Esperanza patted the place beside her on the bench.

As soon as I was seated, she took my hand in hers and rubbed it for an instant as if she were massaging it. Then she said that it was quite a fleshy hand for being so bony.

She turned the palm up and studied it intently. She did not say a word, but gently curled my hand into a fist.

We sat in silence for a long time. It was late afternoon. Nothing could be heard but the rhythmic sound of leaves moved by the breeze.

As I stared at her, a most uncanny certainty possessed me. I knew that Esperanza and I had already talked at length about my coming to the witches' house and the sorcerers' departure.

I asked, "What is it with me, Esperanza? Am I dreaming?"

There was a gleam in her eyes as she proposed I test the dream. She began slowly, "Well, sit on the ground and test it."

I did. All I felt was the coldness of the rock I had sat on. No feeling was sent back to me.

I asserted, "I am not dreaming, but why then do I feel that we have already talked?"

I searched her face to see if I could find a clue to my dilemma stamped on her features.

I mumbled, more to myself than to be heard, "This is the first time I have seen you since my arrival, but I feel we have been together every day. It has been seven days now."

Esperanza said, "It has been much longer, but you must resolve this puzzle yourself, and with minimal help."

I nodded in agreement.

There was so much I wanted to ask, but I knew and accepted that it would be useless to talk. I knew without knowing how I knew it that we had already covered all my questions. I was saturated with answers.

Esperanza regarded me thoughtfully, as if she doubted my realization.

Then, very slowly, and enunciating her words carefully, she said, "I want you to know that the awareness you have gotten here, no matter how deep and permanent it may seem to you, is only temporary.

"You will get back to your nonsense soon enough. That is our women's fate; to be especially difficult."

I protested, "I think you are wrong. You do not know me at all."

Esperanza replied, "It is precisely because I do know you that I am saying this."

She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice was harsh and serious. She said, "Women are very cagey. Remember, being reared to be a servant makes you extremely shifty and clever."

Her explosive, resonant laughter erased any desire I might have had to protest.

She declared, "The best thing you can do is not to say anything."

Taking my hand, she pulled me up and suggested that we go to the small house for a long, much-needed talk.

We did not go inside the house, but sat down on a bench by the front door.

Silently, we just sat there for nearly an hour.

Then Esperanza turned toward me. She did not seem to see me. In fact, I wondered if she had forgotten that I had come with her and was sitting beside her.

Without acknowledging my presence, she stood up and moved a few steps away from me and gazed at the other house, nestled among a clump of trees. It was quite a while before she said, "I am going far."

I could not tell whether it was hope, excitement, or apprehension that gave me a strangely sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach.

I knew that she was not referring to distance in terms of miles but in terms of other worlds.

I said with a bravado I was far from feeling, "I do not care how far we are going,"

I desperately wished to know, but I did not dare to ask, what would be at the end of our journey.

Esperanza smiled and opened her arms wide as if to embrace the setting sun.

The sky in the west was a fiery red and the distant mountains a shadowy purple. A light breeze swept through the trees. The leaves shimmered and rustled.

A silent hour went by, and then all was still. The spell of twilight immobilized everything around us. Every sound and movement ceased. The contours of bushes, trees, and hills were so precisely defined that they appeared to have been etched against the sky.

I moved closer to Esperanza as the shadows crawled up on us and blackened the sky.

The sight of the other silent house, with its lights twinkling like glowworms in the dark, aroused some deeply buried emotion within me.

The emotion was not connected to any particular feeling of the moment, but to a vaguely sad and nostalgic memory buried in childhood.

I must have been totally engrossed in my reveries when I Suddenly found, myself walking alongside Esperanza.

My tiredness and my former anxiety had all vanished.

Filled with an overwhelming sense of vigor, I walked in a kind of ecstasy and silent happiness. My feet were drawn forward but not by my volition alone.

The path we were walking on ended abruptly.

The ground rose and trees stretched high above us. Huge boulders were scattered here and there. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of running water like a soft, comforting chant.

Sighing with sudden fatigue, I leaned against one of the boulders and wished that this was the end of our journey.

Esperanza shouted, "We have not reached our destination yet!"

She was already halfway up some rocks, and she moved with the agility of a goat.

She did not wait for me. She did not even look back to see if I was following her.

My short rest had robbed me of my last strength. Gasping for breath, I slipped repeatedly on the stones as I scrambled after her.

Halfway up, the trail continued around a huge boulder. The dry and brittle vegetation gave way to luscious growth which was dark in the early evening light.

The air, too, was no longer the same. It was humid, and, for me, easier to breathe.

Esperanza moved unerringly along a narrow path. It was full of shadows, silences and rustlings.

She knew each of the night's mysterious sounds. She identified each of its pulsating croaks, cries, calls, and hisses.

The path came to an end in front of some steps cut into the rock. The steps led to a concealed mound of stones.

She ordered, "Pick one, and put it in your pocket."

Worn as smooth as pebbles in a brook, the stones all looked the same at first.

Upon closer examination, however, I discovered that they were all different. Some were so smooth and shiny they appeared to have been polished in a tumbler.

It took me quite some time until I found one I liked.

It was heavy, yet it fit easily in my palm. Its light brown, bulky mass was wedge-shaped and crisscrossed by almost translucent milky veins.

Startled by a noise, I almost dropped the stone. I whispered, "Someone is following us."

Esperanza, with a look halfway between amusement and incredulity, exclaimed, "Nobody is following us!"

Seeing me draw back behind a tree, she giggled softly, and said that it was probably a toad jumping through the underbrush.

I wanted to tell her that toads do not jump in the darkness, but I was not sure it was true. It surprised me that I had not just said it with the most absolute certainty; as was my habit.

In an alarmed tone of voice, I said, "Something is wrong with me, Esperanza. I am not myself."

She assured me absentmindedly, "There is nothing wrong with you, dear. In fact, you are more yourself than ever."

My voice trailed off as I said, "I feel strange..."

I had begun to see a pattern in what had been happening to me since the first time I arrived at the witches' house.

Esperanza said, "It is very hard to teach something so unsubstantial as dreaming, especially to women.

"We women are extremely coy and clever. After all, we have been slaves all our lives.

"We women know how to precisely manipulate things when we do not want anything to upset what we have worked so hard to obtain; our status quo."

I asked, "Do you mean that men do not?"

She answered, "They certainly do, but they are more overt. Women fight underhandedly.

"Their preferred fighting technique is the slave's maneuver; to turn the mind off.

"They hear without paying attention. They look without seeing."

She added that to instruct women was an accomplishment worthy of praise.

Esperanza went on, and said, "We like the openness of your fighting. There is high hope for you.

"What we fear the most is the agreeable woman who does not mind the new, and does everything you ask her to do, but then turns around and denounces you as soon as she gets tired or bored with the newness."

I mused uncertainly, "I think I am beginning to understand."

Esperanza exclaimed, "Of course you have begun to understand!"

Her assertion was so comically triumphant, I had to laugh.

She said, "You have even begun to understand what intent is."

I asked, "You mean I am beginning to be a sorceress?"

My whole body shook as I tried to suppress a fit of giggles.

Esperanza stated, "Since you first arrived here, you have been dreaming-awake on and off. That is why you fall asleep so much."

There was no mockery and not even a trace of condescension in her smiling face.

We walked in silence for a while, and then she said that the difference between a sorcerer and an ordinary person was that the sorcerer could enter into a state of dreaming-awake at will.

She tapped my arm repeatedly, as if to emphasize her point, and in a confidential tone added, "And you are dreaming-awake because in order to help you hone your energy we have created a bubble around you since the first night you arrived."

Esperanza went on to say that from the moment they first met me, they had nicknamed me Fosforito, or 'little match'.

She said, "You burn too fast and uselessly."

She gestured for me to remain quiet, and added that I did not know how to focus my energy.

She said, "Your energy is deployed to protect and uphold the idea of yourself."

Again she motioned me to be silent, said that what we think is our personal self is, in actuality, only an idea. She claimed that the bulk of our energy is consumed in defending that idea.

Esperanza's eyebrows lifted a little, an elated grin spreading across her face.

Esperanza explained, "To reach a point of detachment where the self is just an idea that can be changed at will is a true act of sorcery, and the most difficult of all.

"When the idea of the self retreats, sorcerers have the energy to align themselves with intent and be more than what we believe is normal.

"Women, because they have a womb, can focus their attention with great facility on something outside their dreams while dreaming.

"That is precisely what you have been doing all along unbeknownst to yourself. That object outside the dream becomes a bridge that connects you to intent."

"And what object do I use?"

There was a flicker of impatience in her eyes. Then she said that it was usually a window or a light or even the bed.

She assured me, "You are so good at it that it is second nature with you. That is why you have nightmares.

"I told you all this when you were in a deep state of dreaming-awake, and you understood.

"As long as you refuse to focus your attention on any object prior to sleeping, you will have bad dreams.

She asked, "You are cured, are you not?"

My initial reaction, of course, was to contradict her.

However, upon a moment's thought, I could only agree with her. After my meeting with them in Sonora, I had been fairly free from nightmares.

Esperanza pronounced, "You will never be really free from them as long as you persist in being yourself.

"What you should do, of course, is to exploit your dreaming talents deliberately and intelligently.

"That is why you are here. And the first lesson is that a woman must, through her womb, focus her attention on an object.

"Not an object from the dream itself, but an independent one; one from the world prior to the dream.

She hastened to point out, "Yet, it is not the object that matters."

"What is important is the deliberate act of focusing on it, at will, prior to the dream and while continuing the dream."

She warned me that although it sounded simple enough, it was a formidable task that might take me years to accomplish.

She said, "What normally happens is that one awakens the instant one focuses one's attention on the outside object."

I interjected, "What does it mean to use the womb? And how is it done?"

Esperanza said softly, "You are a woman. You know how to feel with your womb."

I wanted to contradict her, and to explain that I did not know anything.

Before I could do so, however, she went on to explain that in a woman, feelings originate in the womb.

She claimed, "In men, feelings originate in the brain."

Esperanza poked me in the stomach and added, "Think about it.

"A woman is heartless except with her brood because her feelings are coming from her womb.

"In order to focus your attention with your womb, get an object and put it on your belly or rub it on your genitalia."

Esperanza laughed uproariously at my look of dismay.

Then, in between fits of laughter, she chided me, saying, "I was not that bad. I could have said that you need to smear the object with your juices, but I did not."

Her tone serious again, she continued, "Once you establish a deep familiarity with the object it will always be there to serve you as a bridge."

We walked in silence for a stretch, and Esperanza was seemingly deep in thought.

I was itching to say something, yet I knew that I did not have anything to say.

When Esperanza finally spoke, her voice was stern and demanding.

She said, "There is no more time for you to waste.

"It is very natural that in our stupidity we screw things up. Sorcerers know this better than anyone else.

"But sorcerers also know that there are no second chances.

"You must learn control and discipline because you have no more leeway for mistakes.

"You screwed up, you know. You did not even know that Isidore Baltazar had left."

My ethereal dike that was holding back the avalanche of my feelings broke down.

My memory was restored and sadness overtook me.

My sadness became so intense that I did not even notice I had sat and was sinking into the ground as if it were made out of sponge.

Finally, the ground swallowed me.

It was not a suffocating, claustrophobic experience because the sensation of sitting on the surface coexisted simultaneously with the awareness of being swallowed by the earth.

It was a dual sensation that made me yell, "I am dreaming now!"

That loudly spoken announcement triggered something within me, and a new landslide of different memories flooded in on top of me.

I knew what was wrong with me. I had screwed up and had no energy to dream.



Every night since my arrival, I had dreamt the same dream, which I had forgotten about until that very moment.

I dreamt that all the women sorcerers came to my room and drilled me in the sorcerers' rationales.

They told me, on and on, that dreaming is the secondary function of the womb- the primary being reproduction and whatever is related to it.

They told me that dreaming is a natural function in women; a pure corollary of energy.

And given enough energy, the body of a woman by itself will awake the womb's secondary functions; and the woman will dream inconceivable dreams.

The dreaming energy needed, however, is like aid to an underdeveloped country: It never arrives.

Something in the overall order of our social structures prevents that energy from being free so women can dream.

Were that energy free, the women sorcerers told me, it would simply overthrow the 'civilized' order of things.

But women's great tragedy is that their social conscience completely dominates their individual conscience.

Women fear being different and don't want to stray too far from the comforts of the known. The social pressures put upon them not to deviate are simply too overpowering.

And rather than change, women acquiesce to what has been ordained: 'Women exist to be at the service of man.'

Thus, women can never dream sorcery dreams although they have the organic disposition for it.

Womanhood has destroyed women's chances: Whether it be tinted with a religious or a scientific slant, it still brands women with the same seal:

Women's main function is to reproduce, and whether they have achieved a degree of political, social, or economic equality is ultimately immaterial.

The women sorcerers told me all this every night.

The more I remembered and understood their words, the greater was my sorrow.

My grief was no longer for me alone, but for all of us; a race of schizoid beings trapped in a social order that has shackled us to our own incapacities.

If we ever break free, it is only momentarily; a shortlived clarity before we plunge willingly or forced back into the darkness.



"Stop this sentimental garbage," I heard a man's voice say. I looked up and saw the caretaker bending over; peering at me.

"How did you get here?" I asked. I was perplexed and a little flustered:

"You've been following us?" More than a question, it was accusation.

"Yes, I've been following you in particular," he leered at me.

I searched his face. I didn't believe him.

I knew he was poking at me, yet I was neither annoyed nor frightened by the intense glint in his eyes.

"Where is Esperanza?" I asked. She was nowhere in sight. "Where did she...?" I stammered nervously, unable to get the words out.

"She's around," he said, smiling:

"Don't worry. I'm also your teacher. You are in good hands."

Hesitantly, I put my hand in his. Effortlessly, he pulled me up to a flat boulder overlooking a large, oval-shaped pool of water.

The pool was fed by a murmuring stream trickling from somewhere in the darkness.

"And now, take off your clothes," he said. "It's time for your cosmic bath!"

"My what?" Certain that he was joking, I began to laugh.

But he was serious.

He tapped me repeatedly on the arm, just like Esperanza did, and urged me to take off my clothes.

Before I knew what he was doing, he had already untied the laces on my sneakers.

"We don't have all that much time," he admonished, then pressed me to get on with it.

The look he gave me was cold, clinical, impersonal: I might have been the toad Esperanza had claimed was jumping around.

The sheer idea of getting into that dark, cold water, infested, no doubt, with all sorts of slimy creatures, was appalling to me.

Eager to put an end to that preposterous situation, I sidled down the boulder and stuck my toes into the water.

"I don't feel a thing!" I cried out, shrinking back in horror. "What's going on? This is not water!"

"Don't be childish," the caretaker scolded me. "Of course it's water. You just don't feel it, that's all."

I opened my mouth to let out an imprecation but controlled myself in time. My horror had vanished.

"Why don't I feel the water?" I asked, trying hard to gain time.

I knew that stalling for time was a useless affair because I had no doubt that I was going to end up in the water whether I felt the water or not. However, I had no intention of giving in gracefully.

"Is this waterless water some kind of a purification liquid?" I asked.

After a long silence, charged with menacing possibilities, he said that I might call it a purification liquid.

He emphasized, "However, I should warn you that there isn't a ritual capable of purifying anyone.

"Purification has to come from within. It's a private and lonely struggle."

"Then why do you want me to get into this water, which is slimy even if I don't feel it?" I said with all the force I could invoke.

His lips twitched as if he were about to laugh, but seemingly reluctant to give in, his face grew grave again, and he said, "I'm going to dive into that pool with you."

And without any further hesitation he completely undressed.

He stood in front of me, barely five feet away, stark naked.

In that strange light that was neither day nor night, I could see with utter clarity every inch of his body.

He didn't make bashful attempts to cover his nakedness.

Quite the opposite; he seemed to be more than proud of his maleness and paraded it in front of me with defiant insolence.

"Hurry up and take off your clothes," he urged me. "We don't have much time."

"I'm not going to do that. It's insane!" I protested.

"You are going to do that.

"It's a decision you'll make all by yourself."

He spoke without vehemence, without anger, yet with quiet determination.

"Tonight, in this strange world, you will know that there is only one way to behave: the sorcerers' way."

He stared at me with a curious mixture of compassion and amusement.

With a grin that was meant to reassure me but didn't, the caretaker said that jumping into the pool would jolt me.

It would shift something within me. "This shift will serve you, at a later time, to understand what we are and what we do."

A fleeting smile lit up his face as he hastened to point out that jumping into the water would not give me the energy to dream-awake on my own.

He warned me that it would certainly take a long time to save and hone my energy, and that I might never succeed.

"There are no guarantees in the sorcerers' world," he said.

Then he conceded that jumping into the pool might shift my attention away from my everyday concerns: the concerns expected of a woman of my age; of my time.

"Is this a sacred pool?" I asked.

His brows shot up in obvious surprise. "It's a sorcerers' pool," he explained, gazing at me steadily.

He must have seen that my decision had been made, for he unfastened the watch around my wrist.

"The pool is neither holy nor evil."

He shrugged his thin shoulders and fastened my watch around his own wrist.

"Now look at your watch," he ordered me. "It's been yours for many years. Feel it on my wrist."

He chuckled as he started to say something and decided against it. "Well, go on, take off your clothes."

"I think I'll just wade in with my clothes on," I mumbled.

Although I wasn't prudish, I somehow resisted the idea of standing naked in front of him.

He pointed out that I would need dry clothes when I got out of the water. "I don't want you to catch pneumonia."

A wicked smile dawned in his eyes. "This is real water even though you don't feel it," he said.

Reluctantly, I took off my jeans and shirt.

"Your panties too," he said.



I walked around the grassy edge of the pool, wondering whether I should just dive in and get it over with or whether I should get wet little by little, cupping water in my hands, letting it trickle down my legs, my arms, my stomach, and, last, over my heart, as I remembered old women doing in Venezuela before wading into the sea.

"Here I go!" I cried out, but instead of jumping in I turned to look at the caretaker.

His immobility frightened me.

He seemed to have turned into stone, so still and erect did he sit on the boulder.

Only his eyes seemed to have life: They shone in a curiously compelling way, without any source of light to account for it.

It astounded more than saddened me to see tears trickling down his cheeks.

Without knowing why, I, too, began to weep, silently.

His tears made their way down, I thought, into my watch on his wrist.

I felt the eerie weight if his conviction, and suddenly my fear and my indecision were gone, and I dove into the pool.

The water was not slimy but transparent like silk; and green.

I wasn't cold. As the caretaker had claimed, I didn't feel the water.

In fact, I didn't feel anything: It was as if I were a disembodied awareness swimming in the center of a pool of water that did feel liquid but not wet.

I noticed that light emanated from the depths of the water.

I jumped up like a fish to gather impetus, then dove in search if the light.

I came up for air. "How deep is this pool?"

"As deep as the center of the earth." Esperanza's voice was clear and loud; it carried such certainty that, just to be myself, I wanted to contradict her.

But there was something uneasy in the air that stopped me; some unnatural stillness, some tension that was suddenly broken by a crisp, rustling sound all around us; a sort of warning whisper; a rushing, ominous warning that something was odd.

Standing on the exact same spot where the caretaker had stood was Esperanza. She was stark naked.

"Where is the caretaker?" I shouted in a panic-stricken voice.

"I am the caretaker," she said.

Convinced that those two were playing some horrendous trick on me, I propelled myself, with one great sidestroke, toward the overhanging boulder Esperanza was standing on.

"What's going on?" I demanded to know in a voice that was but a whisper, for I could hardly breathe.

Gesturing for me to remain still, she moved toward me with that boneless, uncoiling movement so characteristic of her.

She craned her neck to look at me, then stepped closer and showed me my watch strapped around her wrist.

"I am the caretaker," she repeated.

I nodded automatically.

But then, right there in front of me, instead of Esperanza, was the caretaker, naked as he had been before, pointing at my watch on his wrist.

I didn't look at the watch: All my attention was focused on his sexual organs.

I reached out to touch him, to see if perhaps he was a hermaphrodite. He wasn't.

With my hand still probing, I felt, more than saw, his body fold into itself, and I was touching a woman's vagina.

I parted the lips to make sure the penis was not hidden somewhere in there.

"Esperanza..." My voice faded as something clamped around my neck.

I was conscious of the water parting as something pulled me into the depths of the pool.

I felt cold. It wasn't a physical coldness but rather the awareness of the absence of warmth, of light, of sound; the absence of any human feeling in that world where that pool existed.



I awoke to the faint sound of snoring: Zuleica was sleeping beside me on a straw mat laid on the ground. She looked as beautiful as ever, young and strong, yet vulnerable- unlike the other women sorcerers- in spite of the harmony and power she exuded.

I watched her for a moment then sat up as all the events of the night came flooding into my mind. I wanted to shake her awake and demand that she tell me what had happened, when I noticed that we were not by the pool up in the hills but in the exact same spot where we had been sitting earlier, by the front door of the real witches' house.

Wondering whether it had all been a dream, I gently shook her by the shoulder.

"Ah, you finally woke up," she murmured sleepily.

"What happened?" I asked. "You have to tell me everything."

"Everything?" she repeated, yawning noisily.

"Everything that happened at the pool," I snapped impatiently.

Again she yawned, and then she giggled. Studying my watch, which was on her wrist, she said that something in me had shifted more than she had anticipated. "The sorcerers' world has a natural barrier that dissuades timid souls," she explained. "Sorcerers need tremendous strength to handle it. You see, it's populated by monsters, flying dragons, and demonic beings, which, of course, are nothing but impersonal energy. We, driven by our fears, make that impersonal energy into hellish creatures."

"But what about Esperanza and the caretaker?" I interrupted her. "I dreamt that both were really you."

"They are," she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I've just told you. You shifted deeper than I anticipated and entered into what dreamers call dreaming in worlds other than this world.

"You and I were dreaming in a different world. That's why you didn't feel the water. That's the world where the nagual Elias found all his inventions. In that world, I can be either a man or a woman. And just like the nagual Elias brought his inventions to this world, I bring either Esperanza or the caretaker. Or rather, my impersonal energy does that."

I couldn't put my thoughts or feelings into words. An incredible urge to run away screaming took hold of me, but I couldn't put it into action. My motor control was no longer a volitional matter with me. Trying to rise and scream, I collapsed on the ground.

Zuleica wasn't in the least concerned or moved by my condition. She went on talking as if she hadn't seen my knees give, as if I weren't lying sprawled on the ground like a rag doll. "You're a good dreamer. After all, you've been dreaming with monsters all your life. Now it's time you acquired the energy to dream like sorcerers do, to dream about impersonal energy."

I wanted to interrupt her, to tell her that there was nothing impersonal about my dream of Esperanza and the caretaker; that, in fact, it was worse than the monsters of my nightmares, but I couldn't speak.

"Tonight, your watch brought you back from the deepest dream you have ever had," Zuleica continued, indifferent to the weird sounds emerging from my throat. "And you even have a rock to prove it."

She came to where I lay openmouthed, staring at her. She felt in my pocket. She was right. There it was; the rock I had picked from the pile of stones.





Being in Dreaming: Chapter 19.

Version 2010.02.11


Being in Dreaming ©1991 by Florinda Donner:

Chapter 19.

A loud, shattering noise woke me.

I sat up in my hammock, peering into the darkness, and saw that the wooden panels covering the windows were down.

A cold, sucking wind swirled up around me. Leaves rustled across the patio outside my room.

The rustling grew, then abruptly faded to a gentle swishing sound.

A dim brightness seeped into the room. Like mist, it clung to the bare walls.

For a moment, as if I were conjuring him up, Isidore Baltazar stood at the foot of my hammock.

"Nagual!" I cried out.

He looked real, yet there was something undefined about him like an image seen in water.

I cleared my throat to speak, but only a faint croak escaped my lips as the image dissolved in the mist.

Then the mist moved, restless and abrupt like the wind outside.

Too tense to sleep, I sat wrapped in my blanket, pondering whether I had done the right thing to come to the witches' house looking for the nagual Isidore Baltazar. I had not known anywhere else to go.

I had patiently waited for three months, but then my anxiety had become so acute that it finally prompted me to act.

One morning seven days ago I had driven nonstop to the witches' house.

There had been no question in my mind then about whether I had proceeded correctly-- not even after I had to climb over the wall at the back of the house and let myself in through an unlocked window.

However, after seven days of waiting, my certainty had begun to falter.

I jumped out of my hammock onto the tiled floor, landing hard on the heels of my bare feet. Shaking myself that way had always helped me dispel my uncertainties.

It did not work this time, and I lay down again in my hammock.

If there is one thing I should have learned in the three years I had spent in the sorcerers' world, it is that sorcerers' decisions are final, and my decision had been to live and die in the sorcerers' world.

Now it was time for me to prove it.

An unearthly sounding laughter startled me out of my reveries.

Eerily it reverberated throughout the house, then all was silent again.

I waited tensely, but there was no other sound except that of dry leaves being pushed by the wind on the patio. The leaves sounded like a faint, raspy whisper.

Listening to that sound not only lulled me to sleep but pulled me into the same dream I had been dreaming for the past seven nights.


I am standing in the Sonoran desert. It is noon.

The sun, a silvery disk so brilliant as to be almost invisible, has come to a halt in the middle of the sky.

There is not a single sound, and not a movement around.

The tall saguaros, with their prickly arms reaching toward that immobile sun, stand like sentries guarding the silence and the stillness.

The wind, as if it has followed me through the dream, begins to blow with tremendous force.

It whistles between the branches of the mesquite trees and shakes them with systematic fury.

Red dust devils well up in powdery swirls all around me.

A flock of crows scatter like dots through the air then fall to the ground a bit farther away, softly, like bits of black veil.

As abruptly as it has begun, the wind dies down.

I head toward the hills in the distance.

It seems I walk for hours before I see a huge, dark shadow on the ground.

I look up. A gigantic bird hangs in the air with outstretched wings, motionless, as though it were nailed to the sky.

It is only when I gaze again at its dark shadow on the ground that I know that the bird is moving. Slowly and almost imperceptibly its shadow glides ahead of me.

Driven by some inexplicable urge, I try to catch up with the shadow. But regardless of how fast I run, the shadow moves farther and farther away from me.

Dizzy with exhaustion, I stumble over my own feet and fall flat on the ground.

As I rise to dust off my clothes, I discover the bird perched on a nearby boulder.

Its head is slightly turned toward me, as though beckoning me.

Cautiously, I approach it.

It is enormous and tawny, with feathers that glisten like burnished copper. Its amber-colored eyes are hard and implacable, and as final as death itself.

I step back as the bird opens its wide wings and takes off.

It flies high up until it is only a dot in the sky.

Yet its shadow on the ground is a straight dark line that stretches into infinity and holds together the desert and the sky.

Confident that if I summon the wind I will catch up with the bird, I invoke an incantation.

But there is no force and no power in my chant. My voice breaks into a thousand whispers that are quickly absorbed by the silence.

The desert regains its eerie calm.

It begins to crumble at the edges, then slowly fades all around me...


Gradually I became conscious of my body lying in the hammock.

I discerned, through a shifting haze, the book-lined walls of the room.

Then I was fully awake as the realization hit me, as it had hit me every time during the past week, that this had not been an ordinary dream, and that I knew what it meant.

The nagual Mariano Aureliano had once told me that sorcerers, when they talk among themselves, speak of sorcery as a bird. They call it the bird of freedom.

They say that the bird of freedom only flies in a straight line and never comes around twice.

They also say that it is the nagual who lures the bird of freedom. It is he who entices the bird to shed its shadow on the warrior's path. Without that shadow, there is no direction.

The meaning of my dream was that I had lost the bird of freedom. I had lost the nagual and, without him, all hope and purpose.

What weighed the most on my heart was that the bird of freedom flew away so fast it did not give me time to thank them properly, and did not give me time to express my endless admiration.

I had assured the sorcerers all along that I never took their world or their persons for granted, but I had, and in particular Isidore Baltazar's.

He surely was going to be with me forever, I had thought.

Suddenly they were gone-- all of them-- like puffs of air, or like shooting stars, and they had taken Isidore Baltazar with them.

I sat for weeks on end in my room, asking myself the same question, "How can it be possible that they vanished like that?"

It was a meaningless and superfluous question considering what I had experienced and witnessed in their world.

All it revealed was my true nature. I was meek and doubting.

The sorcerers had told me for years that their ultimate purpose was to burn and to disappear swallowed by the force of awareness.

The old nagual and his party of sorcerers were ready, but I did not know it.

They had been preparing themselves nearly all their lives for the ultimate audacity-- to dream-awake that they sneak past death as we ordinarily know death to be and cross over into the unknown, enhancing and without breaking the unity of their total energy.

My regret was most intense upon recalling how my usual doubting self would emerge when I least expected it.

It was not that I did not believe in their stupendous, otherworldly, and yet so practical aim and purpose.

Rather, I would explain them away; integrate them; make them fit into the everyday world of common sense- not quite, perhaps, but certainly coexisting with what was normal and familiar to me.

The sorcerers certainly tried to prepare me to witness their definitive journey. That they would one day vanish was something I was almost aware of.

But nothing could have prepared me for the anguish and despair that followed.

I sank into a well of sadness from which I knew I would never come out.

That part was for me alone to deal with.

Afraid I would only give in to more despair if I stayed a moment longer in my hammock, I got up and made breakfast.

Or rather, I warmed up last night's leftovers of tortillas, rice, and beans. This was my standard meal of the last seven days except that for lunch I would add a can of Norwegian sardines.

I had found the sardines at a grocery store in the nearest town. I had bought all the cans they had.

The beans were also canned.

I washed the dishes and mopped the floor.

Then, with broom in hand, I went from room to room looking for some new dirt, or a spider web in some forgotten corner.

From the day I had arrived, I had done nothing else but scrub floors, wash windows and walls, and sweep patios and corridors.

In the past, cleaning tasks had always distracted me from my problems and had always given me solace. Not this time.

Regardless of how eagerly I went about my chores, I could not still the anguish and the aching void within me.

A quick rustling of leaves interrupted my cleaning chores.

I went outside to look.

There was a strong wind blowing through the trees. Its force startled me.

I was ready to close the windows when the wind abruptly died out.

A profound melancholy settled over the yard, over the bushes and trees, and over the flower and vegetable patches. Even the bright purple bougainvillea hanging over the wall added to the sadness.

I walked over to the Spanish colonial motif fountain built in the middle of the yard, and knelt on the wide stone ledge.

Absent-mindedly, I picked out the leaves and the blossoms that had fallen in the water.

Then, bending over, I searched for my image on the smooth surface.

Next to my face appeared the very beautiful, stark, and angular face of Florinda.

Dumbfounded, I watched her reflection. I was mesmerized by her large, dark, luminous eyes, which contrasted dazzlingly with her braided white hair.

Slowly, she smiled. I smiled back.

I was afraid that she might be only a dream, and I was afraid that her image might vanish, so I whispered, "I did not hear you come."

She let her hand rest on my shoulder, then sat beside me on the stone ledge.

She said, "I am going to be with you only for a moment. I will come back later, though."

I turned around and poured out all the anguish and despair that had accumulated in me.

Florinda stared at me.

Her face reflected an immeasurable sadness.

There were sudden tears in her eyes, but they were tears that were gone as fast as they had come.

I asked her, "Where is Isidoro Baltazar?"

I averted my face, and gave free rein to my pent-up tears.

It was not self-pity or even sorrow that made me weep, but a deep sense of failure and of guilt and loss. It was drowning me.

Florinda had certainly warned me in the past about such feelings.

She said in her deep, husky voice, "Tears are meaningless for sorcerers.

"When you joined the sorcerers' world you were made to understand that the designs of fate, no matter what they are, are merely challenges that a sorcerer must face without resentment or self-pity."

She paused for a moment, and then in her familiar, relentless manner she repeated what she had told me on previous occasions.

Florinda said, "Isidoro Baltazar is no longer a man but a nagual.

"He may have accompanied the old nagual in which case he will never return. But then, he may not have."

I started to ask, "But why did he..." but my voice died away before I had asked the question.

Florinda said, "I really do not know at this time," and she raised her hand to forestall my protest.

She said, "It is your challenge to rise above this, and as you know, challenges are not discussed or resented.

"Challenges are actively met.

"Sorcerers either succeed in meeting their challenges, or they fail at it.

"And it does not really matter which, as long as they are in command."

Irked by the prosaicness of her feelings and attitudes, I said resentfully, "How do you expect me to be in command when the sadness is killing me? Isidoro Baltazar is gone forever."

She retorted sternly, "Why do you not heed my suggestion, and behave impeccably regardless of your feelings."

Her temper was as quick as her brilliant smile.

I asked, "How can I possibly do that? I know that if the nagual is gone the game is over."

She replied, "You do not need the nagual to be an impeccable sorceress.

"Your impeccability should lead you to him even if he is no longer in the world.

"To live impeccably within your circumstances is your challenge.

"Whether you see Isidore Baltazar tomorrow, in a year, or at the end of your life should make no difference to you."

Florinda turned her back to me, and was silent for a long time.

When she faced me again, her face was calm and oddly bland, like a mask, as though she were making a great effort to control her emotions. There was something so sad about her eyes it made me forget my own anguish.

In an unusually harsh voice, and as if her tone was meant to cancel the pain in her eyes, she said, "Let me tell you a story, young woman.

"I did not go with the nagual Mariano Aureliano and his party, and neither did Zuleica. Do you know why?"

Numb with anticipation and fear, I stared at her, openmouthed. I finally managed to say, "No, Florinda. I do not."

Her voice was now low and soft as she said, "We are here because we do not belong to that party of sorcercers. We do, but then we do not really.

"Our feelings are with another nagual, the nagual Julian, our teacher.

"The nagual Mariano Aureliano is our cohort, and the nagual Isidore Baltazar, our pupil.

"Like yourself, we have been left behind.

"You, because you were not ready to go with them.

"We, because we need more energy to take a greater jump and join perhaps another band of warriors. A much older band. The nagual Julian's."

I could feel Florinda's aloneness and solitude like a fine mist settling all around me. I barely dared to breathe lest she stop talking.

At great length she told me about her teacher, the nagual Julian who was famous by all accounts.

Her descriptions of him were compressed, yet so evocative I could see him before my very eyes. He was the most dashing being that ever lived.

Funny, sharp-witted, and fast-thinking. An incorrigible prankster. A storyteller.

A magician who handled perception as a master baker handles dough, kneading it into any shape or form without ever losing sight of it.

To be with the nagual Julian, Florinda assured me, was something unforgettable. She confessed that she loved him beyond words, and beyond feelings. And so did Zuleica.

Florinda was silent for a long time, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains, as if drawing strength from those sharp-edged peaks.

When she spoke again her voice was a barely audible whisper. "The world of sorcerers is a world of solitariness, and yet in it, love is forever.

"Like my love for the nagual Julian.

"We move in the world of sorcerers all by ourselves, accounting only for our acts, our feelings, and our impeccability."

She nodded as if to underline her last few words.

Florinda continued, "I no longer have any feelings. Whatever I had went away with the nagual Julian.

"All I have left is my sense of will, of duty, and of purpose.

"Perhaps you and I are in the same boat."

She had said that so smoothly, that it took some moments before I realized what she had said.

I stared at her, and as always, I was dazzled by her splendid beauty and youthfulness which the years had left bewitchingly intact.

I finally said, "Not me, Florinda.

"You had the nagual Isidore Baltazar and me and all the other disciples I have heard about. I have nothing. I do not even have my old world."

There was no self-pity in me, only a devastating knowledge that my life, as I had known it until now, had ended.

I said, "The nagual Isidore Baltazar is mine, by right of my power. I will wait dutifully a bit longer, but if he is not here in this world anymore, neither am I. I know what to do!"

My voice trailed off as I realized that Florinda was no longer listening to me.

She was absorbed in watching a small crow making its way toward us along the fountain ledge.

I said, "That is Dionysus." I reached into my pocket for his pieces of tortilla.

I had none with me.

I looked up at the marvelously clear sky.

I had been so engrossed in my sadness, I had not noticed that it was already past noon which was the time this little crow usually came for its food.

Florinda said, "That fellow is quite upset."

She laughed at the bird's outraged caws, then looked me in the eye and said, "You and the crow are quite alike. You get easily upset, and you are both quite loud about it."

I could barely contain myself from blurting out that the same could be said about her.

Florinda chuckled, as though she knew the effort I was making not to weep.

The crow had perched on my empty hand and stared at me sidelong with its shiny, pebblelike eyes.

The bird opened its wings but did not fly away. Its black feathers sparkled blue in the sun.

I calmly told Florinda that the pressures of the sorcerers' world were unbearable.

As if she were talking to a spoiled child, she chided, "Nonsense!

The crow alighted, and Florinda said, "Oh look! We scared Dionysus away."

Enraptured, Florinda watched the crow circle over our heads, and then she fixed her attention back on me.

I averted my face.

I did not know why, for there was nothing unkind in the gaze of those shiny, dark eyes.

Florinda's eyes were calm and utterly indifferent as she said, "If you can not catch up with Isidore Baltazar, then I and the rest of the sorcerers who taught you would have failed to impress you.

"We would have failed to challenge you.

"It is not a final loss for us, but it certainly will be a final loss for you."

Seeing that I was about to weep again, she challenged me, "Where is your impeccable purpose? What happened to all the things you have learned with us?"

I asked tearfully, "What if I never catch up with Isidore Baltazar?"

She asked sharply, "Can you go on living in the sorcerers' world if you do not make an effort to find out?"

I closed my eyes to prevent my tears from spilling, and mumbled, "This is a time when I need kindness. I need my mother. If I could only go to her."

I was surprised at my own words, yet I really had meant them.

Unable to hold back my tears any longer I began to weep.

Florinda laughed, but she was not mocking me.

There was a note of kindness, and of sympathy in her laughter.

With a pensive and distant look in her eyes, Florinda said softly, "You are so far away from your mother that you will never find her again."

Her voice was but a soft whisper as she went on to say that the sorcerers' life builds impassable barriers around us.

Sorcerers, she reminded me, do not find solace in the sympathy of others or in self-pity.

I asked, "You think that all my torment is caused by self-pity, do you not, Florinda?"

She answered, "No. Not just self-pity, but morbidity, also."

She put her arms around my shoulders, and hugged me as if I were a small child.

She murmured, "Most women are damn morbid, you know. You and I are among them."

I did not agree with her, yet I had no desire to contradict her.

I was far too happy with her arms around me.

In spite of my somber mood, I had to smile. Florinda, like all the other women in the sorcerers' world, lacked the facility to express maternal feelings. And although I liked to kiss and hug the people I loved, I could not bear to be in someone's arms for more than an instant. Florinda's embrace was not as warm and soothing as my mother's, but it was all I could hope to get.

Then she went into the house, and I dozed off.

I came suddenly awake.

For a moment I simply lay there on the ground at the foot of the fountain trying to remember something Florinda had said before I fell asleep in the leaf-spotted sunlight.

I had obviously slept for hours. Although the sky was still bright, the evening shadows had already stolen into the yard.

I was about to look for Florinda in the house when an unearthly sounding laughter echoed across the yard. It was the same laughter I had heard during the night.

I waited and listened.

The silence around me was unsettling. Nothing chirped, nothing hummed, and nothing moved.

Yet, still as it was, I could sense noiseless footsteps as silent as shadows behind me.

I wheeled around. At the far edge of the yard, almost concealed by the blooming bougainvillea, I saw somebody sitting on a wooden bench. Her back was turned to me, but I immediately recognized her.

I was afraid that the sound of my voice might scare her away, so I whispered uncertainly, "Zuleica?"

She beckoned me to sit beside her and said, "How happy I am to see you again."

Her deep, clear voice, vibrant with the briskness of the desert air, did not seem to come from her body but from far away.

I wanted to embrace her, but I knew better. Zuleica never liked to be touched, so I just sat beside her and told her that I, too, was happy to see her again.

To my utter surprise, she clasped my hand in hers, and hers was a small, delicate hand.

Her pale, copperish-pink, and beautiful face was oddly blank. All the life was concentrated in her incredible eyes which were neither black nor brown, but strangely in between, and were oddly clear.

Zuleica fixed her eyes on me in a prolonged stare.

I asked, "When did you get here?"

Her lips curled into an angelic smile as she replied, "Just this moment."

I asked, "How did you get here? Did Florinda come with you?"

Zuleica said vaguely, "Oh, you know. Women sorcerers come and go unnoticed.

"Nobody pays attention to a woman, especially if she is old.

"Now, a beautiful young woman, on the other hand, attracts everybody's attention.

"That is why women sorcerers should always be disguised if they are handsome.

"If they are averagely homely, they have nothing to worry about."

Zuleica's sudden light tap on my shoulder jolted me.

She clasped my hand again, as though to dispel my doubts, then gazed at me calmly and keenly, and said, "To be in the sorcerers' world one has to dream superbly."

She looked away.

An almost full moon hung over the distant mountains.

"Most people do not have the wits nor the size of spirit to dream.

"They can not help but see the world as ordinary and repetitious.

She fixed me with her keen gaze, and asked, "And do you know why?

"Because if you do not fight to avoid it, the world is indeed ordinary and repetitious.

"Most people are so involved with themselves that they have become idiotic.

"Idiots have no desire to fight to avoid ordinariness and repetitiousness."

Zuleica rose from the bench and put on her sandals.

She tied her shawl around her waist so her long skirt would not drag, and walked to the middle of the patio.

I knew what she was going to do before she even started. She was going to perform a dance in order to gather cosmic energy. She was going to spin.

Women sorcerers believe that by moving their bodies they can get the strength necessary to dream.

With a barely perceptible gesture of her chin, she motioned me to follow her and imitate her movements.

She glided on the dark brown Mexican tiles and brown bricks that had been laid out in an ancient Toltec pattern by Isidore Baltazar.

He intended his sorceric design to symbolize the binds between the generations of sorcerers and dreamers throughout the ages, and their webs of secrets and feats of power. He had put himself around the design and inside it, and with all his strength and all his intent, he willed myth and dream into reality.

Zuleica moved with the certainty and agility of a young dancer.

Her movements were simple, and yet they required so much speed, balance, and concentration that they left me exhausted.

With uncanny agility and swiftness she spun around and away from me.

For an instant she vacillated amidst the shadows of the trees, as though to make sure I was following her.

Then she headed toward the recessed arched doorway built into the wall that encircled the grounds behind the house.

She paused momentarily by the two citrus trees growing outside the wall that stood like two sentries on either side of the path leading to the small house across the chaparral.

Afraid of losing sight of her, I dashed along the narrow, dark trail.

Then, eagerly and curiously, I followed her inside the house all the way to the back room.

Instead of turning on the light, she reached for an oil lamp hanging from one of the rafters.

She lit it. The lamp cast a flickering glow all around us but left the corners of the room in shadows.

Kneeling in front of a wooden chest sitting under the window-- the only piece of furniture in the room-- she pulled out a mat and a blanket.

Zuleica spread the mat on the tiled floor, and softly said, "Lie down on your stomach."

I heaved a deep sigh and gave in to a pleasant sense of helplessness as I lay face down on the mat.

A feeling of peace and well-being spread through my body.

I felt her hands on my back. She was not massaging me, but rather, she was tapping my back lightly.

Although I had often been in this small house, I still did not know how many rooms it had nor how it was furnished.

Florinda had once told me that that house was the center of their adventure.

Florinda had said it was there where the old nagual and his sorcerers wove their magic web.

Like a invisible and resilient spider's web, the house held them when they plunged into the unknown and into the darkness and the light as they as sorcerers routinely would.

Florinda had also said that the house was a symbol.

The sorcerers of her group did not have to be in the house or even in its vicinity when they plunged into the unknown through dreaming.

Everywhere they went, they carried the feeling and the mood of the house in their hearts.

And those feelings and moods, whatever they were for each of them, gave them the strength to face the everyday world with wonder and delight.

Zuleica's sharp tap on my shoulder startled me. She commanded, "Turn on your back."

I did so.

Her face, as she bent down, was radiant with energy and purpose.

Zuleica said, "Myths are dreams of extraordinary dreamers.

"You need a great deal of courage and concentration in order to maintain them.

"And above all, you need a great deal of imagination.

"You are living a myth that has been handed down to you for safekeeping."

She spoke in a tone that was almost reverent as she said, "You can not be the recipient of this myth unless you are irreproachable.

"If you are not, the myth will simply move away from you."

I opened my mouth to speak, and to say that I understood all that, but I saw the hardness in her eyes.

She was not there to have a dialogue with me.

The repetitive sound of branches brushing against the wall outside died out and turned into a throb in the air. It was a pulsating sound that I felt rather than heard.

I was on the verge of falling asleep when Zuleica said that I should follow the commands of the repetitive dream I had had.

Alarmed, I tried to sit up, and I asked, "How did you know I have been having that dream?"

Zuleica pushed me back onto the mat and whispered, "Do you not remember that we share one another's dreams?

"I am the one who brings you dreams."

I was seized by a desperate desire to weep, and my voice trembled as I said, "It was just a dream, Zuleica."

I knew it was not just a dream, but I wanted her to lie to me.

Shaking her head, she looked at me and said quietly, "No. It was not just a dream. It was a sorcerers' dream; a vision."

I asked, "What should I do?"

She asked in a challenging tone, "Did the dream not tell you what to do? And did Florinda not?"

She watched me with an inscrutable expression on her face.

Then she smiled, a shy, childlike smile, and said, "You have to understand that you can not run after Isidore Baltazar. He is no longer in the world.

"There is nothing you can give him or do for him anymore.

"You cannot be attached to the nagual as a person, but only as a mythical being."

Her voice was soft yet commanding as she repeated that I was living a myth.

Zuleica said, "The sorcerers' world is a mythical world separated from the everyday one by a mysterious barrier made out of dreams and commitments.

"Only if the nagual is supported and upheld by his fellow dreamers can he lead them into other viable worlds from which he can entice the bird of freedom."

Her words faded in the shadows of the room as she added that the support Isidore Baltazar needed was dreaming energy and not worldly feelings and actions.

After a long silence, she spoke again, saying, "You have witnessed how the old nagual, as well as Isidore Baltazar, by their mere presence, affect whoever is around them.

"Whether it be their fellow sorcerers or just bystanders, a nagual makes them aware that the world is a mystery where nothing can be taken for granted under any circumstances."

I nodded in agreement.

For a long time I had been at a loss to understand how naguals could, by their mere presence, make such a difference.

After careful observation, and comparing opinions with others, and endless introspection, I concluded that their influence stemmed from their renunciation of worldly concerns.

In our daily world we also have examples of men and women who have left worldly concerns behind. We call them mystics, saints, or religious people.

But naguals are neither mystics nor saints, and are certainly not religious men.

Naguals are worldly men without a shred of worldly concerns.

At a subliminal level this contradiction has the most tremendous effect on whoever is around them.

The minds of those who are around a nagual can not grasp what is affecting them, and yet they feel the impact in their bodies as a strange anxiety, or an urge to break loose, or as a sense of inadequacy-- as if something transcendental is taking place somewhere else, and they can not get to it.

But the naguals' built-in capacity to affect others does not only depend on their lack of worldly concerns or on the force of their personalities, but rather on the force of their unreproachful behavior.

Naguals are unreproachful in their actions and feelings regardless of the ambushes-- worldly or otherworldly-- placed on their interminable path.

It is not that naguals follow a prescribed pattern of rules and regulations in order to have unreproachful behavior because there are no rules and regulations.

Rather, they use their imaginations for adopting or adapting to whatever it takes to make their actions fluid.

For their deeds, naguals, unlike average men, do not seek approval, respect, praise, or any kind of acknowledgment from anyone including their fellow sorcerers.

All they seek is their own sense of flawlessness, of innocence, and of integrity.

It is this that makes a nagual's company addictive.

Others becomes dependent on his freedom as one would to a drug.

To a nagual, the world is always brand new.

In his company, one begins to look at the world as if it had never happened before.

Zuleica, as if she had followed my train of thoughts, said, "That is because naguals have broken the mirror of self-reflection.

"Naguals are able to see themselves in the mirror of fog which reflects only the unknown.

"It is a mirror that no longer reflects our normal humanity expressed in repetition, but reveals the face of infinity.

"Sorcerers believe that when the face of self-reflection and the face of infinity merge, a nagual is totally ready to break the boundaries of reality and disappear as though he was not made of solid matter.

"Isidore Baltazar had been ready for a long time."

I cried out, "He can not leave me behind! That would be too unfair."

Zuleica said, "It is downright foolish to think in terms of fairness and unfairness.

"In the sorcerers' world, there is only power.

"Did every one of us not teach you that?"

I conceded gloomily, "There are many things I learned."

After a few moments I mumbled under my breath, "But they are not worth anything at the moment."

Zuleica contradicted me, "They are worth the most now.

"If you have learned one thing it is that at the bleakest moments warriors rally their power to carry on. A warrior does not succumb to despair."

I said softly, "Nothing of what I have learned and experienced can alleviate my sadness and despair.

"I had even tried the spiritual chants I learned from my nanny, but Florinda laughed at me. She thinks am an idiot."

Zuleica pronounced, "Florinda is right.

"Our magical world has nothing to do with chants and incantations, not with rituals and bizarre behavior.

"Our magical world, which is a dream, is willed into being by the concentrated desire of those who participate in it.

"It is held intact at every moment by the sorcerers' tenacious wills the same way the everyday world is held together by everybody's tenacious will."

She stopped abruptly.

She seemed to have caught herself in the middle of a thought that she did not wish to express.

Then she smiled and made a humorous, helpless gesture. She added, "To dream our dream, you have to be dead."

In a voice that was getting hoarse I asked, "Does that mean I have to drop dead right here and now? You know that I am ready for that at a drop of a hat."

Zuleica's face lit up, and she laughed as though I had told the best of jokes.

Seeing that I was as serious as I could be, she hastened to clarify, "No, no.

"To die means to cancel all your holdings and to drop everything you have, and everything you are."

I said, "That is nothing new. I did that the moment I joined your world."

Zuleica replied, "Obviously you did not. Otherwise you would not be in such a mess now.

"If you had died the way sorcery demands, you would feel no anguish now."

I asked, "What would I feel, then?"

She declared, "Duty! Purpose!"

I shouted, "My anguish has nothing to do with my sense of purpose. It is apart. Independent. I am alive and feel sadness and love. How can I avoid that?"

Zuleica clarified, "You are not supposed to avoid it, but to overcome it.

"If warriors have nothing, they feel nothing."

I asked defiantly, "What kind of an empty world is that?"

Zuleica answered, "Empty is the world of indulging because indulging cuts off everything else except indulging."

She gazed at me eagerly, as if expecting me to agree with her statement. She said, "So the the world of indulging is a lopsided world. Boring and repetitious.

"For sorcerers, the antidote of indulging is dying. And they do not just think about it. They do it."

A cold shiver went up my back.

I swallowed and remained silent, and looked at the splendid sight of the moon shining through the window.

I said, "I really do not understand what you are saying, Zuleica."

She maintained, "You understand me perfectly well. Your dream began when you met me.

"Now it is time for another dream. But this time, dream dead. Your error was to dream alive."

I asked restlessly, "What does that mean?"

"Do not torment me with riddles. You, yourself, told me that only male sorcerers drive themselves nuts with riddles. You are doing the same to me now."

Zuleica's laughter echoed from wall to wall. It rustled like dry leaves pushed by the wind.

She said, "To dream alive means to have hope. It means that you hold on to your dream for dear life.

"To dream dead means that you dream without hope. You dream without holding on to your dream."

Not trusting myself to speak, all I could do was to nod.

Florinda had told me that freedom is a total absence of concern about oneself, and is a lack of concern achieved when the imprisoned bulk of energy within ourselves is untied.

She had said that this energy is released only when we can arrest the exalted conception we have of ourselves and of our importance; an importance we feel must not be violated or mocked.

Zuleica's voice was clear but seemed to come from a great distance as she added, "The price of freedom is very high.

"Freedom can only be attained by dreaming without hope and by being willing to lose all, even the dream.

"For some of us, to dream without hope and to struggle with no goal in mind is the only way to keep up with the bird of freedom."





The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda.


Nothing can give sorcerers a better view of intent than examining stories of other sorcerers battling to understand the same force.

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The Power Of Silence

The Power Of Silence ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda.



Contents

  • Part 0 - Foreword And Introduction.
    • Foreword.
    • Introduction.

  • Part 1. The Manifestations Of The Spirit.
    • The First Abstract Core.
    • The Impeccability Of The Nagual Elias.

  • Part 2. The Knock Of The Spirit.
    • The Abstract.
    • The Last Seduction Of The Nagual Julian.

  • Part 3. The Trickery Of The Spirit.
    • Dusting The Link With The Spirit.
    • The Four Moods Of Stalking.

  • Part 4. The Decent Of The Spirit.
    • Seeing The Spirit.
    • The Somersault Of Thought.
    • Moving The Assemblage Point.
    • The Place Of No Pity.

  • Part 5. The Requirements Of Intent.
    • Breaking The Mirror Of Self-Reflection.
    • The Ticket To Impeccability.

  • Part 6. Handling Intent.
    • The Third Point.
    • The Two One-Way Bridges.
    • Intending Appearances.




The Power Of Silence: Part 0 - Foreword And Introduction.

The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0 - Foreword And Introduction.

  • Foreword.
  • Introduction.





The Power Of Silence: Part 0: Foreword And Introduction - Foreword.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0: Foreword And Introduction - Foreword.

My books are a true account of a teaching method that don Juan Matus, a Mexican Indian seer, used in order to help me understand the Total Freedom Warriors' world. In a sense, my books are the account of an on-going process which becomes more clear to me as time goes by.

It took years of training to teach you and I to deal intelligently with the world of everyday life. Our schooling- whether in plain reasoning or formal topics- is rigorous because the knowledge imparted to us is very complex.

The same criteria apply to the seers' world. Their schooling which relies on oral instruction and the manipulation of awareness, although different from ours, is just as rigorous because their knowledge is as, or perhaps more, complex.






The Power Of Silence: Part 0: Foreword And Introduction - Introduction.

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The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 0: Foreword And Introduction - Introduction.

At various times don Juan attempted to name his knowledge for my benefit. He felt that the most appropriate name was 'nagualism', but that the term was too obscure. Calling it simply 'knowledge' made it too vague, and to call it 'witchcraft' was debasing. 'The mastery of intent' was too abstract, and 'the search for total freedom' too long and metaphorical. Finally, because he was unable to find a more appropriate name, he called it 'sorcery', although he admitted it was not nearly accurate.

Over the years, he had given me different definitions of sorcery, but he had always maintained that definitions change as knowledge increases. Toward the end of my apprenticeship, I felt I was in a position to appreciate a clearer definition. So I asked him once more.


"From where the average man (or woman) stands," don Juan said, "sorcery is nonsense; an ominous mystery beyond his reach. And he is right, not because this is an absolute fact, but because the average man lacks the energy to deal with sorcery."

He stopped for a moment before he continued. "Human beings are born," don Juan said, "with a finite amount of energy; an energy that is systematically deployed, beginning at the moment of birth, in order that it may be used most advantageously by the modality of the time."

"What do you mean by the modality of the time?" I asked.

"The modality of the time is the precise bundle of energy fields being perceived," he answered.

"I believe man's perception has changed through the ages. The actual time decides the mode. The time decides which precise bundle of energy fields are to be used; out of an incalculable number.

"Handling the modality of the time- those select few energy fields- takes all our available energy; and thus leaves us no extra energy that would help us use any of the other energy fields."

He urged me with a subtle movement of his eyebrows to consider all this.

"This is what I mean," he went on, "when I say that the average man lacks the energy needed to deal with sorcery. If he uses only the energy he has, he can't perceive the worlds sorcerers do.

"To perceive sorcery worlds, sorcerers need to use a cluster of energy fields not ordinarily used.

"Naturally, if the average man is to perceive sorcery worlds and understand sorcerers' perception, he must use the same energy cluster sorcerers have used. And this is just not possible, because all of the average man's energy is already deployed on the cluster of the times."

He paused as if searching for the appropriate words to make his point.

"Think of it this way," he proceeded. "It isn't that as time goes by you're learning sorcery. Rather, what you're learning is to save energy. This energy will enable you to handle some of the energy fields which are inaccessible to you now.

"Sorcery, properly speaking, is simply the ability to use energy fields that are not employed in perceiving the ordinary world we know. Sorcery is a state of awareness and the ability to perceive something which ordinary perception cannot.

"Everything I've put you through," don Juan went on, "and each of the things I've shown you was only a device to convince you that there's more to us than meets the eye.

We don't need anyone to teach us sorcery because there is really nothing to learn. What we need is a teacher to convince us that there is incalculable power at our fingertips. What a strange paradox!

"Every warrior on the path of knowledge thinks, at one time or another, that he (or she) is learning sorcery. However, all he's really doing is allowing himself to be convinced of the power hidden in his being, and that he can reach it."

"Is that what you're doing, don Juan- convincing me?"

"Exactly. I'm trying to convince you that you can reach that power.

"I went through the same thing, and I was as hard to convince as you are."

"Once we have reached it," I asked, "what exactly do we do with it, don Juan?"

"Nothing. Once we have reached that understanding, it will by itself make use of energy fields which are available to us but were inaccessible.

"Access to formerly unavailable energy fields, as I have said, is sorcery in a nut shell.

"But then we begin to 'see', that is, to perceive something else; not as imagination, but as real and concrete. And then we begin to know without having to use words. And what any of us does with that increased perception and with that silent knowledge depends on our own temperament."


On another occasion, he gave me another kind of explanation. We were discussing an unrelated topic when he abruptly changed the subject and began to tell me a joke. He laughed and very gently patted my back between the shoulder blades; as if he were shy and it was too forward of him to touch me. He chuckled at my nervous reaction.

"You're skittish," he said teasingly, and slapped my back with greater force.

My ears buzzed. For an instant I lost my breath. It felt as though he had hurt my lungs. Every breath brought me great discomfort. Yet, after I had coughed and choked a few times, my nasal passages opened and I found myself taking deep, soothing breaths.

I had such a feeling of well-being that I was not even annoyed at him for his blow; which had been as hard as it was unexpected.

Then don Juan began a most remarkable explanation. Clearly and concisely, he gave me a different and more precise definition of sorcery.

I had entered into a wondrous state of awareness! I had such clarity of mind that I was able to comprehend and assimilate everything don Juan was saying.

He said that in the universe there is an unmeasurable, indescribable force which sorcerers call intent, and that absolutely everything that exists in the entire cosmos is attached to intent by a connecting link. Sorcerers, or warriors, as he called them, were concerned with discussing, understanding, and employing that connecting link.

They were especially concerned with cleaning it of the numbing effects brought about by the ordinary concerns of their everyday lives. Sorcery at this level could be defined as the procedure of cleaning one's connecting link to intent. Don Juan stressed that this 'cleaning procedure' was extremely difficult to understand, or to learn to perform.

Sorcerers, therefore, divided their instruction into two categories.

One was instruction for the everyday-life state of awareness, in which the cleaning process was presented in a disguised fashion.

The other was instruction for the states of heightened awareness, such as the one I was presently experiencing, in which sorcerers obtained knowledge directly from intent, without the distracting intervention of spoken language.

Don Juan explained that by using heightened awareness over thousands of years of painful struggle, sorcerers had gained specific insights into intent. They passed these nuggets of direct knowledge on from generation to generation to the present. He said that the task of sorcery is to take this seemingly incomprehensible knowledge and make it understandable by the standards of awareness of everyday life.

Then he explained the role of the guide in the lives of sorcerers. He said that a guide is called 'the nagual', and is a man or a woman with extraordinary energy; a teacher who has sobriety, endurance, and stability; someone seers see as a luminous sphere having four compartments as if four luminous balls have been compressed together.

Because of their extraordinary energy, naguals are intermediaries. Their energy allows them to channel peace, harmony, laughter, and knowledge directly from the source- from intent- and transmit intent to their companions.

Naguals are responsible for supplying what sorcerers call 'the minimal chance'; the awareness of one's connection with intent.

I could understand everything on Juan was saying about his world easily, and yet he had described the process of understanding as very difficult.

I told him that my mind was grasping everything he was telling me, but that the only part of his explanation still unclear to me was why two sets of teachings were needed.

"You will need a lifetime to remember the insights you've had today," he said, "because most of them were silent knowledge. A few moments from now you will have forgotten them. That's one of the unfathomable mysteries of awareness."

Don Juan then made me shift levels of consciousness by striking me on my left side, at the edge of my ribcage.

Instantly I lost my extraordinary clarity of mind and could not remember having ever had it.


Don Juan himself set me the task of writing about the premises of sorcery. Once, very casually in the early stages of my apprenticeship, he suggested that I write a book in order to make use of the notes I had always taken.

I had accumulated reams of notes and never considered what to do with them. I argued that the suggestion was absurd because I was not a writer.

"Of course, you're not a writer," he said, "so you will have to use sorcery. First, you must visualize your experiences as if you were reliving them, and then you must see the text in your dreaming. For you, writing should not be a literary exercise, but rather an exercise in sorcery."

I have written in that manner about the premises of sorcery just as don Juan explained them to me within the context of his teaching.

In his teaching scheme, which was developed by sorcerers of ancient times, there were two categories of instruction.

One was called "teachings for the right side," and was carried out in the apprentice's ordinary state of awareness.

The other was called "teachings for the left side", and was put into practice solely while the apprentice was in states of heightened awareness.

These two categories allowed teachers to school their apprentices toward three areas of expertise: the mastery of awareness, the art of stalking, and the mastery of intent.

These three areas of expertise are the three riddles sorcerers encounter in their search for knowledge.


The mastery of awareness is the riddle of the mind; the perplexity sorcerers experience when they recognize the astounding mystery and scope of awareness and perception.

The art of stalking is the riddle of the heart; the puzzlement sorcerers feel upon becoming aware of two things: first that the world appears to us to be unalterably objective and factual because of the peculiarities of our awareness and perception; and second, that if different peculiarities of perception come into play, the very things about the world that seem so unalterably objective and factual change.

The mastery of intent is the riddle of the spirit; the paradox of the abstract; sorcerers' thoughts and actions projected beyond our human condition.


Don Juan's instructions on both the art of stalking and the mastery of intent depended upon his instruction on the mastery of awareness.

The mastery of awareness was the cornerstone of his teachings, and consists of the following basic premises:


1. The universe is an infinite mass of energy fields resembling threads of light.

2. These energy fields, called the Eagle's emanations, radiate from a source of inconceivable proportions metaphorically called The Eagle.

3. Human beings are composed of an incalculable number of the Eagle's emanations in an encased mass. Seers perceive this mass as a ball of light, like a giant luminous egg, the size of the person's body with the arms extended laterally.

4. Only a very small group of the emanations inside this luminous egg are lit up by a point of intense brilliance located near the egg's surface. This point is where perception is assembled; 'the assemblage point'.

5. Perception occurs when the emanations lit by the assemblage point extend their light to illuminate identical matching emanations outside the egg. Only the emanations lit by the assemblage point are perceived.

6. The assemblage point can move from its usual position to another on the surface or into the interior. It then lights up a new group of emanations making them perceivable and cancelling the former perceptions.

7. When the assemblage point shifts far enough, it makes possible the perception of an entirely different world as objective and factual as the one we normally perceive. Sorcerers go into those other worlds to get energy, power, solutions to general and particular problems, or to face the unimaginable.

8. Intent is the pervasive force that causes us to perceive. We do not become aware because we perceive; rather, we perceive as a result of the pressure and intrusion of intent.

9. The aim of the new seers is to reach a state of total awareness in order to experience all the possibilities of perception available to man. This state of awareness even implies an alternative way of dying.


A level of practical knowledge was included as part of teaching the mastery of awareness. On that practical level don Juan taught the procedures necessary to move the assemblage point. The two great systems devised by the sorcerer seers of ancient times to accomplish this were: dreaming, the control and utilization of dreams; and stalking, the control of behavior.

Moving one's own assemblage point was an essential maneuver that every sorcerer had to learn.

The naguals, also learned to move it for others. The naguals dislodge others' assemblage point from its customary position by pushing it. This push is experienced as a smack on the right shoulder blade- although the body is never touched- and results in a state of heightened awareness.

In compliance with his tradition, it was exclusively in these states of heightened awareness that don Juan carried out the most important and dramatic part of his teachings: the instructions for the left side.

Because of the extraordinary quality of these states, don Juan demanded that I not discuss them with others until we had concluded everything in the sorcerers' teaching scheme. That demand was not difficult for me to accept.

In those unique states of awareness my capabilities for understanding the instruction were unbelievably enhanced, but at the same time my capabilities for describing or even remembering them were impaired.

I could function in those states with proficiency and assuredness, but I could not recollect anything about them once I returned to my normal consciousness.

It took me years to be able to make the crucial conversion of my enhanced awareness into plain memory. My reason and common sense delayed this moment because they were colliding head-on with the preposterous, unthinkable reality of heightened awareness and direct knowledge. For years the resulting cognitive disarrangement forced me to avoid the issue by not thinking about it.


Whatever I have published about my sorcery apprenticeship, up to now, has been a recounting of how don Juan taught me the mastery of awareness. I have not yet described the art of stalking or the mastery of intent.

Don Juan taught me their principles and applications with the help of two of his sorcerer companions, Vicente Medrano, and Silvio Manuel. But whatever I learned from them still remains clouded in what Don Juan called the intricacies of heightened awareness.

Until now it had been impossible for me to write or even to think coherently about the art of stalking and the mastery of intent. My mistake has been to regard them as subjects for normal memory and recollection. They are, but at the same time they are not. In order to resolve this contradiction, I have not pursued the subjects directly- a virtual impossibility- but have dealt with them indirectly through the concluding topic of don Juan's instruction: the stories of the sorcerers of the past.

He recounted these stories to make evident what he called the abstract cores of his lessons.

His way of talking made me believe for many years that his explanations of the abstract cores were like academic dissertations. I was, however, intellectually incapable of grasping the nature of the abstract cores despite his comprehensive explanations. All I was able to do under these circumstances was to take his explanations as given.

And even without a thorough rational assessment which I believed was essential to understanding them, the abstract cores became part of my tacit acceptance and understanding of his teachings.

I know now that the stories of the sorcerers of the past, were intended more to open my mind than to explain anything in a rational manner.

Don Juan presented three sets of six abstract cores each, arranged in an increasing level of complexity.


I have dealt here with the first set, which is composed of the following: the manifestations of the spirit, the knock of the spirit, the trickery of the spirit, the descent of the spirit, the requirements of intent, and handling intent.






The Power Of Silence: Part 1 - The Manifestations of the Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1 - The Manifestations of the Spirit.

  • The First Abstract Core.
  • The Impeccability Of The Nagual Elias.





The Power Of Silence: Part 1: Chapter 01 - The First Abstract Core.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1: Chapter 01 - The First Abstract Core.

Don Juan, whenever it was pertinent, used to tell me brief stories about the sorcerers of his lineage, especially his teacher, the nagual Julian. They were not really stories, but rather descriptions of the way those sorcerers behaved, and of aspects of their personalities. These accounts were each designed to shed light on a specific topic in my apprenticeship.

I had heard the same stories from the other fifteen members of don Juan's group of sorcerers, but none of these accounts had been able to give me a clear picture of the people they described. Since I had no way of persuading don Juan to give me more details about those sorcerers, I had resigned myself to the idea of never knowing about them in any depth.

One afternoon, in the mountains of southern Mexico, don Juan, after having explained to me more about the intricacies of the mastery of awareness, made a statement that completely baffled me.

"I think it's time for us to talk about the sorcerers of our past," he said.

Don Juan explained that it was necessary that I begin drawing conclusions based on a systematic view of the past; conclusions about both the world of daily affairs and the sorcerers' world.

"Sorcerers," he said, "are vitally concerned with their past. But I don't mean their personal past. For sorcerers, their past is what other sorcerers in bygone days have done. And what we are now going to do is examine that past.

"The average man also examines the past. But it's mostly his personal past he examines; and he does so for personal reasons.

Sorcerers do quite the opposite; they consult their past in order to obtain a point of reference."

"But," I asked, "Isn't that what everyone does? Look at the past to get a point of reference?"

"No!" he answered emphatically. "The average man measures himself against the past, whether his personal past or the past knowledge of his time in order to find justifications for his present or future behavior; or to establish a model for himself.

"Only sorcerers genuinely seek a point of reference in their past."

"Perhaps, don Juan, things would be clear to me if you tell me what a point of reference for a sorcerer is."

"For sorcerers," he replied, "establishing a point of reference means getting a chance to examine intent; which is exactly the aim of this final topic of instruction. And nothing can give sorcerers a better view of intent than examining stories of other sorcerers battling to understand the same force."

He explained that as they examined their past, the sorcerers of his lineage took careful notice of the basic abstract order of their knowledge.

"In sorcery there are twenty-one abstract cores," don Juan went on. "And then, based on those abstract cores, there are scores of sorcery stories about the naguals of our lineage battling to understand the spirit. It's time to tell you the abstract cores and the sorcery stories."

I waited for don Juan to begin telling me the stories, but he changed the subject and went back to explaining awareness.

"Wait a minute," I protested. "What about the sorcery stories? Aren't you going to tell them to me?"

"Of course I am," he said. "But they are not stories that one can tell as if they were tales. You've got to think your way through them and then rethink them; relive them, so to speak."

There was a long silence. I became very cautious and was afraid that if I persisted in asking him again to tell me the stories, I could be committing myself to something I might later regret. But my curiosity was greater than my good sense.

"Well, let's get on with them," I croaked.

Don Juan, obviously catching the gist of my thoughts, smiled maliciously.

He stood and signaled me to follow. We had been sitting on some dry rocks at the bottom of a gully. It was mid-afternoon. The sky was dark and cloudy. Low, almost black rain clouds hovered above the peaks to the east. In comparison, the high clouds made the sky seem clear to the south. Earlier it had rained heavily, but then the rain seemed to have retreated to a hiding place, leaving behind only a threat.

I should have been chilled to the bone because it was very cold, but I was warm. As I clutched a rock don Juan had given me to hold, I realized that this sensation of being warm in nearly freezing weather was familiar to me, yet it amazed me every time. Whenever I seemed about to freeze, don Juan would give me a branch to hold, or a stone, or he would put a bunch of leaves under my shirt on the tip of my sternum; and that would be sufficient to raise my body temperature.

I had tried unsuccessfully to recreate by myself the effect of his ministrations. He told me it was not the ministrations that kept me warm, but rather his inner silence. The branches or stones or leaves were merely devices to trap my attention and maintain it in focus.

Moving quickly, we climbed the steep west side of a mountain until we reached a rock ledge at the very top. We were in the foothills of a higher range of mountains. From the rock ledge, I could see that fog had begun to move onto the south end of the valley floor below us. Low, wispy clouds seemed to be closing in on us too, sliding down from the black-green, high mountain peaks to the west. After the rain, under the dark cloudy sky, the valley and the mountains to the east and south appeared covered in a mantle of black-green silence.

"This is the ideal place to have a talk," don Juan said, sitting on the rock floor of a concealed shallow cave.

The cave was perfect for the two of us to sit side by side. Our heads were nearly touching the roof and our backs fitted snugly against the curved surface of the rock wall. It was as if the cave had been carved deliberately to accommodate two persons of our size.

I noticed another strange feature of the cave: When I stood on the ledge, I could see the entire valley and the mountain ranges to the east and south; but when I sat down, I was boxed in by the rocks. Yet the ledge was at the level of the cave floor, and flat.

I was about to point this strange effect out to don Juan, but he anticipated me.

"This cave is man-made," he said. "The ledge is slanted but the eye doesn't register the incline."

"Who made this cave, don Juan?"

"The ancient sorcerers; perhaps thousands of years ago. And one of the peculiarities of this cave is that animals and insects and even people stay away from it. The ancient sorcerers seem to have infused it with an ominous charge that makes every living thing feel ill at ease."

But strangely, I felt irrationally secure and happy there. A sensation of physical contentment made my entire body tingle. I actually felt the most agreeable- the most delectable sensation in my stomach. It was as if my nerves were being tickled.

"I don't feel ill at ease," I commented.

"Neither do I," he said. "Which only means that you and I are not that far temperamentally from those old sorcerers of the past; something which worries me no end."

I was afraid to pursue that subject any further, so I waited for him to talk.

"The first sorcery story I am going to tell you is called "The Manifestations of the Spirit"," don Juan began, "but do not let the title mystify you. The manifestations of the spirit is only the first abstract core around which the first sorcery story is built.

"That first abstract core is a story in itself," he went on. "The story says that once upon a time there was a man; an average man without any special attributes. He was, like everyone else, a conduit for the spirit. And by virtue of that, like everyone else, he was part of the spirit; part of the abstract. But he didn't know it. The world kept him so busy that he had neither the time nor the inclination really to examine the matter.

"The spirit tried, uselessly, to reveal their connection. Using an inner voice the spirit disclosed its secrets, but the man was incapable of understanding the revelations. Naturally, he heard the inner voice, but he believed it to be his own feelings he was feeling and his own thoughts he was thinking.

"The spirit, in order to shake him out of his slumber, gave him three signs; three successive manifestations. The spirit physically crossed the man's path in the most obvious manner. But the man was oblivious to anything but his self-concern."

Don Juan stopped and looked at me as he did whenever he was waiting for my comments and questions. I had nothing to say. I did not understand the point he was trying to make.

"I've just told you the first abstract core," he continued. "The spirit, in order to shake him out of his slumber, gave him three signs; three successive manifestations. The spirit physically crossed the man's path in the most obvious manner. But the man was oblivious to anything but his self-concern. And trickery became the essence of the sorcerers' path. But that is another story."

Don Juan explained that sorcerers understood this abstract core to be a blueprint for events, or a recurrent pattern that appeared every time intent was giving an indication of something meaningful. Abstract cores, then, were blueprints of complete chains of events.

He assured me that by means beyond comprehension, every detail of every abstract core has re-occurred to every apprentice nagual. He further assured me that he had helped intent to involve me in all the abstract cores of sorcery in the same manner that his benefactor, the nagual Julian, and all the naguals before him had involved their apprentices. The process by which each apprentice nagual encountered the abstract cores created a series of accounts woven around those abstract cores; incorporating the particular details of each apprentice's personality and circumstances.

He said, for example, that I had my own story about the manifestations of the spirit: He had his: His benefactor had his own: So had the nagual that preceded him, and so on, and so forth.

"What is my story about the manifestations of the spirit?" I asked, somewhat mystified.

"If any warrior is aware of his stories, it's you," he replied. "After all, you've been writing about them for years. But you didn't notice the abstract cores because you are a practical man. You do everything only for the purpose of enhancing your practicality. Although you handled your stories to exhaustion you had no idea that there was an abstract core in them.

Everything I've done appears to you, therefore, as an often-whimsical practical activity; teaching sorcery to a reluctant and, most of the time, stupid, apprentice. As long as you see it in those terms, the abstract cores will elude you."

"You must forgive me, don Juan," I said, "but your statements are very confusing. What are you saying?"

"I am trying to introduce the sorcery stories as a subject," he replied. "I have never talked to you specifically about this topic because traditionally it's left hidden. It is the spirit's last artifice. It is said that when the apprentice understands the abstract cores, it is like the placing of the stone that caps and seals a pyramid."

It was getting dark and it looked as though it was about to rain again. I worried that if the wind blew from east to west while it was raining, we were going to get soaked in that cave. I was sure don Juan was aware of that, but he seemed to ignore it.

"It will not rain again until tomorrow morning," he said.

Hearing my inner thoughts being answered made me jump involuntarily and hit the top of my head on the cave roof. It was a thud that sounded worse than it felt.

Don Juan held his sides laughing. After a while my head really began to hurt and I had to massage it.

"Your company is as enjoyable to me as mine must have been to my benefactor," he said and began to laugh again.

We were quiet for a few minutes. The silence around me was ominous. I fancied that I could hear the rustling of the low clouds as they descended on us from the higher mountains. Then I realized that what I was hearing was the soft wind. From my position in the shallow cave, it sounded like the whispering of human voices.

"I had the incredible good luck to be taught by two naguals," don Juan said and broke the mesmeric grip the wind had on me at that moment. "One was, of course, my benefactor, the nagual Julian, and the other was his benefactor, the nagual Elias. My case was unique."

"Why was your case unique?" I asked.

"Because for generations," he explained, "naguals have gathered their apprentices years after their own teachers have left the world- except my benefactor.

"I became the nagual Julian's apprentice eight years before his benefactor left the world. I had eight years' grace. It was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me because I had the opportunity to be taught by two opposite temperaments. It was like being reared by a powerful father and an even more powerful grandfather who don't see eye to eye. In such a contest, the grandfather always wins.

"So I'm properly the product of the nagual Elias's teachings. I was closer to him not only in temperament, but also in looks. I'd say that I owe him my fine tuning. However, the bulk of the work that went into turning me from a miserable being into an impeccable warrior I owe to my benefactor, the nagual Julian."

"What was the nagual Julian like physically?" I asked.

"Do you know that to this day it's hard for me to visualize him?" don Juan said. "I know that sounds absurd, but depending on his needs or the circumstances, he could be either young or old, handsome or homely, effete and weak, or strong and virile, fat or slender, of medium height or extremely short."

"Do you mean he was an actor acting out different roles with the aid of props?"

"No, there were no props involved, and he was not merely an actor. He was, of course, a great actor in his own right, but that is different. The point is that he was capable of transforming himself and becoming all those diametrically opposed persons. Being a great actor enabled him to portray all the minute peculiarities of behavior that made each specific being real. Let us say that he was at ease in every change of being. As you are at ease in every change of clothes."

Eagerly, I asked don Juan to tell me more about his benefactor's transformations. He said that someone taught him how to elicit those transformations, but that to explain any further would force him to overlap into different stories.

"What did the nagual Julian look like when he wasn't transforming himself?" I asked.

"Let's say that before he became a nagual, he was very slim and muscular," don Juan said. "His hair was black, thick, and wavy. He had a long, fine nose, strong big white teeth, an oval face, strong jaw, and shiny dark-brown eyes. He was about five feet eight inches tall. He was not Indian or even a brown Mexican, but he was not Anglo white either. In fact, his complexion seemed to be like no one else's, especially in his later years when his ever-changing complexion shifted constantly from dark to very light and back again to dark. When I first met him he was a light-brown old man, then as time went by, he became a light-skinned young man, perhaps only a few years older than me. I was twenty at that time.

"But if the changes of his outer appearance were astonishing," don Juan went on, "the changes of mood and behavior that accompanied each transformation were even more astonishing. For example, when he was a fat young man, he was jolly and sensual. When he was a skinny old man, he was petty and vindictive. When he was a fat old man, he was the greatest imbecile there was."

"Was he ever himself?" I asked.

He replied, "Not the way I am myself. Since I'm not interested in transformation, I am always the same. But he was not like me at all." Don Juan looked at me as if he were assessing my inner strength. He smiled, shook his head from side to side and broke into a belly laugh.

"What's so funny, don Juan?" I asked.

"The fact is that you're still too prudish and stiff to appreciate fully the nature of my benefactor's transformations and their total scope," he said. "I only hope that when I tell you about them you don't become morbidly obsessed."

For some reason, I suddenly became quite uncomfortable, and had to change the subject.

"Why are the naguals called 'benefactors' and not simply teachers?" I asked nervously.

"Calling a nagual a benefactor is a gesture his apprentices make," don Juan said. "A nagual creates an overwhelming feeling of gratitude in his disciples. After all, a nagual molds them and guides them through unimaginable areas."

I remarked that to teach was in my opinion the greatest, most altruistic act anyone could perform for another.

"For you, teaching is talking about patterns," he said. "For a sorcerer, to teach is what a nagual does for his apprentices. For them, he taps the prevailing force in the universe: intent- the force that changes and reorders things or keeps them as they are.

"The nagual formulates; then guides the consequences that that force can have on his disciples. Without the nagual's molding intent, there would be no awe; no wonder for them. And his apprentices, instead of embarking on a magical journey of discovery, would only be learning a trade: healer, sorcerer, diviner, charlatan, or whatever."

"Can you explain intent to me?" I asked.

"The only way to know intent" he replied, "is to know it directly through a living connection that exists between intent and all sentient beings. Sorcerers call intent the indescribable, the spirit, the abstract, or the nagual. I would prefer to call it nagual, but it overlaps with the name for the leader- the benefactor- who is also called nagual. So I have opted for calling it the spirit, intent, or the abstract."

Don Juan stopped abruptly and recommended that I keep quiet and think about what he had told me. By then it was very dark. The silence was so profound that instead of lulling me into a restful state, it agitated me. I could not maintain order in my thoughts. I tried to focus my attention on the story he had told me, but instead I thought of everything else until finally I fell asleep.






The Power Of Silence: Part 1: Chapter 02 - The Impeccability of the Nagual Elias.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 1: Chapter 02 - The Impeccability of the Nagual Elias.

I had no way of telling how long I slept in that cave. Don Juan's voice startled me and I awoke. He was saying that the first sorcery story concerning the manifestations of the spirit was an account of the relationship between intent and the nagual. It was the story of how the spirit set up a lure for the nagual, a prospective disciple, and of how the nagual had to evaluate the lure before making his decision either to accept or reject it.

It was very dark in the cave, and the small space was confining. Ordinarily an area of that size would have made me claustrophobic, but the cave kept soothing me; dispelling my feelings of annoyance. Also, something in the configuration of the cave absorbed the echoes of don Juan's words.

Don Juan explained that every act performed by sorcerers, especially by the naguals, was either performed as a way to strengthen their link with intent or as a response triggered by the link itself. Sorcerers, and specifically the naguals, therefore had to be actively and permanently on the lookout for manifestations of the spirit. Such manifestations were called gestures of the spirit or, more simply, indications or omens.

He repeated a story he had already told me; the story of how he had met his benefactor, the nagual Julian.

Don Juan had been cajoled by two crooked men to take a job on an isolated hacienda. One of the men, the foreman of the hacienda, simply took possession of don Juan and in effect made him a slave.

Desperate and with no other course of action, don Juan escaped. The violent foreman chased him and caught him on a country road where he shot don Juan in the chest and left him for dead.

Don Juan was lying unconscious in the road bleeding to death when the nagual Julian came along. Using his healer's knowledge, he stopped the bleeding, took don Juan- who was still unconscious- to his home, and cured him.

The indications the spirit gave the nagual Julian about don Juan were, first, a small cyclone that lifted a cone of dust on the road a couple of yards from where he lay.

The second omen was the thought which had crossed the nagual Julian's mind an instant before he had heard the report of the gun a few yards away: that it was time to have an apprentice nagual.

Moments later, the spirit gave him the third omen, when he ran to take cover. He collided with the gunman putting him to flight; perhaps preventing the foreman from shooting don Juan a second time. A collision with someone was the type of blunder which no sorcerer, much less a nagual, should ever make.

The nagual Julian immediately evaluated the opportunity. When he saw don Juan, he understood the reason for the spirit's manifestation: Here was a double man; a perfect candidate to be his apprentice nagual.

This brought up a nagging rational concern for me. I wanted to know if sorcerers could interpret an omen erroneously.

Don Juan replied that although my question sounded perfectly legitimate, it was inapplicable, like the majority of my questions, because I asked them based on my experiences in the world of everyday life. Thus they were always about tested procedures, steps to be followed, and rules of meticulousness; but had nothing to do with the premises of sorcery. He pointed out that the flaw in my reasoning was that I always failed to include my experiences in the sorcerers' world.

I argued that very few of my experiences in the sorcerers' world had continuity, and therefore I could not make use of those experiences in my present day-to-day life. Very few times, and only when I was in states of profound heightened awareness, had I remembered everything. At the level of heightened awareness I usually reached, the only experience that had continuity between past and present was that of knowing him.

He responded cuttingly that I was perfectly capable of engaging in sorcerers' reasonings because I had experienced the sorcery premises in my normal state of awareness. In a more mellow tone he added that heightened awareness did not reveal everything until the whole edifice of sorcery knowledge was completed.

Then he answered my question about whether or not sorcerers could misinterpret omens. He explained that when a sorcerer interpreted an omen, he knew its exact meaning without having any notion of how he knew it. This was one of the bewildering effects of the connecting link with intent. Sorcerers had a sense of knowing things directly. How sure they were depended on the strength and clarity of their connecting link.

He said that the feeling everyone knows as 'intuition' is the activation of our link with intent. And since sorcerers deliberately pursue the understanding and strengthening of that link, it could be said that they intuit everything unerringly and accurately. Reading omens is commonplace for sorcerers. Mistakes happen only when personal feelings intervene and cloud the sorcerers' connecting link with intent. Otherwise their direct knowledge is totally accurate and functional.

We remained quiet for a while.


All of a sudden he said, "I am going to tell you a story about the nagual Elias and the manifestation of the spirit. The spirit manifests itself to a sorcerer, especially to a nagual, at every turn. However, this is not the entire truth. The entire truth is that the spirit reveals itself to everyone with the same intensity and consistency, but only sorcerers, and naguals in particular, are attuned to such revelations."

Don Juan began his story. He said that the nagual Elias had been riding his horse to the city one day, taking himself through a shortcut by some cornfields, when suddenly his horse shied- frightened by the low, fast sweep of a falcon that missed the nagual's straw hat by only a few inches.

"The nagual immediately dismounted and began to look around. He saw a strange young man among the tall, dry cornstalks. The man was dressed in an expensive dark suit and appeared alien there. The nagual Elias was used to the sight of peasants or landowners in the fields, but he had never seen an elegantly dressed city man moving through the fields with apparent disregard for his expensive shoes and clothes.

The nagual tethered his horse and walked toward the young man. He recognized the flight of the falcon, as well as the man's apparel, as obvious manifestations of the spirit which he could not disregard. He got very close to the young man and saw what was going on. The man was chasing a peasant woman who was running a few yards ahead of him, dodging and laughing with him.

The contradiction was quite apparent to the nagual. The two people cavorting in the cornfield did not belong together. The nagual thought that the man must be the landowner's son and the woman a servant in the house. He felt embarrassed to be observing them, and was about to turn and leave when the falcon again swept over the cornfield and this time brushed the young man's head. The falcon alarmed the couple and they stopped and looked up, trying to anticipate another sweep. The nagual noticed that the man was thin and handsome, and had haunting, restless eyes.

Then the couple became bored watching for the falcon, and returned to their play. The man caught the woman, embraced her and gently laid her on the ground. But instead of trying to make love to her, as the nagual assumed he would do next, he removed his own clothes and paraded naked in front of the woman.

She did not shyly close her eyes or scream with embarrassment or fright. She giggled, mesmerized by the prancing naked man, who moved around her like a satyr, making lewd gestures and laughing. Finally, apparently overpowered by the sight, she uttered a wild cry, rose, and threw herself into the young man's arms.

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias confessed to him that the indications of the spirit on that occasion had been most baffling. It was clearly evident that the man was insane. Otherwise, knowing how protective peasants were of their women, he would not have considered seducing a young peasant woman in broad daylight a few yards from the road and naked to boot.

Don Juan broke into a laugh and told me that in those days to take off one's clothes and engage in a sexual act in broad daylight in such a place meant one had to be either insane or blessed by the spirit. He added that what the man had done might not seem remarkable nowadays. But back then, nearly a hundred years ago, people were infinitely more inhibited.

All of this convinced the nagual Elias from the moment he laid eyes on the man that he was both insane and blessed by the spirit. He worried that peasants might happen by, become enraged and lynch the man on the spot. But no one did. It felt to the nagual as if time had been suspended.

When the man finished making love, he put on his clothes, took out a handkerchief, meticulously dusted his shoes and, all the while making wild promises to the girl, went on his way. The nagual Elias followed him. In fact, he followed him for several days and found out that his name was Julian and that he was an actor.

Subsequently the nagual saw him on the stage often enough to realize that the actor had a great deal of charisma. The audience, especially the women, loved him. And he had no scruples about making use of his charismatic gifts to seduce female admirers. As the nagual followed the actor, he was able to witness his seduction technique more than once. It entailed showing himself naked to his adoring fans as soon as he got them alone, then waiting until the women, stunned by his display, surrendered. The technique seemed extremely effective for him. The nagual had to admit that the actor was a great success, except on one count. He was mortally ill. The nagual had seen the black shadow of death that followed him everywhere.

Don Juan explained again something he had told me years before- that our death was a black spot right behind the left shoulder. He said that sorcerers knew when a person was close to dying because they could see the dark spot, which became a moving shadow the exact size and shape of the person to whom it belonged.

As he recognized the imminent presence of death the nagual was plunged into a numbing perplexity. He wondered why the spirit was singling out such a sick person. He had been taught that in a natural state replacement, not repair, prevailed. And the nagual doubted that he had the ability or the strength to heal this young man, or resist the black shadow of his death. He even doubted if he would be able to discover why the spirit had involved him in a display of such obvious waste.

The nagual could do nothing but stay with the actor, follow him around, and wait for the opportunity to see in greater depth. Don Juan explained that a nagual's first reaction, upon being faced with the manifestations of the spirit, is to see the persons involved. The nagual Elias had been meticulous about seeing the man the moment he laid eyes on him. He had also seen the peasant woman who was part of the spirit's manifestation, but he had seen nothing that, in his judgment, could have warranted the spirit's display.

In the course of witnessing another seduction, however, the nagual's ability to see took on a new depth. This time the actor's adoring fan was the daughter of a rich landowner. And from the start she was in complete control. The nagual found out about their rendezvous because he overheard her daring the actor to meet her the next day. The nagual was hiding across the street at dawn when the young woman left her house, and instead of going to early mass she went to join the actor. The actor was waiting for her and she coaxed him into following her to the open fields. He appeared to hesitate, but she taunted him and would not allow him to withdraw.

As the nagual watched them sneaking away, he had an absolute conviction that something was going to happen on that day which neither of the players was anticipating. He saw that the actor's black shadow had grown to almost twice his height. The nagual deduced from the mysterious hard look in the young woman's eyes that she too had felt the black shadow of death at an intuitive level. The actor seemed preoccupied. He did not laugh as he had on other occasions.

They walked quite a distance. At one point, they spotted the nagual following them, but he instantly pretended to be working the land as a peasant who belonged there. That made the couple relax and allowed the nagual to come closer.

Then the moment came when the actor tossed off his clothes and showed himself to the girl. But instead of swooning and falling into his arms as his other conquests had, this girl began to hit him. She kicked and punched him mercilessly and stepped on his bare toes, making him cry out with pain.

The nagual knew the man had not threatened or harmed the young woman. He had not laid a finger on her. She was the only one fighting. He was merely trying to parry the blows, and persistently, but without enthusiasm, trying to entice her by showing her his genitals.

The nagual was filled with both revulsion and admiration. He could perceive that the actor was an irredeemable libertine, but he could also perceive equally easily that there was something unique, although revolting, about him. It baffled the nagual to see that the man's connecting link with the spirit was extraordinarily clear.

Finally the attack ended. The woman stopped beating the actor. But then, instead of running away, she surrendered, lay down and told the actor he could now have his way with her.

The nagual observed that the man was so exhausted he was practically unconscious. Yet despite his fatigue he went right ahead and consummated his seduction.

The nagual was laughing and pondering that useless man's great stamina and determination when the woman screamed and the actor began to gasp. The nagual saw how the black shadow struck the actor. It went like a dagger, with pinpoint accuracy into his gap.

Don Juan made a digression at this point to elaborate on something he had explained before: He had described the gap, an opening in our luminous shell at the height of the navel, where the force of death ceaselessly struck. What don Juan now explained was that when death hit healthy beings it was with a ball-like blow- like the punch of a fist. But when beings were dying, death struck them with a dagger-like thrust.

Thus the nagual Elias knew without any question that the actor was as good as dead, and his death automatically finished his own interest in the spirit's designs. There were no designs left. Death had leveled everything.

He rose from his hiding place and started to leave when something made him hesitate. It was the young woman's calmness. She was nonchalantly putting on the few pieces of clothing she had taken off and was whistling tunelessly as if nothing had happened.

And then the nagual saw that in relaxing to accept the presence of death, the man's body had released a protecting veil and revealed his true nature. He was a double man of tremendous resources, capable of creating a screen for protection or disguise- a natural sorcerer and a perfect candidate for a nagual apprentice, had it not been for the black shadow of death.

The nagual was completely taken aback by that sight. He now understood the designs of the spirit, but failed to comprehend how such a useless man could fit in the sorcerers' scheme of things.

The woman in the meantime had stood up and without so much as a glance at the man, whose body was contorting with death spasms, walked away.

The nagual then saw her luminosity and realized that her extreme aggressiveness was the result of an enormous flow of superfluous energy. He became convinced that if she did not put that energy to sober use, it would get the best of her and there was no telling what misfortunes it would cause her.

As the nagual watched the unconcern with which she walked away, he realized that the spirit had given him another manifestation. He needed to be calm, nonchalant. He needed to act as if he had nothing to lose and intervene for the hell of it. In true nagual fashion he decided to tackle the impossible with no one except the spirit as witness.

Don Juan commented that it took incidents like this to test whether a nagual is the real thing or a fake. Naguals make decisions. With no regard for the consequences, they take action or choose not to. Imposters ponder and become paralyzed. The nagual Elias having made his decision, walked calmly to the side of the dying man and did the first thing his body, not his mind, compelled him to do: he struck the man's assemblage point to cause him to enter into heightened awareness. He struck him frantically again and again until his assemblage point moved. Aided by the force of death itself, the nagual's blows sent the man's assemblage point to a place where death no longer mattered, and there he stopped dying.

By the time the actor was breathing again, the nagual had become aware of the magnitude of his responsibility. If the man was to fend off the force of his death, it would be necessary for him to remain in deep heightened awareness until death had been repelled. The man's advanced physical deterioration meant he could not be moved from the spot or he would instantly die. The nagual did the only thing possible under the circumstances: He built a shack around the body. There, for three months, he nursed the totally immobilized man.

My rational thoughts took over, and instead of just listening, I wanted to know how the nagual Elias could build a shack on someone else's land. I was aware of the rural peoples' passion about land ownership and its accompanying feelings of territoriality.

Don Juan admitted that he had asked the same question himself. And the nagual Elias had said that the spirit itself had made it possible. This was the case with everything a nagual undertook, providing he followed the spirit's manifestations.

The first thing the nagual Elias did when the actor was breathing again, was to run after the young woman. She was an important part of the spirit's manifestation. He caught up with her not too far from the spot where the actor lay barely alive. Rather than talking to her about the man's plight and trying to convince her to help him, he again assumed total responsibility for his actions and jumped on her like a lion, striking her assemblage point a mighty blow. Both she and the actor were capable of sustaining life or death blows. Her assemblage point moved, but began to shift erratically once it was loose.

The nagual carried the young woman to where the actor lay. Then he spent the entire day trying to keep her from losing her mind and the man from losing his life. When he was fairly certain he had a degree of control he went to the woman's father and told him that lightning must have struck his daughter and made her temporarily mad. He took the father to where she lay and said that the young man, whoever he was, had taken the whole charge of the lightning with his body, thus saving the girl from certain death, but injuring himself to the point that he could not be moved.

The grateful father helped the nagual build the shack for the man who had saved his daughter. And in three months the nagual accomplished the impossible. He healed the young man.

When the time came for the nagual to leave, his sense of responsibility and his duty required him both to warn the young woman about her excess energy and the injurious consequences it would have on her life and well being, and to ask her to join the sorcerers' world, as that would be the only defense against her self-destructive strength.

The woman did not respond. And the nagual Elias was obliged to tell her what every nagual has said to a prospective apprentice throughout the ages: that sorcerers speak of sorcery as a magical, mysterious bird which has paused in its flight for a moment in order to give man hope and purpose; that sorcerers live under the wing of that bird, which they call the bird of wisdom, the bird of freedom; that they nourish it with their dedication and impeccability. He told her that sorcerers knew the flight of the bird of freedom was always a straight line. It had no way of making a loop, no way of circling back and returning; and that the bird of freedom could do only two things: take sorcerers along, or leave them behind.

The nagual Elias could not talk to the young actor, who was still mortally ill, in the same way. The young man did not have much of a choice. Still, the nagual told him that if he wanted to be cured, he would have to follow the nagual unconditionally. The actor accepted the terms instantly.

The day the nagual Elias and the actor started back home, the young woman was waiting silently at the edge of town. She carried no suitcases; not even a basket. She seemed to have come merely to see them off.

The nagual kept walking without looking at her, but the actor, being carried on a stretcher, strained to say goodbye to her. She laughed and wordlessly merged into the nagual's party. She had no doubts and no problem about leaving everything behind. She had understood perfectly that there was no second chance for her; that the bird of freedom either took sorcerers along or left them behind.

Don Juan commented that that was not surprising. The force of the nagual's personality was always so overwhelming that he was practically irresistible, and the nagual Elias had affected those two people deeply. He had had three months of daily interaction to accustom them to his consistency, his detachment, and his objectivity. They had become enchanted by his sobriety and, above all, by his total dedication to them. Through his example and his actions, the nagual Elias had given them a sustained view of the sorcerers' world: supportive and nurturing, yet utterly demanding. It was a world that admitted very few mistakes.

Don Juan reminded me then of something he had repeated to me often but which I had always managed not to think about. He said that I should not forget, even for an instant, that the bird of freedom had very little patience with indecision, and when it flew away, it never returned.

The chilling resonance of his voice made the surroundings, which only a second before had been peacefully dark, burst with immediacy. Don Juan summoned the peaceful darkness back as fast as he had summoned urgency. He punched me lightly on the arm.

"That woman was so powerful that she could dance circles around anyone," he said. "Her name was Talia."






The Power Of Silence: Part 2 - The Knock Of The Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2 - The Knock Of The Spirit.

  • The Abstract.
  • The Last Seduction Of The Nagual Julian.





The Power Of Silence: Part 2: Chapter 03 - The Abstract.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 2: Chapter 03 - The Abstract.

We returned to don Juan's house in the early hours of the morning. It took us a long time to climb down the mountain, mainly because I was afraid of stumbling into a precipice in the dark, and don Juan had to keep stopping to catch the breath he lost laughing at me.

I was dead tired, but I could not fall asleep. Before noon, it began to rain. The sound of the heavy downpour on the tile roof, instead of making me feel drowsy, removed every trace of sleepiness.

I got up and went to look for don Juan. I found him dozing in a chair. The moment I approached him he was wide-awake. I said good morning.

"You seem to be having no trouble falling asleep," I commented.

"When you have been afraid or upset, don't lie down to sleep," he said without looking at me. "Sleep sitting up on a soft chair as I'm doing."

He had suggested once that if I wanted to give my body healing rest, I should take long naps lying on my stomach with my face turned to the left and my feet over the foot of the bed. In order to avoid being cold, he recommended I put a soft pillow over my shoulders, away from my neck, and wear heavy socks, or just leave my shoes on.

When I first heard his suggestion, I thought he was being funny, but I later changed my mind. Sleeping in that position helped me rest extraordinarily well. When I commented on the surprising results, he advised that I follow his suggestions to the letter without bothering to believe or disbelieve him.

I suggested to don Juan that he might have told me the night before about the sleeping in a sitting position. I explained to him that the cause of my sleeplessness, besides my extreme fatigue, was a strange concern about what he had told me in the sorcerer's cave.

"Cut it out!" he exclaimed. "You've seen and heard infinitely more distressing things without losing a moment's sleep. Something else is bothering you."

For a moment I thought he meant I was not being truthful with him about my real preoccupation. I began to explain, but he kept talking as if I had not spoken.

"You stated categorically last night that the cave didn't make you feel ill at ease," he said. "Well, it obviously did. Last night I didn't pursue the subject of the cave any further because I was waiting to observe your reaction."

Don Juan explained that the cave had been designed by sorcerers in ancient times to serve as a catalyst. Its shape had been carefully constructed to accommodate two people as two fields of energy. The theory of the sorcerers was that the nature of the rock and the manner in which it had been carved allowed the two bodies, the two luminous balls, to intertwine their energy.

"I took you to that cave on purpose," he continued, "not because I like the place- I don't- but because it was created as an instrument to push the apprentice deep into heightened awareness. But unfortunately, as it helps, it also obscures issues. The ancient sorcerers were not given to thought. They leaned toward action."

"You always say that your benefactor was like that," I said.

"That's my own exaggeration," he answered, "very much like when I say you're a fool. My benefactor was a modern nagual, involved in the pursuit of freedom, but he leaned toward action instead of thoughts. You're a modern nagual, involved in the same quest, but you lean heavily toward the aberrations of reason."

He must have thought his comparison was very funny; his laughter echoed in the empty room.

When I brought the conversation back to the subject of the cave, he pretended not to hear me. I knew he was pretending because of the glint in his eyes and the way he smiled.

"Last night, I deliberately told you the first abstract core," he said, "in the hope that by reflecting on the way I have acted with you over the years you'll get an idea about the other cores. You've been with me for a long time so you know me very well. During every minute of our association I have tried to adjust my actions and thoughts to the patterns of the abstract cores.

"The nagual Elias's story is another matter. Although it seems to be a story about people, it is really a story about intent. Intent creates edifice before us and invites us to enter them. This is the way sorcerers understand what is happening around them."

Don Juan reminded me that I had always insisted on trying to discover the underlying order in everything he said to me. I thought he was criticizing me for my attempt to turn whatever he was teaching me into a social science problem. I began to tell him that my outlook had changed under his influence. He stopped me and smiled.

"You really don't think too well," he said and sighed. "I want you to understand the underlying order of what I teach you. My objection is to what you think is the underlying order. To you, it means secret procedures or a hidden consistency. To me, it means two things: both the edifice that intent manufactures in the blink of an eye and places in front of us to enter, and the signs it gives us so we won't get lost once we are inside.

"As you can see, the story of the nagual Elias was more than merely an account of the sequential details that made up the event," he went on. "Underneath all that was the edifice of intent. And the story was meant to give you an idea of what the naguals of the past were like, so that you would recognize how they acted in order to adjust their thoughts and actions to the edifices of intent"

There was a prolonged silence. I did not have anything to say. Rather than let the conversation die, I said the first thing that came into my mind. I said that from the stories I had heard about the nagual Elias I had formed a very positive opinion of him. I liked the nagual Elias, but for unknown reasons, everything don Juan had told me about the nagual Julian bothered me.

The mere mention of my discomfort delighted don Juan beyond measure. He had to stand up from his chair lest he choke on his laughter. He put his arm on my shoulder and said that we either loved or hated those who were reflections of ourselves.

Again a silly self-consciousness prevented me from asking him what he meant. Don Juan kept on laughing, obviously aware of my mood. He finally commented that the nagual Julian was like a child whose sobriety and moderation came always from without. He had no inner discipline beyond his training as an apprentice in sorcery.

I had an irrational urge to defend myself. I told don Juan that my discipline came from within me.

"Of course," he said patronizingly. "You just can't expect to be exactly like him." And began to laugh again.

Sometimes don Juan exasperated me so that I was ready to yell. But my mood did not last. It dissipated so rapidly that another concern began to loom. I asked don Juan if it was possible that I had entered into heightened awareness without being conscious of it? Or maybe I had remained in it for days?

"At this stage you enter into heightened awareness all by yourself," he said. "Heightened awareness is a mystery only for our reason. In practice, it's very simple. As with everything else, we complicate matters by trying to make the immensity that surrounds us reasonable."

He remarked that I should be thinking about the abstract core he had given me instead of arguing uselessly about my person.

I told him that I had been thinking about it all morning and had come to realize that the metaphorical theme of the story was the manifestations of the spirit. What I could not discern, however, was the abstract core he was talking about. It had to be something unstated.

"I repeat," he said, as if he were a schoolteacher drilling his students, "the manifestations of the spirit is the name for the first abstract core in the sorcery stories. Obviously, what sorcerers recognize as an abstract core is something that bypasses you at this moment. That part which escapes you sorcerers know as the edifice of intent, or the silent voice of the spirit, or the ulterior arrangement of the abstract."

I said I understood ulterior to mean something not overtly revealed, as in 'ulterior motive'. And he replied that in this case ulterior meant more; it meant knowledge without words, outside our immediate comprehension- especially mine. He allowed that the comprehension he was referring to was merely beyond my aptitudes of the moment; not beyond my ultimate possibilities for understanding.

"If the abstract cores are beyond my comprehension, what's the point of talking about them?" I asked.

"The rule says that the abstract cores and the sorcery stories must be told at this point," he replied. "And some day the ulterior arrangement of the abstract, which is knowledge without words or the edifice of intent inherent in the stories, will be revealed to you by the stories themselves."

I still did not understand.

"The ulterior arrangement of the abstract is not merely the order in which the abstract cores were presented to you," he explained, "or what they have in common either, nor even the web that joins them. Rather it's to know the abstract directly, without the intervention of language."

He scrutinized me in silence from head to toe with the obvious purpose of seeing me.

"It's not evident to you yet," he declared.

He made a gesture of impatience, even short temper, as though he were annoyed at my slowness. And that worried me. Don Juan was not given to expressions of psychological displeasure.

"It has nothing to do with you or your actions," he said when I asked if he was angry or disappointed with me. "It was a thought that crossed my mind the moment I saw you. There is a feature in your luminous being that the old sorcerers would have given anything to have."

"Tell me what it is," I demanded.

"I'll remind you of this some other time," he said.

"Meanwhile, let's continue with the element that propels us: the abstract; the element without which there could be no warrior's path, nor any warriors in search of knowledge."

He said that the difficulties I was experiencing were nothing new to him. He himself had gone through agonies in order to understand the ulterior order of the abstract. And had it not been for the helping hand of the nagual Elias, he would have wound up just like his benefactor, all action and very little understanding.

"What was the nagual Elias like?" I asked, to change the subject.

"He was not like his disciple at all," don Juan said. "He was an Indian. Very dark and massive. He had rough features, big mouth, strong nose, small black eyes, thick black hair with no gray in it. He was shorter than the nagual Julian and had big hands and feet. He was very humble and very wise, but he had no flare. Compared with my benefactor, he was dull. Always all by himself, pondering questions. The nagual Julian used to joke that his teacher imparted wisdom by the ton. Behind his back he used to call him the nagual Tonnage.

"I never saw the reason for his jokes," don Juan went on. "To me the nagual Elias was like a breath of fresh air. He would patiently explain everything to me. Very much as I explain things to you, but perhaps with a bit more of something. I wouldn't call it compassion, but rather, empathy. Warriors are incapable of feeling compassion because they no longer feel sorry for themselves. Without the driving force of self-pity, compassion is meaningless."

"Are you saying, don Juan, that a warrior is all for himself?"

"In a way, yes. For a warrior everything begins and ends with himself. However, his contact with the abstract causes him to overcome his feeling of self-importance. Then the self becomes abstract and impersonal.

"The nagual Elias felt that our lives and our personalities were quite similar," don Juan continued. "For this reason, he felt obliged to help me. I don't feel that similarity with you, so I suppose I regard you very much the way the nagual Julian used to regard me."

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias took him under his wing from the very first day he arrived at his benefactor's house to start his apprenticeship and began to explain what was taking place in his training, regardless of whether don Juan was capable of understanding. His urge to help don Juan was so intense that he practically held him prisoner. He protected him in this manner from the nagual Julian's harsh onslaughts.

"At the beginning, I used to stay at the nagual Elias's house all the time," don Juan continued. "And I loved it. In my benefactor's house I was always on the lookout; on guard; afraid of what he was going to do to me next. But in the Nagual Elias's home, I felt confident, at ease.

"My benefactor used to press me mercilessly. And I couldn't figure out why he was pressuring me so hard. I thought that the man was plain crazy."

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias was an Indian from the state of Oaxaca, who had been taught by another nagual named Rosendo, who came from the same area. Don Juan described the nagual Elias as being a very conservative man who cherished his privacy. And yet he was a famous healer and sorcerer, not only in Oaxaca, but in all of southern Mexico. Nonetheless, in spite of his occupation and notoriety, he lived in complete isolation at the opposite end of the country, in northern Mexico.

Don Juan stopped talking. Raising his eyebrows, he fixed me with a questioning look. But all I wanted was for him to continue his story.

"Every single time I think you should ask questions, you don't," he said. "I'm sure you heard me say that the nagual Elias was a famous sorcerer who dealt with people daily in southern Mexico, and at the same time he was a hermit in northern Mexico. Doesn't that arouse your curiosity?"

I felt abysmally stupid. I told him that the thought had crossed my mind, as he was telling me those facts, that the man must have had terrible difficulty commuting.

Don Juan laughed, and since he had made me aware of the question, I asked how it had been possible for the nagual Elias to be in two places at once.

"Dreaming is a sorcerer's jet plane," he said. "The nagual Elias was a dreamer as my benefactor was a stalker. He was able to create and project what sorcerers know as the dreaming body, or the Other; and to be in two distant places at the same time. With his dreaming body, he could carry on his business as a sorcerer, and with his natural self be a recluse."

I remarked that it amazed me that I could accept so easily the premise that the nagual Elias had the ability to project a solid three-dimensional image of himself, and yet could not for the life of me understand the explanations about the abstract cores.

Don Juan said that I could accept the idea of the nagual Elfas's dual life because the spirit was making final adjustments in my capacity for awareness. And I exploded into a barrage of protests at the obscurity of his statement.

"It isn't obscure," he said. "It's a statement of fact. You could say that it's an incomprehensible fact for the moment, but the moment will change."

Before I could reply, he began to talk again about the nagual Elias. He said that the nagual Elias had a very inquisitive mind and could work well with his hands. In his journeys as a dreamer, he saw many objects which he copied in wood and forged iron. Don Juan assured me that some of those models were of a haunting, exquisite beauty.

"What kind of objects were the originals?" I asked.

"There's no way of knowing," don Juan said. "You've got to consider that because he was an Indian, the nagual Elias went into his dreaming journeys the way a wild animal prowls for food. An animal never shows up at a site when there are signs of activity. He comes only when no one is around. The nagual Elias as a solitary dreamer visited, let's say, the junkyard of infinity when no one was around, and copied whatever he saw, but never knew what those things were used for, or their source."

Again I had no trouble accepting what he was saying. The idea did not appear to me farfetched in any way. I was about to comment when he interrupted me with a gesture of his eyebrows. He then continued his account about the nagual Elias.

"Visiting him was for me the ultimate treat," he said, "and simultaneously, a source of strange guilt. I used to get bored to death there. Not because the nagual Elfas was boring, but because the nagual Julian had no peers and he spoiled anyone for life."

"But I thought you were confident and at ease in the nagual Elias's house," I said.

"I was, and that was the source of my guilt and my imagined problem. Like you, I loved to torment myself. I think at the very beginning I found peace in the nagual Elias's company, but later on, when I understood the nagual Julian better, I went his way."

He told me that the nagual Elias's house had an open, roofed section in the front, where he had a forge and a carpentry bench and tools. The tiled-roof adobe house consisted of a huge room with a dirt floor where he lived with five women seers, who were actually his wives. There were also four men, sorcerer-seers of his party who lived in small houses around the nagual's house. They were all Indians from different parts of the country who had migrated to northern Mexico.

"The nagual Elias had great respect for sexual energy," don Juan said. "He believed it has been given to us so we can use it in dreaming. He believed dreaming had fallen into disuse because it can upset the precarious mental balance of susceptible people.

"I've taught you dreaming the same way he taught me," he continued. "He taught me that while we dream, the assemblage point moves very gently and naturally. Mental balance is nothing but the fixing of the assemblage point on one spot we're accustomed to. If dreams make that point move, and dreaming is used to control that natural movement, and sexual energy is needed for dreaming, the result is sometimes disastrous when sexual energy is dissipated in sex instead of dreaming. Then dreamers move their assemblage point erratically and lose their minds."

"What are you trying to tell me, don Juan?" I asked because I felt that the subject of dreaming had not been a natural drift in the conversation.

"You are a dreamer" he said. "If you're not careful with your sexual energy, you might as well get used to the idea of erratic shifts of your assemblage point. A moment ago you were bewildered by your reactions. Well, your assemblage point moves almost erratically because your sexual energy is not in balance."

I made a stupid and inappropriate comment about the sex life of adult males.

"Our sexual energy is what governs dreaming," he explained. "The nagual Elias taught me- and I taught you- that you either make love with your sexual energy or you dream with it. There is no other way. The reason I mention it at all is because you are having great difficulty shifting your assemblage point to grasp our last topic: the abstract.

"The same thing happened to me," don Juan went on. "It was only when my sexual energy was freed from the world that everything fit into place. That is the rule for dreamers. Stalkers are the opposite. My benefactor was, you could say, a sexual libertine both as an average man and as a nagual."

Don Juan seemed to be on the verge of revealing his benefactor's doings, but he obviously changed his mind. He shook his head and said that I was way too stiff for such revelations. I did not insist.

He said that the nagual Elias had the sobriety that only dreamers acquired after inconceivable battles with themselves. He used his sobriety to plunge himself into the task of answering don Juan's questions.

"The nagual Elias explained that my difficulty in understanding the spirit was the same as his own," don Juan continued. "He thought there were two different issues. One, the need to understand indirectly what the spirit is, and the other, to understand the spirit directly.

"You're having problems with the first. Once you understand what the spirit is, the second issue will be resolved automatically, and vice versa. If the spirit speaks to you, using its silent words, you will certainly know immediately what the spirit is."

He said that the nagual Elias believed that the difficulty was our reluctance to accept the idea that knowledge could exist without words to explain it.

"But I have no difficulty accepting that," I said.

"Accepting this proposition is not as easy as saying you accept it," don Juan said. "The nagual Elias used to tell me that the whole of humanity has moved away from the abstract, although at one time we must have been close to it. It must have been our sustaining force. And then something happened and pulled us away from the abstract. Now we can't get back to it. He used to say that it takes years for an apprentice to be able to go back to the abstract, that is, to know that knowledge and language can exist independent of each other."

Don Juan repeated that the crux of our difficulty in going back to the abstract was our refusal to accept that we could know without words, or even without thoughts.

I was going to argue that he was talking nonsense when I got the strong feeling I was missing something and that his point was of crucial importance to me. He was really trying to tell me something; something I either could not grasp or which could not be told completely.

"Knowledge and language are separate," he repeated softly.

And I was just about to say, "I know it," as if indeed I knew it, when I caught myself.

"I told you there is no way to talk about the spirit," he continued, "because the spirit can only be experienced. Sorcerers try to explain this condition when they say that the spirit is nothing you can see or feel. But it's there looming over us always. Sometimes it comes to some of us. Most of the time it seems indifferent."

I kept quiet. And he continued to explain. He said that the spirit in many ways was a sort of wild animal. It kept its distance from us until a moment when something enticed it forward. It was then that the spirit manifested itself.

I raised the point that if the spirit wasn't an entity, or a presence, and had no essence, how could anyone entice it?

"Your problem," he said, "is that you consider only your own idea of what's abstract. For instance, the inner essence of man, or the fundamental principle, are abstracts for you. Or perhaps something a bit less vague, such as: character, volition, courage, dignity, honor. The spirit, of course, can be described in terms of all of these. And that's what's so confusing- that it's all these and none of them."

He added that what I considered abstractions were either the opposites of all the practicalities I could think of, or things I had decided did not have concrete existence.

"Whereas for a sorcerer an abstract is something with no parallel in the human condition," he said.

"But they're the same thing," I shouted. "Don't you see that we're both talking about the same thing?"

"We are not," he insisted. "For a sorcerer, the spirit is an abstract simply because he knows it without words or even thoughts. It's an abstract because he can't conceive what the spirit is. Yet without the slightest chance or desire to understand it, a sorcerer handles the spirit. He recognizes it, beckons it, entices it, becomes familiar with it, and expresses it with his acts."

I shook my head in despair. I could not see the difference.

"The root of your misconception is that I have used the term 'abstract' to describe the spirit," he said. "For you, abstracts are words which describe states of intuition. An example is the word 'spirit' which doesn't describe reason or pragmatic experience, and which, of course, is of no use to you other than to tickle your fancy."

I was furious with don Juan. I called him obstinate and he laughed at me. He suggested that if I would think about the proposition that knowledge might be independent of language, without bothering to understand it, perhaps I could see the light.

"Consider this," he said. "It was not the act of meeting me that mattered to you. The day I met you, you met the abstract. But since you couldn't talk about it, you didn't notice it. Sorcerers meet the abstract without thinking about it or seeing it or touching it or feeling its presence."

I remained quiet because I did not enjoy arguing with him. At times I considered him to be quite willfully abstruse. But don Juan seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.






The Power Of Silence: Part 2: Chapter 04 - The Last Seduction of the Nagual Julian.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 04 - The Last Seduction of the Nagual Julian.

It was as cool and quiet in the patio of don Juan's house as in the cloister of a convent. There were a number of large fruit trees planted extremely close together, which seemed to regulate the temperature and absorb all noises. When I first came to his house, I had made critical remarks about the illogical way the fruit trees had been planted. I would have given them more space.

His answer was that those trees were not his property, they were free and independent warrior trees that had joined his party of warriors; and that my comments- which applied to regular trees- were not relevant. His reply sounded metaphorical to me. What I didn't know then was that don Juan meant everything he said literally.


Don Juan and I were sitting in cane armchairs facing the fruit trees now. The trees were all bearing fruit. I commented that it was not only a beautiful sight but an extremely intriguing one, for it was not the fruit season.

"There is an interesting story about it," he admitted. "As you know, these trees are warriors of my party. They are bearing now because all the members of my party have been talking and expressing feelings about our definitive journey, here in front of them. And the trees know now that when we embark on our definitive journey, they will accompany us."

I looked at him, astonished.

"I can't leave them behind," he explained. "They are warriors too. They have thrown their lot in with the nagual's party. And they know how I feel about them. The assemblage point of trees is located very low in their enormous luminous shell, and that permits them to know our feelings; for instance, the feelings we are having now as we discuss my definitive journey."

I remained quiet, for I did not want to dwell on the subject. Don Juan spoke and dispelled my mood.

"The second abstract core of the sorcery stories is called the Knock of the Spirit," he said. "The first core, the Manifestations of the Spirit, is the edifice that intent builds and places before a sorcerer, then invites him to enter. It is the edifice of intent seen by a sorcerer. The Knock of the Spirit is the same edifice seen by the beginner who is invited- or rather forced- to enter.

"This second abstract core could be a story in itself. The story says that after the spirit had manifested itself to that man we have talked about and had gotten no response, the spirit laid a trap for the man. It was a final subterfuge, not because the man was special, but because the incomprehensible chain of events of the spirit made that man available at the very moment that the spirit knocked on the door.

"It goes without saying that whatever the spirit revealed to that man made no sense to him. In fact, it went against everything the man knew; everything he was. The man of course- in no uncertain terms- refused on the spot to have anything to do with the spirit. He wasn't going to fall for such preposterous nonsense. He knew better. The result was a total stalemate.

"I can say that this is an idiotic story," he continued. "I can say that what I have given you is the pacifier for those who are uncomfortable with the silence of the abstract."

He peered at me for a moment and then smiled.

"You like words," he said accusingly. "The mere idea of silent knowledge scares you. But stories, no matter how stupid, delight you and make you feel secure."

His smile was so mischievous that I couldn't help laughing.

Then he reminded me that I had already heard his detailed account of the first time the spirit had knocked on his door. For a moment I could not figure out what he was talking about.

"It was not just my benefactor who stumbled upon me as I was dying from the gunshot," he explained. "The spirit also found me and knocked on my door that day. My benefactor understood that he was there to be a conduit for the spirit. Without the spirit's intervention, meeting my benefactor would have meant nothing."

He said that a nagual can be a conduit only after the spirit has manifested its willingness to be used- either almost imperceptibly or with outright commands. It was therefore not possible for a nagual to choose his apprentices according to his own volition, or his own calculations. But once the willingness of the spirit was revealed through omens, the nagual spared no effort to satisfy it.

"After a lifetime of practice," he continued, "sorcerers and naguals in particular know if the spirit is inviting them to enter the edifice being flaunted before them. They have learned to discipline their connecting links to intent. So they are always forewarned; always know what the spirit has in store for them."

Don Juan said that progress along the sorcerers' path was, in general, a drastic process the purpose of which was to bring this connecting link to order. The average man's connecting link with intent is practically dead, and sorcerers begin with a link that is useless because it does not respond voluntarily.

He stressed that in order to revive that link sorcerers needed a rigorous, fierce purpose- a special state of mind called unbending intent. Accepting that the nagual was the only being capable of supplying unbending intent was the most difficult part of the sorcerer's apprenticeship. I argued that I could not see the difficulty.

"An apprentice is someone who is striving to clear and revive his connecting link with the spirit," he explained. "Once the link is revived, he is no longer an apprentice; but until that time, in order to keep going he needs a fierce purpose, which of course he doesn't have. So he allows the nagual to provide the purpose, and to do that he has to relinquish his individuality. That's the difficult part."

He reminded me of something he had told me often: that volunteers were not welcome in the sorcerers' world because they already had a purpose of their own- which made it particularly hard for them to relinquish their individuality. If the sorcerers' world demanded ideas and actions contrary to the volunteers' purpose, the volunteers simply refused to change.

"Reviving an apprentice's link is a nagual's most challenging and intriguing work," don Juan continued, "and one of his biggest headaches too. Depending, of course, on the apprentice's personality, the designs of the spirit are either sublimely simple or the most complex labyrinth."

Don Juan assured me that, although I might have had notions to the contrary, my apprenticeship had not been as onerous to him as his must have been to his benefactor. He admitted that I had a modicum of self-discipline that came in very handy, while he had had none whatever. And his benefactor, in turn, had had even less.

"The difference is discernible in the manifestations of the spirit," he continued. "In some cases, they are barely noticeable. In my case, they were commands. I had been shot. Blood was pouring out of a hole in my chest. My benefactor had to act with speed and sureness, just as his own benefactor had for him. Sorcerers know that the more difficult the command is, the more difficult the disciple turns out to be."

Don Juan explained that one of the most advantageous aspects of his association with two naguals was that he could hear the same stories from two opposite points of view. For instance, the story about the nagual Elias and the manifestations of the spirit from the apprentice's perspective, was the story of the spirit's difficult knock on his benefactor's door.

"Everything connected with my benefactor was very difficult," he said and began to laugh. "When he was twenty-four years old, the spirit didn't just knock on his door, it nearly banged it down."

He said that the story had really begun years earlier when his benefactor had been a handsome adolescent from a good family in Mexico City. He was wealthy, educated, charming, and had a charismatic personality. Women fell in love with him at first sight. But he was already self-indulgent and undisciplined; lazy about anything that did not give him immediate gratification.

Don Juan said that with that personality and his type of upbringing- he was the only son of a wealthy widow who, together with his four adoring sisters, doted on him- he could only behave one way. He indulged in every impropriety he could think of. Even among his equally self-indulgent friends, he was seen as a moral delinquent who lived to do anything that the world considered morally wrong.

In the long run, his excesses weakened him physically and he fell mortally ill with tuberculosis-- the dreaded disease of the time. But his illness, instead of restraining him, created a physical condition in which he felt more sensual than ever. Since he did not have one iota of self-control, he gave himself over fully to debauchery, and his health deteriorated until there was no hope.

The saying that 'it never rains but it pours' was certainly true for don Juan's benefactor then. As his health declined, his mother, who was his only source of support and the only restraint on him, died. She left him a sizable inheritance which should have supported him adequately for life, but undisciplined as he was, in a few months he had spent every cent. With no profession or trade to fall back on, he was left to scrounge for a living.

Without money he no longer had friends; and even the women who once loved him turned their backs. For the first time in his life, he found himself confronting a harsh reality. Considering the state of his health, it should have been the end. But he was resilient. He decided to work for a living.

His sensual habits, however, could not be changed, and they forced him to seek work in the only place he felt comfortable: the theater. His qualifications were that he was a born ham, and had spent most of his adult life in the company of actresses. He joined a theatrical troupe in the provinces away from his familiar circle of friends and acquaintances, and became a very intense actor; the consumptive hero in religious and morality plays.

Don Juan commented on the strange irony that had always marked his benefactor's life. There he was, a perfect reprobate, dying as a result of his dissolute ways, and playing the roles of saints and mystics. He even played Jesus in the Passion Play during Holy Week.

His health lasted through one theatrical tour of the northern states. Then two things happened in the city of Durango: his life came to an end, and the spirit knocked on his door.

Both his death and the spirit's knock came at the same time- in broad daylight in the bushes. His death caught him in the act of seducing a young woman. He was already extremely weak, and that day he overexerted himself. The young woman, who was vivacious and strong and madly infatuated, had by promising to make love induced him to walk to a secluded spot miles from nowhere. And there she had fought him off for hours. When she finally submitted, he was completely worn out, and coughing so badly that he could hardly breathe.

During his last passionate outburst he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. His chest felt as if it were being ripped apart and a coughing spell made him retch uncontrollably. But his compulsion to seek pleasure kept him going until his death came in the form of a hemorrhage. It was then that the spirit made its entry, borne by an Indian who came to his aid. Earlier he had noticed the Indian following them around, but had not given him a second thought, absorbed as he was in the seduction.

He saw, as in a dream, the girl. She was not scared nor did she lose her composure. Quietly and efficiently she put her clothes back on, and took off as fast as a rabbit chased by hounds.

He also saw the Indian rushing to him trying to make him sit up. He heard him saying idiotic things. He heard him pledging himself to the spirit and mumbling incomprehensible words in a foreign language. Then the Indian acted very quickly. Standing behind him, he gave him a smacking blow on the back.

Very rationally, the dying man deduced that the Indian was trying either to dislodge the blood clot or to kill him.

As the Indian struck him repeatedly on the back, the dying man became convinced that the Indian was the woman's lover or husband and was murdering him. But seeing the intensely brilliant eyes of that Indian, he changed his mind. He knew that the Indian was simply crazy and was not connected with the woman.

With his last bit of consciousness, he focused his attention on the man's mumblings. What he was saying was that the power of man was incalculable; that death existed only because we had intended it since the moment of our birth; that the intent of death could be suspended by making the assemblage point change positions.

He then knew that the Indian was totally insane. His situation was so theatrical- dying at the hands of a crazy Indian mumbling gibberish- that he vowed he would be a ham actor to the bitter end, and he promised himself not to die of either the hemorrhaging or the blows, but to die of laughter. And he laughed until he was dead.

Don Juan remarked that naturally his benefactor could not possibly have taken the Indian seriously. No one could take such a person seriously, especially not a prospective apprentice who was not supposed to be volunteering for the sorcery task.

Don Juan then said that he had given me different versions of what that sorcery task consisted. He said it would not be presumptuous of him to disclose that, from the spirit's point of view, the task consisted of clearing our connecting link with it.

The edifice that intent flaunts before us is, then, a clearinghouse; within which we find not so much the procedures to clear our connecting link, as the silent knowledge that allows the clearing process to take place. Without that silent knowledge no process could work, and all we would have would be an indefinite sense of needing something.

He explained that the events unleashed by sorcerers as a result of silent knowledge were so simple and yet so abstract that sorcerers had decided long ago to speak of those events only in symbolic terms. The manifestations and the knock of the spirit were examples.

Don Juan said that, for instance, a description of what took place during the initial meeting between a nagual and a prospective apprentice from the sorcerers' point of view, would be absolutely incomprehensible.

It would be nonsense to explain that the nagual, by virtue of his lifelong experience, was focusing something we couldn't imagine, his second attention- the increased awareness gained through sorcery training- on his invisible connection with some indefinable abstract. He was doing this to emphasize and clarify someone else's invisible connection with that indefinable abstract.

He remarked that each of us was barred from silent knowledge by natural barriers, specific to each individual; and that the most impregnable of my barriers was the drive to disguise my complacency as independence.

I challenged him to give me a concrete example. I reminded him that he had once warned me that a favorite debating ploy was to raise general criticisms that could not be supported by concrete examples. Don Juan looked at me and beamed.

"In the past, I used to give you power plants," he said. "At first, you went to extremes to convince yourself that what you were experiencing were hallucinations. Then you wanted them to be special hallucinations. I remember I made fun of your insistence on calling them didactic hallucinatory experiences."

He said that my need to prove my illusory independence forced me into a position where I could not accept what he had told me was happening, although it was what I silently knew for myself. I knew he was employing power plants, as the very limited tools they were, to make me enter partial or temporary states of heightened awareness by moving my assemblage point away from its habitual location.

"You used your barrier of independence to get you over that obstruction," he went on. "The same barrier has continued to work to this day, so you still retain that sense of indefinite anguish, perhaps not so pronounced. Now the question is, how are you arranging your conclusions so that your current experiences fit into your scheme of complacency?"

I confessed that the only way I could maintain my independence was not to think about my experiences at all.

Don Juan's hearty laugh nearly made him fall out of his cane chair. He stood and walked around to catch his breath. He sat down again and composed himself. He pushed his chair back and crossed his legs.

He said that we, as average men, did not know, nor would we ever know, that it was something utterly real and functional- our connecting link with intent- which gave us our hereditary preoccupation with fate. He asserted that during our active lives we never have the chance to go beyond the level of mere preoccupation, because since time immemorial the lull of daily affairs has made us drowsy.

It is only when our lives are nearly over that our hereditary preoccupation with fate begins to take on a different character. It begins to make us see through the fog of daily affairs.

Unfortunately, this awakening always comes hand in hand with loss of energy caused by aging; when we have no more strength left to turn our preoccupation into a pragmatic and positive discovery. At this point, all there is left is an amorphous, piercing anguish, a longing for something indescribable, and simple anger at having missed out.

"I like poems for many reasons," he said. "One reason is that they catch the mood of warriors and explain what can hardly be explained."

He conceded that poets were keenly aware of our connecting link with the spirit, but that they were aware of it intuitively, not in the deliberate, pragmatic way of sorcerers.

"Poets have no firsthand knowledge of the spirit," he went on. "That is why their poems cannot really hit the center of true gestures for the spirit. They hit pretty close to it, though."

He picked up one of my poetry books from a chair next to him, a collection by Juan Ramon Jimenez. He opened it to where he had placed a marker, handed it to me and signaled me to read.


Is it I who walks tonight in my room

or is it the beggar who was prowling in my garden at nightfall?

I look around and find that everything is the same

and it is not the same

Was the window open?

Had I not already fallen asleep?

Was not the garden pale green?...

The sly was clear and blue...

And there are clouds and it is windy

and the garden is dark and gloomy.

I think that my hair was black...

I was dressed in grey...

And my hair is grey

and I am wearing black...

Is this my gait?

Does this voice, which now resounds in me,

have the rhythms of the voice I used to have?

Am I myself or am I the beggar

who was prowling in my garden at nightfall?

I look around...

There are clouds and it is windy...

The garden is dark and gloomy...

I come and go...

Is it not true that I had already fallen asleep?

My hair is grey...

And everything is the same and it is not the same...


I reread the poem to myself and I caught the poet's mood of impotence and bewilderment. I asked don Juan if he felt the same.

"I think the poet senses the pressure of aging and the anxiety that that realization produces," don Juan said. "But that is only one part of it. The other part, which interests me, is that the poet, although he never moves his assemblage point, intuits that something extraordinary is at stake. He intuits with great certainty that there is some unnamed factor, awesome because of its simplicity, that is determining our fate."






The Power Of Silence: Part 3 - The Trickery of the Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3 - The Trickery of the Spirit.

  • Dusting The Link With The Spirit.
  • The Four Moods Of Stalking.





The Power Of Silence: Part 3: Chapter 05 - Dusting the Link with the Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3: Chapter 05 - Dusting the Link with the Spirit.

The sun had not yet risen from behind the eastern peaks, but the day was already hot. As we reached the first steep slope a couple of miles along the road from the outskirts of town, don Juan stopped walking and moved to the side of the paved highway. He sat down by some huge boulders that had been dynamited from the face of the mountain when they cut the road; and signaled me to join him. We usually stopped there to talk or rest on our way to the nearby mountains. Don Juan announced that this trip was going to be long, and that we might be in the mountains for days.

"We are going to talk now about the third abstract core," don Juan said. "It is called the trickery of the spirit, or the trickery of the abstract, or stalking oneself, or dusting the link."

I was surprised at the variety of names, but said nothing. I waited for him to continue his explanation.

"And again, as with the first and second core," he went on, "it could be a story in itself. The story says that after knocking on the door of that man we've been talking about, and having no success with him, the spirit used the only means available: trickery. After all, the spirit had resolved previous impasses with trickery. It was obvious that if it wanted to make an impact on this man it had to cajole him. So the spirit began to instruct the man on the mysteries of sorcery. And the sorcery apprenticeship became what it is: a route of artifice and subterfuge.

"The story says that the spirit cajoled the man by making him shift back and forth between levels of awareness to show him how to save the energy needed to strengthen his connecting link."

Don Juan told me that if we apply his story to a modern setting, we had the case of the nagual- the living conduit of the spirit- repeating the structure of this abstract core and resorting to artifice and subterfuge in order to teach.

Suddenly he stood and started to walk toward the mountain range. I followed him and we started our climb, side by side.

In the very late afternoon, we reached the top of the high mountains. Even at that altitude, it was still very warm. All day we had followed a nearly invisible trail. Finally we reached a small clearing; an ancient lookout post commanding the north and west.

We sat there and don Juan returned our conversation to the sorcery stories. He said that now I knew the story of intent manifesting itself to the nagual Elias and the story of the spirit knocking on the nagual Julian's door. And I knew how he had met the spirit, and I certainly could not forget how I had met it. All these stories, he declared, had the same structure; only the characters differed. Each story was an abstract tragic comedy with one abstract player, intent, and two human actors, the nagual and his apprentice. The script was the abstract core.

I thought I had finally understood what he meant, but I could not quite explain even to myself what it was I understood, nor could I explain it to don Juan. When I tried to put my thoughts into words I found myself babbling.

Don Juan seemed to recognize my state of mind. He suggested that I relax and listen. He told me his next story was about the process of bringing an apprentice into the realm of the spirit; a process sorcerers called the trickery of the spirit, or dusting the connecting link to intent.

"I've already told you the story of how the nagual Julian took me to his house after I was shot and tended my wound until I recovered," don Juan continued. "But I didn't tell you how he dusted my link; how he taught me to stalk myself.

"The first thing a nagual does with his prospective apprentice is to trick him. That is, he gives him a jolt on his connecting link to the spirit. There are two ways of doing this. One is through semi-normal channels, which I used with you, and the other is by means of outright sorcery, which my benefactor used on me."

Don Juan again told me the story of how his benefactor had convinced the people who had gathered at the road that the wounded man was his son. Then he had paid some men to carry don Juan, unconscious from shock and loss of blood, to his own house. Don Juan woke there, days later, and found a kind old man and his fat wife tending his wound.

The old man said his name was Belisario, and that his wife was a famous healer, and that both of them were healing his wound. Don Juan told them he had no money, and Belisario suggested that when he recovered, payment of some sort could be arranged.

Don Juan said that he was thoroughly confused, which was nothing new to him. He was just a muscular, reckless twenty-year-old Indian, with no brains, no formal education, and a terrible temper. He had no conception of gratitude. He thought it was very kind of the old man and his wife to have helped him, but his intention was to wait for his wound to heal, and then simply vanish in the middle of the night.

When he had recovered enough and was ready to flee, old Belisario took him into a room and in trembling whispers disclosed that the house where they were staying belonged to a monstrous man who was holding his wife and him prisoner. He asked don Juan to help them to regain their freedom; to escape from their captor and tormentor.

Before don Juan could reply, a monstrous fish-faced man right out of a horror tale burst into the room as if he had been listening behind the door. He was greenish-gray, had only one unblinking eye in the middle of his forehead, and was as big as a door. He lurched at don Juan, hissing like a serpent ready to tear him apart, and frightened him so greatly that he fainted.

"His way of giving me a jolt on my connecting link with the spirit was masterful." Don Juan laughed. "My benefactor, of course, had shifted me into heightened awareness prior to the monster's entrance, so that what I actually saw as a monstrous man was what sorcerers call an inorganic being; a formless energy field."

Don Juan said that he knew countless cases in which his benefactor's devilishness created hilariously embarrassing situations for all his apprentices, especially for don Juan himself, whose seriousness and stiffness made him the perfect subject for his benefactor's didactic jokes. He added as an afterthought that it went without saying that these jokes entertained his benefactor immensely.

"If you think I laugh at you-- which I do-- it is nothing compared with how he laughed at me," don Juan continued. "My devilish benefactor had learned to weep to hide his laughter. You just can not imagine how he used to cry when I first began my apprenticeship."

Continuing with his story, don Juan stated that his life was never the same after the shock of seeing that monstrous man. His benefactor made sure of it. Don Juan explained that once a nagual has introduced his prospective disciple, especially his nagual disciple, to trickery he must struggle to assure his compliance. This compliance could be of two different kinds.

Either the prospective disciple is so disciplined and tuned that only his decision to join the nagual is needed, as had been the case with young Talia; or the prospective disciple is someone with little or no discipline, in which case a nagual has to expend time and a great deal of labor to convince his disciple.

In don Juan's case, because he was a wild young peasant without a thought in his head, the process of reeling him in took bizarre turns.

Soon after the first jolt, his benefactor gave him a second one by showing don Juan his ability to transform himself. One day his benefactor became a young man. Don Juan was incapable of conceiving of this transformation as anything but an example of a consummate actor's art.

"How did he accomplish those changes?" I asked.

"He was both a magician and an artist," don Juan replied. "His magic was that he transformed himself by moving his assemblage point into the position that would bring on whatever particular change he desired. And his art was the perfection of his transformations."

"I don't quite understand what you're telling me," I said.

Don Juan said that perception is the hinge for everything man is or does, and that perception is ruled by the location of the assemblage point. Therefore, if that point changes positions, man's perception of the world changes accordingly. The sorcerer who knew exactly where to place his assemblage point could become anything he wanted.

"The nagual Julian's proficiency in moving his assemblage point was so magnificent that he could elicit the subtlest transformations," don Juan continued. "When a sorcerer becomes a crow, for instance, it is definitely a great accomplishment. But it entails a vast and therefore a gross shift of the assemblage point. However, moving it to the position of a fat man, or an old man, requires the minutest shift and the keenest knowledge of human nature."

"I'd rather avoid thinking or talking about those things as facts," I said.

Don Juan laughed as if I had said the funniest thing imaginable.

"Was there a reason for your benefactor's transformations?" I asked. "Or was he just amusing himself?"

"Don't be stupid. Warriors don't do anything just to amuse themselves," he replied. "His transformations were strategical. They were dictated by need; like his transformation from old to young. Now and then there were funny consequences, but that's another matter."

I reminded him that I had asked before how his benefactor learned those transformations. He had told me then that his benefactor had a teacher, but would not tell me who.

"That very mysterious sorcerer who is our ward taught him," don Juan replied curtly.

"What mysterious sorcerer is that?" I asked.

"The death defier," he said and looked at me questioningly.

For all the sorcerers of don Juan's party, the death defier was a most vivid character. According to them, the death defier was a sorcerer of ancient times. He had succeeded in surviving to the present day by manipulating his assemblage point; making it move in specific ways to specific locations within his total energy field. Such maneuvers had permitted his awareness and life force to persist.

Don Juan had told me about the agreement that the seers of his lineage had entered into with the death defier centuries before. He made gifts to them in exchange for vital energy. Because of this agreement, they considered him their ward and called him 'the tenant'.

Don Juan had explained that sorcerers of ancient times were experts at making the assemblage point move. In doing so they had discovered extraordinary things about perception, but they had also discovered how easy it was to get lost in aberration. The death defier's situation was for don Juan a classic example of an aberration.

Don Juan used to repeat every chance he could that if the assemblage point was pushed by someone who not only saw it but also had enough energy to move it, it slid within the luminous ball to whatever location the pusher directed. Its brilliance was enough to light up the threadlike energy fields it touched. The resulting perception of the world was as complete as, but not the same as, our normal perception of everyday life. Therefore, sobriety was crucial to dealing with the moving of the assemblage point.

Continuing his story, don Juan said that he quickly became accustomed to thinking of the old man who had saved his life as really a young man masquerading as old. But one day the young man was again the old Belisario don Juan had first met. He and the woman don Juan thought was his wife packed their bags, and two smiling men with a team of mules appeared out of nowhere.

Don Juan laughed, savoring his story. He said that while the muleteers packed the mules, Belisario pulled him aside and pointed out that he and his wife were again disguised.

He was again an old man, and his beautiful wife was a fat irascible Indian.

"I was so young and stupid that only the obvious had value for me," don Juan continued. "Just a couple of days before, I had seen his incredible transformation from a feeble man in his seventies to a vigorous young man in his mid-twenties, and I took his word that old age was just a disguise. His wife had also changed from a sour, fat Indian to a beautiful slender young woman. The woman, of course, hadn't transformed herself the way my benefactor had. He had simply changed the woman. Of course, I could have seen everything at that time, but wisdom always comes to us painfully and in driblets."

Don Juan said that the old man assured him that his wound was healed although he did not feel quite well yet. He then embraced don Juan and in a truly sad voice whispered, "the monster has liked you so much that he has released me and my wife from bondage and taken you as his sole servant."

"I would have laughed at him," don Juan went on, "had it not been for a deep animal growling and a frightening rattle that came from the monster's rooms."

Don Juan's eyes were shining with inner delight. I wanted to remain serious, but could not help laughing.

Belisario, aware of don Juan's fright, apologized profusely for the twist of fate that had liberated him and imprisoned don Juan. He clicked his tongue in disgust and cursed the monster. He had tears in his eyes when he listed all the chores the monster wanted done daily. And when don Juan protested, he confided, in low tones, that there was no way to escape, because the monster's knowledge of witchcraft was unequaled.

Don Juan asked Belisario to recommend some line of action. And Belisario went into a long explanation about plans of action being appropriate only if one were dealing with average human beings. In the human context, we can plan and plot; and depending on luck plus our cunning and dedication, we can succeed. But in the face of the unknown, specifically don Juan's situation, the only hope of survival was to acquiesce and understand.

Belisario confessed to don Juan in a barely audible murmur that to make sure the monster never came after him, he was going to the state of Durango to learn sorcery. He asked don Juan if he too would consider learning sorcery. And don Juan, horrified at the thought, said that he would have nothing to do with witches.


Don Juan held his sides laughing and admitted that he enjoyed thinking about how his benefactor must have relished their interplay; especially when don Juan, in a frenzy of fear and passion, rejected the bona fide invitation to learn sorcery, saying, "I am an Indian. I was born to hate and fear witches."

Belisario exchanged looks with his wife and his body began to convulse. Don Juan realized he was weeping silently, obviously hurt by the rejection. His wife had to prop him up until he regained his composure.

As Belisario and his wife were walking away, he turned and gave don Juan one more piece of advice. He said that the monster abhorred women, and don Juan should be on the lookout for a male replacement on the off chance that the monster would like him enough to switch slaves. But he should not raise his hopes, because it was going to be years before he could even leave the house. The monster liked to make sure his slaves were loyal or at least obedient.

Don Juan could stand it no longer. He broke down, began to weep, and told Belisario that no one was going to enslave him. He could always kill himself. The old man was very moved by don Juan's outburst and confessed that he had had the same idea, but, alas, the monster was able to read his thoughts and had prevented him from taking his own life every time he had tried.

Belisario made another offer to take don Juan with him to Durango to learn sorcery. He said it was the only possible solution. And don Juan told him his solution was like jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

Belisario began to weep loudly and embraced don Juan. Belisario cursed the moment he had saved the don Juan's life and swore that he had no idea they would trade places. He blew his nose, and looking at don Juan with burning eyes, said, "Disguise is the only way to survive. If you don't behave properly, the monster can steal your soul and turn you into an idiot who does his chores, and nothing more. Too bad I don't have time to teach you acting." Then he wept even more.

Don Juan, choking with tears asked him to describe how he could disguise himself. Belisario confided that the monster had terrible eyesight, and recommended that don Juan experiment with various clothes that suited his fancy. He had, after all, years ahead of him to try different disguises. He embraced don Juan at the door, weeping openly. His wife touched don Juan's hand shyly. And then they were gone.

"Never in my life, before or after, have I felt such terror and despair," don Juan said. "The monster rattled things inside the house as if he were waiting impatiently for me. I sat down by the door and whined like a dog in pain. Then I vomited from sheer fear."

Don Juan sat for hours incapable of moving. He dared not leave, nor did he dare go inside. It was no exaggeration to say that he was actually about to die when he saw Belisario waving his arms, frantically trying to catch his attention from the other side of the street. Just seeing him again gave don Juan instantaneous relief. Belisario was squatting by the sidewalk watching the house. He signaled don Juan to stay put.

After an excruciatingly long time, Belisario crawled a few feet on his hands and knees toward don Juan, then squatted again, totally immobile. Crawling in that fashion, he advanced until he was at don Juan's side. It took him hours. A lot of people had passed by, but no one seemed to have noticed don Juan's despair or the old man's actions. When the two of them were side by side, Belisario whispered that he had not felt right leaving don Juan like a dog tied to a post. His wife had objected, but he had returned to attempt to rescue him. After all, it was thanks to don Juan that he had gained his freedom.

He asked don Juan in a commanding whisper whether he was ready and willing to do anything to escape this. And don Juan assured him that he would do anything. In the most surreptitious manner, Belisario handed don Juan a bundle of clothes. Then he outlined his plan.

Don Juan was to go to the area of the house farthest from the monster's rooms and slowly change his clothes, taking off one item of clothing at a time, starting with his hat, leaving the shoes for last. Then he was to put all his clothes on a wooden frame, a mannequin-like structure he was to build, efficiently and quickly, as soon as he was inside the house. The next step of the plan was for don Juan to put on the only disguise that could fool the monster: the clothes in the bundle.

Don Juan ran into the house and got everything ready. He built a scarecrow-like frame with poles he found in the back of the house, took off his clothes and put them on it. But when he opened the bundle he got the surprise of his life. The bundle consisted of women's clothes!

"I felt stupid and lost," don Juan said, "and was just about to put my own clothes back on when I heard the inhuman growls of that monstrous man. I had been reared to despise women; to believe their only function was to take care of men. Putting on women's clothes to me was tantamount to becoming a woman. But my fear of the monster was so intense that I closed my eyes and put on the damned clothes."

I looked at don Juan; imagining him in women's clothes. It was an image so utterly ridiculous that against my will I broke into a belly laugh.

Don Juan said that when old Belisario, waiting for him across the street, saw don Juan in disguise, he began to weep uncontrollably. Weeping, he guided don Juan to the outskirts of town where his wife was waiting with the two muleteers. One of them very daringly asked Belisario if he was stealing the weird girl to sell her to a whorehouse. The old man wept so hard he seemed on the verge of fainting. The young muleteers did not know what to do, but Belisario's wife, instead of commiserating, began to scream with laughter. And don Juan could not understand why.

The party began to move in the dark. They took little-traveled trails and moved steadily north. Belisario did not speak much. He seemed to be frightened and expecting trouble. His wife fought with him all the time and complained that they had thrown away their chance for freedom by taking don Juan along. Belisario gave her strict orders not to mention it again for fear the muleteers would discover that don Juan was in disguise.

Belisario cautioned don Juan that because he did not know how to behave convincingly like a woman, he should act as if he were a girl who was a little touched in the head.

Within a few days don Juan's fear subsided a great deal. In fact, he became so confident that he could not even remember having been afraid. If it had not been for the clothes he was wearing, he could have imagined the whole experience had been a bad dream.

Wearing women's clothes under those conditions entailed, of course, a series of drastic changes. Belisario's wife coached don Juan with true seriousness in every aspect of being a woman. Don Juan helped her cook, wash clothes, and gather firewood.

Belisario shaved don Juan's head and put a strong-smelling medicine on it, and told the muleteers that the girl had had an infestation of lice. Don Juan said that since he was still a beardless youth it was not really difficult to pass as a woman. But he felt disgusted with himself, and with all those people, and above all, with his fate. To end up wearing women's clothes and doing women's chores was more than he could bear.

One day he had enough. The muleteers were the final straw. They expected and demanded that this strange girl wait on them hand and foot. Don Juan said that he also had to be on permanent guard because they would make passes.

I felt compelled to ask a question.

"Were the muleteers in cahoots with your benefactor? I asked.

"No," he replied and began to laugh uproariously. "They were just two nice people who had fallen temporarily under his spell. He had hired their mules to carry medicinal plants and told them that he would pay handsomely if they would help him kidnap a young woman."

The scope of the nagual Julian's actions staggered my imagination. I pictured don Juan fending off sexual advances and hollered with laughter.

Don Juan continued his account. He said that he told the old man sternly that the masquerade had lasted long enough, the men were making sexual advances. Belisario nonchalantly advised him to be more understanding because men will be men; and then he began to weep again, completely baffling don Juan, who found himself furiously defending women.

He was so passionate about the plight of women that he scared himself. He told Belisario that he was going to end up in worse shape than he would have had he stayed as the monster's slave.

Don Juan's turmoil increased when the old man wept uncontrollably and mumbled inanities: life was sweet, the little price one had to pay for it was a joke, the monster would devour don Juan's soul, and not even allow him to kill himself.

"Flirt with the muleteers," he advised don Juan in a conciliatory tone and manner. "They are primitive peasants. All they want is to play, so push them back when they shove you. Let them touch your leg. What do you care?" And again, he wept unrestrainedly.

Don Juan asked him why he wept like that.

"Because you are perfect for all this," he said and his body twisted with the force of his sobbing.

Don Juan thanked him for his good feelings and for all the trouble he was taking on his account. He told Belisario he now felt safe and wanted to leave.

Belisario, paying no attention to what don Juan was telling him, said, "The art of stalking is learning all the quirks of your disguise, and the art is to learn them so well no one will know you are disguised. For that you need to be ruthless, cunning, patient, and sweet."

Don Juan had no idea what Belisario was talking about. Rather than finding out, he asked him for some men's clothes. Belisario was very understanding. He gave don Juan some old clothes and a few pesos. He promised don Juan that his disguise would always be there in case he needed it, and pressed him vehemently to come to Durango with him to learn sorcery and free himself from the monster for good. Don Juan said no and thanked him. So Belisario bid him goodbye and patted him on the back repeatedly and with considerable force.

Don Juan changed his clothes and asked Belisario for directions. He answered that if don Juan followed the trail north, sooner or later he would reach the next town. He said that the two of them might even cross paths again since they were all going in the same general direction- away from the monster.

Don Juan took off as fast as he could, free at last. He must have walked four or five miles before he found signs of people. He knew that a town was nearby and thought that perhaps he could get work there until he decided where he was going.

He sat down to rest for a moment, anticipating the normal difficulties a stranger would find in a small out of the way town, when from the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the bushes by the mule trail. He felt someone was watching him. He became so thoroughly terrified that he jumped up and started to run in the direction of the town: The monster jumped at him lurching out to grab his neck. He missed by an inch. Don Juan screamed as he had never screamed before, but still had enough self-control to turn and run back in the direction from which he had come.

While don Juan ran for his life, the monster pursued him, crashing through the bushes only a few feet away. Don Juan said that it was the most frightening sound he had ever heard. Finally he saw the mules moving slowly in the distance, and he yelled for help.

Belisario recognized don Juan and ran toward him displaying overt terror. He threw the bundle of women's clothes at don Juan shouting, "Run like a woman, you fool."

Don Juan admitted that he did not know how he had the presence of mind to run like a woman, but he did it. The monster stopped chasing him. And Belisario told him to change quickly while he held the monster at bay.

Don Juan joined Belisario's wife and the smiling muleteers without looking at anybody. They doubled back and took other trails. Nobody spoke for days.

Then Belisario gave him daily lessons. He told don Juan that Indian women were practical and went directly to the heart of things, but that they were also very shy. When challenged, they showed the physical signs of fright in shifty eyes, tight mouths, and enlarged nostrils. All these signs were accompanied by a fearful stubbornness, followed by shy laughter.

Belisario made don Juan practice his womanly behavior skills in every town they passed through. Don Juan honestly believed he was teaching him to be an actor. But his benefactor insisted that he was teaching him the art of stalking. He told don Juan that stalking was an art applicable to everything, and that there were four steps to learning it: ruthlessness, cunning, patience, and sweetness.

I felt compelled to interrupt his account once more.

"But isn't stalking taught in deep, heightened awareness?" I asked.

"Of course," he replied with a grin. "But you have to understand that for some men wearing women's clothes is the door into heightened awareness. In fact, such means are more effective than pushing the assemblage point, but are very difficult to arrange."

Don Juan said that his benefactor drilled him daily in the four moods of stalking and insisted that don Juan understand that ruthlessness should not be harshness, cunning should not be cruelty, patience should not be negligence, and sweetness should not be foolishness.

Belisario taught him that these four steps had to be practiced and perfected until they were so smooth they were unnoticeable. His benefactor believed women to be natural stalkers, and his conviction was so strong that he maintained that only in a woman's disguise could any man really learn the art of stalking.

"I went with him to every market in every town we passed and haggled with everyone," don Juan went on. "My benefactor used to stay to one side watching me. 'Be ruthless but charming,' he used to say. 'Be cunning but nice. Be patient but active. Be sweet but lethal. Only women can do it. If a man acts this way he's being prissy.' "

And as if to make sure don Juan stayed in line, the monstrous man appeared from time to time. Don Juan caught sight of him, roaming the countryside. He would see him most often after Belisario gave him a vigorous back massage, supposedly to alleviate a sharp nervous pain in his neck. Don Juan laughed and said that he had no idea he was being manipulated into heightened awareness.

"It took us one month to reach the city of Durango," don Juan said. "In that month, I had a brief sample of the four moods of stalking. It really didn't change me much, but it gave me a chance to have an inkling of what being a woman was like."






The Power Of Silence: Part 3: Chapter 06 - The Four Moods of Stalking.

Version 2009.04.22


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 3: Chapter 06 - The Four Moods of Stalking.

Don Juan said that I should sit there at that ancient lookout post and use the pull of the earth to move my assemblage point and recall other states of heightened awareness in which he had taught me stalking.

"In the past few days, I have mentioned many times the four moods of stalking," he went on. "I have mentioned ruthlessness, cunning, patience, and sweetness with the hope that you might remember what I taught you about them. It would be wonderful if you could use these four moods as the ushers to bring you into a total recollection."

He kept quiet for what seemed an inordinately long moment. Then he made a statement which should not have surprised me, but did. He said he had taught me the four moods of stalking in northern Mexico with the help of Vicerite Medrano and Silvio Manuel. He did not elaborate but let his statement sink in. I tried to remember but finally gave up and wanted to shout that I could not remember something that never happened.

As I was struggling to voice my protest, anxious thoughts began to cross my mind. I knew don Juan had not said what he had just to annoy me. As I always did when asked to remember heightened awareness, I became obsessively conscious that there was really no continuity to the events I had experienced under his guidance. Those events were not strung together as the events in my daily life were, in a linear sequence. It was perfectly possible he was right. In don Juan's world, I had no business being certain of anything.

I tried to voice my doubts but he refused to listen and urged me to recollect. By then it was quite dark. It had gotten windy, but I did not feel the cold. Don Juan had given me a flat rock to place on my sternum. My awareness was keenly tuned to everything around.

I felt an abrupt pull, which was neither external nor internal, but rather the sensation of a sustained tugging at an unidentifiable part of myself. Suddenly I began to remember with shattering clarity a meeting I had had years before. I remembered events and people so vividly that it frightened me. I felt a chill.

I told all this to don Juan, who did not seem impressed or concerned. He urged me not to give in to mental or physical fear. My recollection was so phenomenal that it was as if I were reliving the experience. Don Juan kept quiet. He did not even look at me. I felt numbed. The sensation of numbness passed slowly.

I repeated the same things I always said to don Juan when I remembered an event with no linear existence.

"How can this be, don Juan? How could I have forgotten all this?"

And he reaffirmed the same things he always did.

"This type of remembering or forgetting has nothing to do with normal memory," he assured me. "It has to do with the movement of the assemblage point."

He affirmed that although I possessed total knowledge of what intent is, I did not command that knowledge yet. Knowing what intent is means that one can, at any time, explain that knowledge or use it. A nagual by the force of his position is obliged to command his knowledge in this manner.

"What did you recollect?" he asked me.

"The first time you told me about the four moods of stalking," I said.

Some process, inexplicable in terms of my usual awareness of the world, had released a memory which a minute before had not existed; and I recollected an entire sequence of events that had happened many years before.


Just as I was leaving don Juan's house in Sonora, he had asked me to meet him the following week around noon across the U.S. border in Nogales, Arizona, in the Greyhound bus depot.

I arrived about an hour early. He was standing by the door. I greeted him. He did not answer but hurriedly pulled me aside and whispered that I should take my hands out of my pockets. I was dumbfounded. He did not give me time to respond. He said that my fly was open, and it was shamefully evident that I was sexually aroused.

The speed with which I rushed to cover myself was phenomenal. By the time I realized it was a crude joke we were on the street. Don Juan was laughing, slapping me on the back repeatedly and forcefully as if he were just celebrating the joke. Suddenly I found myself in a state of heightened awareness.

We walked into a coffee shop and sat down. My mind was so clear I wanted to look at everything; see the essence of things.

"Don't waste energy!" don Juan commanded in a stern voice. "I brought you here to discover if you can eat when your assemblage point has moved. Don't try to do more than that."

But then a man sat down at the table in front of me, and all my attention became trapped by him.

"Move your eyes in circles," don Juan commanded. "Don't look at that man."

I found it impossible to stop watching the man. I felt irritated by don Juan's demands.

"What do you see?" I heard don Juan ask.

I was seeing a luminous cocoon made of transparent wings which were folded over the cocoon itself. The wings unfolded, fluttered for an instant, peeled off, fell, and were replaced by new wings, which repeated the same process.

Don Juan boldly turned my chair until I was facing the wall.

"What a waste," he said in a loud sigh, after I described what I had seen. "You have exhausted nearly all your energy. Restrain yourself. A warrior needs focus. Who gives a damn about wings on a luminous cocoon?"

He said that heightened awareness was like a springboard. From it one could jump into infinity. He stressed, over and over, that when the assemblage point was dislodged, it either became lodged again at a position very near its customary one or continued moving on into infinity.

"People have no idea of the strange power we carry within ourselves," he went on. "At this moment, for instance, you have the means to reach infinity. If you continue with your needless behavior, you may succeed in pushing your assemblage point beyond a certain threshold, from which there is no return."

I understood the peril he was talking about, or rather I had the bodily sensation that I was standing on the brink of an abyss, and that if I leaned forward I would fall into it.

"Your assemblage point has moved to heightened awareness," he continued, "because I have lent you my energy."

We ate in silence- very simple food. Don Juan did not allow me to drink coffee or tea.

"While you are using my energy," he said, "you're not in your own time. You are in mine. I drink water."

As we were walking back to my car, I felt a bit nauseous. I staggered and almost lost my balance. It was a sensation similar to that of walking while wearing glasses for the first time.

"Get hold of yourself," don Juan said, smiling. "Where we're going you'll need to be extremely precise."

He told me to drive across the international border into the twin city of Nogales, Mexico. While I was driving, he gave me directions: which street to take, when to make right or left hand turns, how fast to go.

"I know this area," I said quite peeved. "Tell me where you want to go and I'll take you there. Like a taxi driver."

"O.K.," he said. "Take me to 1573 Heavenward Avenue."

I did not know Heavenward Avenue, or if such a street really existed. In fact, I had the suspicion he had just concocted a name to embarrass me. I kept silent. There was a mocking glint in his shiny eyes.

"Egomania is a real tyrant," he said. "We must work ceaselessly to dethrone it."

He continued to tell me how to drive. Finally he asked me to stop in front of a one story, light beige house on a corner lot, in a well-to-do neighborhood.

There was something about the house that immediately caught my eye: A thick layer of ocher gravel all around it. The solid street door, the window sashes, and the house trim were all painted ocher like the gravel. All the visible windows had closed Venetian blinds. To all appearances it was a typical suburban middle-class dwelling.

We got out of the car. Don Juan led the way. He did not knock or open the door with a key: When we got to it, the door opened silently on oiled hinges- all by itself, as far as I could detect.

Don Juan quickly entered. He did not invite me in. I just followed him. I was curious to see who had opened the door from the inside, but there was no one there.

The interior of the house was very soothing. There were no pictures on the smooth, scrupulously clean walls. There were no lamps or book shelves either. A golden yellow tile floor contrasted most pleasingly with the off-white color of the walls.

We were in a small and narrow hall that opened into a spacious living room with a high ceiling and a brick fireplace. Half the room was completely empty, but next to the fireplace was a semicircle of expensive furniture: two large beige couches in the middle, flanked by two armchairs covered in fabric of the same color. There was a heavy, round, solid oak coffee table in the center.

Judging from what I was seeing around the house, the people who lived there appeared to be well off, but frugal. And they obviously liked to sit around the fire.

Two men, perhaps in their mid-fifties, sat in the armchairs. They stood when we entered. One of them was Indian, the other Latin American. Don Juan introduced me first to the Indian, who was nearer to me.

"This is Silvio Manuel," don Juan said to me. "He's the most powerful and dangerous sorcerer of my party, and the most mysterious too."

Silvio Manuel's features were out of a Mayan fresco. His complexion was pale, almost yellow. I thought he looked Chinese. His eyes were slanted, but without the epicanthic fold. They were big, black, and brilliant. He was beardless. His hair was jet-black with specks of gray in it. He had high cheekbones and full lips. He was perhaps five feet seven, thin, wiry, and he wore a yellow sport shirt, brown slacks, and a thin beige jacket. Judging from his clothes and general mannerisms, he seemed to be Mexican-American.

I smiled and extended my hand to Silvio Manuel, but he did not take it. He nodded perfunctorily.

"And this is Vicente Medrano," don Juan said, turning to the other man. "He's the most knowledgeable and the oldest of my companions. He is oldest not in terms of age, but because he was my benefactor's first disciple."

Vicente nodded just as perfunctorily as Silvio Manuel had, and also did not say a word.

He was a bit taller than Silvio Manuel, but just as lean. He had a pinkish complexion and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His features were almost delicate: a thin, beautifully chiseled nose, a small mouth, thin lips. Bushy, dark eyebrows contrasted with his graying beard and hair. His eyes were brown and also brilliant and laughed in spite of his frowning expression. He was conservatively dressed in a greenish seersucker suit and open-collared sport shirt. He too seemed to be Mexican-American. I guessed him to be the owner of the house.

In contrast, don Juan looked like an Indian peon. His straw hat, his worn-out shoes, his old khaki pants and plaid shirt were those of a gardener or a handyman.

The impression I had, upon seeing all three of them together, was that don Juan was in disguise. The military image came to me that don Juan was the commanding officer of a clandestine operation; an officer who, no matter how hard he tried, could not hide his years of command.

I also had the feeling that they must all have been around the same age, although don Juan looked much older than the other two, yet seemed infinitely stronger.

"I think you already know that Carlos is by far the biggest indulger I have ever met," don Juan told them with a most serious expression. "Bigger even than our benefactor. I assure you that if there is someone who takes indulging seriously, this is the man."

I laughed, but no one else did. The two men observed me with a strange glint in their eyes.

"For sure you'll make a memorable trio," don Juan continued. "The oldest and most knowledgeable, the most dangerous and powerful, and the most self-indulgent."

They still did not laugh. They scrutinized me until I became self-conscious. Then Vicente broke the silence.

"I don't know why you brought him inside the house," he said in a dry, cutting tone. "He's of little use to us. Put him out in the backyard."

"And tie him," Silvio Manuel added.

Don Juan turned to me. "Come on," he said in a soft voice and pointed with a quick sideways movement of his head to the back of the house.

It was more than obvious that the two men did not like me. I did not know what to say. I was definitely angry and hurt, but those feelings were somehow deflected by my state of heightened awareness.

We walked into the backyard. Don Juan casually picked up a leather rope and twirled it around my neck with tremendous speed. His movements were so fast and so nimble that an instant later, before I could realize what was happening, I was tied at the neck, like a dog, to one of the two cinder-block columns supporting the heavy roof over the back porch.

Don Juan shook his head from side to side in a gesture of resignation or disbelief and went back into the house as I began to yell at him to untie me. The rope was so tight around my neck it prevented me from screaming as loud as I would have liked.

I could not believe what was taking place. Containing my anger, I tried to undo the knot at my neck. It was so compact that the leather strands seemed glued together. I hurt my nails trying to pull them apart.

I had an attack of uncontrollable wrath and growled like an impotent animal. Then I grabbed the rope, twisted it around my forearms, and bracing my feet against the cinder-block column, pulled. But the leather was too tough for the strength of my muscles.

I felt humiliated and scared. Fear brought me a moment of sobriety. I knew I had let don Juan's false aura of reasonableness deceive me. I assessed my situation as objectively as I could and saw no way to escape except by cutting the leather rope. I frantically began to rub it against the sharp corner of the cinder-block column. I thought that if I could rip the rope before any of the men came to the back, I had a chance to run to my car and take off, never to return.

I puffed and sweated and rubbed the rope until I had nearly worn it through. Then I braced one foot against the column, wrapped the rope around my forearms again, and pulled it desperately until it snapped, throwing me back into the house.

As I crashed backward through the open door, don Juan, Vicente, and Silvio Manuel were standing in the middle of the room, applauding.

"What a dramatic reentry," Vicente said, helping me up. "You fooled me. I didn't think you were capable of such explosions."

Don Juan came to me and snapped the knot open, freeing my neck from the piece of rope around it.

I was shaking with fear, exertion, and anger. In a faltering voice, I asked don Juan why he was tormenting me like this. The three of them laughed and at that moment seemed the farthest thing from threatening.

"We wanted to test you and find out what sort of a man you really are," don Juan said.

He led me to one of the couches and politely offered me a seat. Vicente and Silvio Manuel sat in the armchairs, don Juan sat facing me on the other couch.

I laughed nervously but was no longer apprehensive about my situation, nor about don Juan and his friends. All three regarded me with frank curiosity. Vicente could not stop smiling, although he seemed to be trying desperately to appear serious. Silvio Manuel shook his head rhythmically as he stared at me. His eyes were unfocused but fixed on me.

"We tied you down," don Juan went on, tethered horse. "because we wanted to know whether you are sweet or patient or ruthless or cunning. We found out you are none of those things. Rather you're a king-sized indulger, just as I had said.

"If you hadn't indulged in being violent, you would certainly have noticed that the formidable knot in the rope around your neck was a fake. It snaps. Vicente designed that knot to fool his friends."

"You tore the rope violently. You're certainly not sweet," Silvio Manuel said.

They were all quiet for a moment, then began to laugh.

"You're neither ruthless nor cunning," don Juan went on. "If you were, you would easily have snapped open both knots and run away with a valuable leather rope. You're not patient either. If you were, you would have whined and cried until you realized that there was a pair of clippers by the wall with which you could have cut the rope in two seconds and saved yourself all the agony and exertion.

"You can't be taught, then, to be violent or obtuse. You already are that. But you can learn to be ruthless, cunning, patient, and sweet."

Don Juan explained to me that ruthlessness, cunning, patience, and sweetness were the essence of stalking. They were the basics that with all their ramifications had to be taught in careful, meticulous steps.

He was definitely addressing me, but he talked looking at Vicente and Silvio Manuel, who listened with utmost attention and shook their heads in agreement from time to time.

He stressed repeatedly that teaching stalking was one of the most difficult things sorcerers did. He insisted that no matter what they themselves did to teach me stalking- and no matter what I believed to the contrary- it was impeccability which dictated their acts.

"Rest assured we know what we're doing. Our benefactor, the nagual Julian, saw to it," don Juan said, and all three of them broke into such uproarious laughter that I felt quite uncomfortable. I did not know what to think.

Don Juan reiterated that a very important point to consider was that, to an onlooker, the behavior of sorcerers might appear malicious, when in reality their behavior was always impeccable.

"How can you tell the difference, if you're at the receiving end?" I asked.

"Malicious acts are performed by people for personal gain," he said. "Sorcerers, though, have an ulterior purpose for their acts which has nothing to do with personal gain. The fact that they enjoy their acts does not count as gain. Rather, it is a condition of their character. The average man acts only if there is the chance for profit. Warriors say they act not for profit but for the spirit."

I thought about it. Acting without considering gain was truly an alien concept. I had been reared to invest and to hope for some kind of reward for everything I did.

Don Juan must have taken my silence and thoughtfulness as skepticism. He laughed and looked at his two companions.

"Take the four of us as an example," he went on. "You, yourself, believe that you're investing in this situation and eventually you are going to profit from it. If you get angry with us, or if we disappoint you, you may resort to malicious acts to get even with us. We, on the contrary, have no thought of personal gain. Our acts are dictated by impeccability. We can't be angry or disillusioned with you."

Don Juan smiled and told me that from the moment we had met at the bus depot that very day, everything he had done to me, although it might not have seemed so, was dictated by impeccability. He explained that he needed to get me into an unguarded position to help me enter heightened awareness. It was to that end that he had told me my fly was open.

"It was a way of jolting you," he said with a grin. "We are crude Indians, so all our jolts are somehow primitive. The more sophisticated the warrior, the greater his finesse and elaboration of his jolts. But I have to admit we got a big kick out of our crudeness, especially when we tied you at the neck like a dog."

The three of them grinned and then laughed quietly as if there was someone else inside the house whom they did not want to disturb.

In a very low voice don Juan said that because I was in a state of heightened awareness, I could understand more readily what he was going to tell me about the two masteries of stalking and intent.

He called them the crowning glory of sorcerers old and new; the very thing sorcerers were concerned with today, just as sorcerers had been thousands of years before. He asserted that stalking was the beginning, and that before anything could be attempted on the warrior's path, warriors must learn to stalk; next they must learn to intend; and only then could they move their assemblage point at will.

I knew exactly what he was talking about. I knew, without knowing how, what moving the assemblage point could accomplish. But I did not have the words to explain what I knew. I tried repeatedly to voice my knowledge to them. They laughed at my failures and coaxed me to try again.

"How would you like it if I articulate it for you?" don Juan asked. "I might be able to find the very words you want to use but can't."

From his look, I decided he was seriously asking my permission. I found the situation so incongruous that I began to laugh.

Don Juan, displaying great patience, asked me again, and I got another attack of laughter. Their look of surprise and concern told me my reaction was incomprehensible to them. Don Juan got up and announced that I was too tired and it was time for me to return to the world of ordinary affairs.

"Wait, wait," I pleaded. "I am all right. I just find it funny that you should be asking me to give you permission."

"I have to ask your permission," don Juan said, "because you're the only one who can allow the words pent up inside you to be tapped. I think I made the mistake of assuming you understand more than you do. Words are tremendously powerful and important, and are the magical property of whoever has them.

"Sorcerers have a rule of thumb: They say that the deeper the assemblage point moves, the greater the feeling that one has knowledge and no words to explain it. Sometimes the assemblage point of average persons can move without a known cause and without their being aware of it, except that they become tongue-tied, confused, and evasive."

Vicente interrupted and suggested I stay with them a while longer. Don Juan agreed and turned to face me.

"The very first principle of stalking is that a warrior stalks himself," he said. "He stalks himself ruthlessly, cunningly, patiently, and sweetly."

I wanted to laugh, but he did not give me time. Very succinctly he defined stalking as the art of using behavior in novel ways for specific purposes. He said that normal human behavior in the world of everyday life was routine. Any behavior that broke from routine caused an unusual effect on our total being. That unusual effect was what sorcerers sought, because it was cumulative.

He explained that the sorcerer seers of ancient times, through their seeing, had first noticed that unusual behavior produced a tremor in the assemblage point. They soon discovered that if unusual behavior was practiced systematically and directed wisely, it eventually forced the assemblage point to move.

"The real challenge for those sorcerer seers," don Juan went on, "was finding a system of behavior that was neither petty nor capricious, but that combined the morality and the sense of beauty which differentiates sorcerer seers from plain witches."

He stopped talking, and they all looked at me as if searching for signs of fatigue in my eyes or face.

"Anyone who succeeds in moving his assemblage point to a new position is a sorcerer," don Juan continued. "And from that new position, he can do all kinds of good and bad things to his fellow men. Being a sorcerer, therefore, can be like being a cobbler or a baker. The quest of sorcerer seers is to go beyond that stand. And to do that, they need morality and beauty."

He said that for sorcerers stalking was the foundation on which everything else they did was built.

"Some sorcerers object to the term stalking," he went on, "but the name came about because it entails surreptitious behavior.

"It is also called the art of stealth, but that term is equally unfortunate. We ourselves, because of our nonmilitant temperament, call it the art of controlled folly. You can call it anything you wish. We, however, will continue with the term stalking since it is so easy to say stalker and, as my benefactor used to say, so awkward to say controlled folly maker."

At the mention of their benefactor, they laughed like children.

I understood him perfectly. I had no questions or doubts. If anything, I had the feeling that I needed to hold onto every word don Juan was saying to anchor myself. Otherwise my thoughts would have run ahead of him.

I noticed that my eyes were fixed on the movement of his lips as my ears were fixed on the sound of his words. But once I realized this, I could no longer follow him. My concentration was broken. Don Juan continued talking, but I was not listening.

I was wondering about the inconceivable possibility of living permanently in heightened awareness. I asked myself what would the survival value be? Would one be able to assess situations better? Be quicker than the average man, or perhaps more intelligent?

Don Juan suddenly stopped talking and asked me what I was thinking about.

"Ah, you're so very practical," he commented after I had told him my reveries. "I thought that in heightened awareness your temperament was going to be more artistic, more mystical."

Don Juan turned to Vicente and asked him to answer my question. Vicente cleared his throat and dried his hands by rubbing them against his thighs. He gave the clear impression of suffering from stage fright. I felt sorry for him. My thoughts began to spin.

And when I heard him stammering, an image burst into my mind- the image I had always had of my father's timidity; his fear of people. But before I had time to surrender myself to that image, Vicente's eyes flared with some strange inner luminosity. He made a comically serious face at me and then spoke with authority and in professorial manner.

"To answer your question," he said, "there is no survival value in heightened awareness; otherwise the whole human race would be there. They are safe from that, though, because it's so hard to get into it. There is always, however, the remote possibility that an average man might enter into such a state. If he does, he ordinarily succeeds in confusing himself, sometimes irreparably."

The three of them exploded with laughter.

"Sorcerers say that heightened awareness is the portal of intent" don Juan said. "And they use it as such. Think about it."

I was staring at each of them in turn. My mouth was open, and I felt that if I kept it open I would be able to understand the riddle eventually. I closed my eyes and the answer came to me. I felt it. I did not think it. But I could not put it into words, no matter how hard I tried.

"There, there," don Juan said, "you've gotten another sorcerer's answer all by yourself, but you still don't have enough energy to flatten it and turn it into words."

The sensation I was experiencing was more than just that of being unable to voice my thoughts. It was like reliving something I had forgotten ages ago: not to know what I felt because I had not yet learned to speak, and therefore lacked the resources to translate my feelings into thoughts.

"Thinking and saying exactly what you want to say requires untold amounts of energy," don Juan said and broke into my feelings.

The force of my reverie had been so intense it had made me forget what had started it. I stared dumbfounded at don Juan and confessed I had no idea what they or I had said or done just a moment before. I remembered the incident of the leather rope and what don Juan had told me immediately afterward, but I could not recall the feeling that had flooded me just moments ago.

"You're going the wrong way," don Juan said. "You're trying to remember thoughts the way you normally do, but this is a different situation. A second ago you had an overwhelming feeling that you knew something very specific.

Such feelings cannot be recollected by using memory. You have to recall them by intending them back."

He turned to Silvio Manuel, who had stretched out in the armchair, his legs under the coffee table. Silvio Manuel looked fixedly at me. His eyes were black, like two pieces of shiny obsidian. Without moving a muscle, he let out a piercing birdlike scream.

"Intent!!" he yelled. "Intent!! Intent!!"

With each scream his voice became more and more inhuman and piercing. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I felt goose bumps on my skin. My mind, however, instead of focusing on the fright I was experiencing, went directly to recollecting the feeling I had had. But before I could savor it completely, the feeling expanded and burst into something else.

And then I understood not only why heightened awareness was the portal of intent, but I also understood what intent was. And, above all, I understood that that knowledge could not be turned into words. That knowledge was there for everyone. It was there to be felt, to be used, but not to be explained. One could come into it by changing levels of awareness. Therefore, heightened awareness was an entrance, but even the entrance could not be explained. One could only make use of it.

There was still another piece of knowledge that came to me that day without any coaching: that the natural knowledge of intent was available to anyone, but the command of it belonged to those who probed it.

I was terribly tired by this time, and doubtlessly as a result of that, my Catholic upbringing came to bear heavily on my reactions. For a moment I believed that intent was God.

I said as much to don Juan, Vicente and Silvio Manuel. They laughed. Vicente, still in his professorial tone, said that it could not possibly be God, because intent was a force that could not be described, much less represented.

"Don't be presumptuous," don Juan said to me sternly. "Don't try to speculate on the basis of your first and only trial. Wait until you command your knowledge. Then decide what is what."


Remembering the four moods of stalking exhausted me. The most dramatic result was a more than ordinary indifference. I would not have cared if I had dropped dead, nor if don Juan had. I did not care whether we stayed at that ancient lookout post overnight or started back in the pitch-dark.

Don Juan was very understanding. He guided me by the hand, as if I were blind, to a massive rock, and helped me sit with my back to it. He recommended that I let natural sleep return me to a normal state of awareness.






The Power Of Silence: Part 4 - The Decent of the Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4 - The Decent of the Spirit.

  • Seeing The Spirit.
  • The Somersault Of Thought.
  • Moving The Assemblage Point.
  • The Place Of No Pity.





The Power Of Silence: Part 4: Chapter 07 - Seeing The Spirit.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4: Chapter 07 - Seeing The Spirit.

Right after a late lunch while we were still at the table, don Juan announced that the two of us were going to spend the night in the sorcerers' cave and that we had to be on our way. He said that it was imperative that I sit there again in total darkness, to allow the rock formation and the sorcerers' intent to move my assemblage point.

I started to get up from my chair, but he stopped me. He said that there was something he wanted to explain to me first. He stretched out, putting his feet on the seat of a chair, then leaned back into a relaxed, comfortable position.

"As I see you in greater detail," don Juan said, "I notice more and more how similar you and my benefactor are."

I felt so threatened that I did not let him continue. I told him that I could not imagine what those similarities were, but if there were any- a possibility I did not consider reassuring- I would appreciate it if he told me about them; to give me a chance to correct or avoid them.

Don Juan laughed until tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"One of the similarities is that when you act, you act very well," he said, "but when you think, you always trip yourself up. My benefactor was like that. He didn't think too well."

I was just about to defend myself, to say there was nothing wrong with my thinking, when I caught a glint of mischievousness in his eyes. I stopped cold. Don Juan noticed my shift and laughed with a note of surprise. He must have been anticipating the opposite.

"What I mean, for instance, is that you only have problems understanding the spirit when you think about it," he went on with a chiding smile. "But when you act, the spirit easily reveals itself to you. My benefactor was that way.

"Before we leave for the cave, I am going to tell you a story about my benefactor and the fourth abstract core.

"Sorcerers believe that until the very moment of the spirit's descent, any of us could walk away from the spirit; but not afterwards."

Don Juan deliberately stopped to urge me with a movement of his eyebrows, to consider what he was telling me.

"The fourth abstract core is the full brunt of the spirit's descent," he went on. "The fourth abstract core is an act of revelation. The spirit reveals itself to us. Sorcerers describe it as the spirit lying in ambush and then descending on us; its prey. Sorcerers say that the spirit's descent is always shrouded. It happens and yet it seems not to have happened at all."

I became very nervous. Don Juan's tone of voice was giving me the feeling that he was preparing to spring something on me at any moment.

He asked me if I remembered the moment the spirit descended on me; sealing my permanent allegiance to the abstract.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

"There is a threshold that once crossed permits no retreat," he said. "Ordinarily, from the moment the spirit knocks, it is years before an apprentice reaches that threshold. Sometimes, though, the threshold is reached almost immediately. My benefactor's case is an example."

Don Juan said every sorcerer should have a clear memory of crossing that threshold so he could remind himself of the new state of his perceptual potential. He explained that one did not have to be an apprentice of sorcery to reach this threshold, and that the only difference between an average man and a sorcerer, in such cases, is what each emphasizes. A sorcerer emphasizes crossing this threshold and uses the memory of it as a point of reference. An average man does not cross the threshold and does his best to forget all about it.

I told him that I did not agree with his point, because I could not accept that there was only one threshold to cross.

Don Juan looked heavenward in dismay and shook his head in a joking gesture of despair. I proceeded with my argument, not to disagree with him, but to clarify things in my mind. Yet I quickly lost my impetus. Suddenly I had the feeling I was sliding through a tunnel.

"Sorcerers say that the fourth abstract core happens when the spirit cuts our chains of self-reflection," he said. "Cutting our chains is marvelous, but also very undesirable, for nobody wants to be free."

The sensation of sliding through a tunnel persisted for a moment longer, and then everything became clear to me. And I began to laugh. Strange insights pent up inside me were exploding into laughter.

Don Juan seemed to be reading my mind as if it were a book.

"What a strange feeling: to realize that everything we think, everything we say depends on the position of the assemblage point," he remarked.

And that was exactly what I had been thinking and laughing about.

"I know that at this moment your assemblage point has shifted," he went on, "and you have understood the secret of our chains. They imprison us. But by keeping us pinned down on our comfortable spot of self-reflection, they defend us from the onslaughts of the unknown."

I was having one of those extraordinary moments in which everything about the sorcerers' world was crystal clear. I understood everything.

"Once our chains are cut," don Juan continued, "we are no longer bound by the concerns of the daily world. We are still in the daily world, but we don't belong there anymore. In order to belong we must share the concerns of people, and without chains we can't."

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias had explained to him that what distinguishes us as normal people is that we share a metaphorical dagger: the concerns of our self-reflection. With this dagger, we cut ourselves and bleed; and the job of our chains of self-reflection is to give us the feeling that we are bleeding together; that we are sharing something wonderful: our humanity. But if we were to examine it, we would discover that we are bleeding alone; that we are not sharing anything; that all we are doing is toying with our manageable, unreal, man-made reflection.

"Sorcerers are no longer in the world of daily affairs," don Juan went on, "because they are no longer prey to their self-reflection."

Don Juan then began his story about his benefactor and the descent of the spirit. He said that the story started right after the spirit had knocked on the young actor's door.

I interrupted don Juan and asked him why he consistently used the terms "young man" or "young actor" to refer to the nagual Julian.

"At the time of this story, he wasn't the nagual," don Juan replied. "He was a young actor. In my story, I can't just call him Julian, because to me he was always the nagual Julian. As a sign of deference for his lifetime of impeccabitity, we always prefix 'nagual' to a nagual's name."

Don Juan proceeded with his story. He said that the nagual Elias had stopped the young actor's death by making him shift into heightened awareness, and following hours of struggle, the young actor regained consciousness. The nagual Elias did not mention his name, but he introduced himself as a professional healer who had stumbled onto the scene of a tragedy where two persons had nearly died.

The nagual Elias pointed to the young woman, Talia, stretched out on the ground. The young man was astonished to see her lying unconscious next to him. He remembered seeing her as she ran away. It startled him to hear the old healer explain that doubtlessly God had punished Talia for her sins by striking her with lightning and making her lose her mind.

"But how could there be lightning if it's not even raining?" the young actor asked in a barely audible voice. He was visibly affected when the old Indian replied that God's ways couldn't be questioned.

Again I interrupted don Juan. I was curious to know if the young woman really had lost her mind. He reminded me that the nagual Elias delivered a shattering blow to her assemblage point. He said that she had not lost her mind, but that as a result of the blow she slipped in and out of heightened awareness, creating a serious threat to her health. After a gigantic struggle, however, the nagual Elias helped her to stabilize her assemblage point and she entered permanently into heightened awareness.

Don Juan commented that women are capable of such a master stroke: They can permanently maintain a new position of their assemblage point; and Talia was peerless. As soon as her chains were broken, she immediately understood everything and complied with the nagual's designs.

Don Juan, recounting his story, said that the nagual Elias- who was not only a superb dreamer, but also a superb stalker- had seen that the young actor was spoiled and conceited, but only seemed to be hard and calloused. The nagual knew that if he brought forth the idea of God, sin, and retribution, the actor's religious beliefs would make his cynical attitude collapse.

Upon hearing about God's punishment, the actor's facade began to crumble. He started to express remorse, but the nagual cut him short and forcefully stressed that when death was so near, feelings of guilt no longer mattered.

The young actor listened attentively, but although he felt very ill, he did not believe that he was in danger of dying. He thought that his weakness and fainting had been brought on by his loss of blood.

As if he had read the young actor's mind, the nagual explained to him that those optimistic thoughts were out of place; that his hemorrhaging would have been fatal had it not been for the plug that he, as a healer, had created.

"When I struck your back, I put in a plug to stop the draining of your life force," the nagual said to the skeptical young actor. "Without that restraint, the unavoidable process of your death would continue. If you don't believe me, I'll prove it to you by removing the plug with another blow."

As he spoke, the nagual Elias tapped the young actor on his right side by his ribcage. In a moment the young man was retching and choking. Blood poured out of his mouth as he coughed uncontrollably. Another tap on his back stopped the agonizing pain and retching; but it did not stop the young man's fear, and he passed out.

"I can control your death for the time being," the nagual said when the young actor regained consciousness. "How long I can control it depends on you; on how faithfully you acquiesce to everything I tell you to do."

The nagual Elias said that the first requirements on the young man were total immobility and silence. If he did not want his plug to come out, the nagual added, he had to behave as if he had lost his powers of motion and speech. A single twitch or a single utterance would be enough to restart his dying.

The young actor was not accustomed to complying with suggestions or demands. He felt a surge of anger. As he started to voice his protest, the burning pain and convulsions started up again.

"Stay with it, and I will cure you," the nagual said. "Act like the weak, rotten imbecile you are, and you will die."

The actor, a proud young man, was numbed by the insult. Nobody had ever called him a weak, rotten imbecile. He wanted to express his fury, but his pain was so severe that he could not react to the indignity.

"If you want me to ease your pain, you must obey me blindly," the nagual said with frightening coldness. "Signal me with a nod. But know now that the moment you change your mind and act like the shameful moron you are, I'll immediately pull the plug and leave you to die."

With his last bit of strength the actor nodded his assent. The nagual tapped him on his back and his pain vanished. But along with the searing pain, something else vanished: the fog in his mind. And then the young actor knew everything without understanding anything. The nagual introduced himself again. He told him that his name was Elias, and that he was the nagual. And the actor knew what it all meant.

The nagual Elias then shifted his attention to the semiconscious Talia. He put his mouth to her left ear and whispered commands to her in order to make her assemblage point stop its erratic shifting. He soothed her fear by telling her, in whispers, stories of sorcerers who had gone through the same thing she was experiencing. When she was fairly calm, he introduced himself as the nagual Elias, a sorcerer; and then he attempted with her the most difficult thing in sorcery: moving the assemblage point beyond the sphere of the world we know.

Don Juan remarked that seasoned sorcerers are capable of moving beyond the world we know, but that inexperienced persons are not. The nagual Elias always maintained that ordinarily he would not have dreamed of attempting such a feat, but on that day something other than his knowledge or his volition was making him act. Yet the maneuver worked. Talia moved beyond the world we know and came safely back.

Then the nagual Elias had another insight. The actor was naked; covered only by the nagual Elfas's riding coat. As the nagual Elias sat between the two people stretched out on the ground, he reviewed their situation to them.

He told them they had both, by the force of circumstances, fallen into a trap set by the spirit itself. He, the nagual, was the active part of that trap because by encountering them under the conditions he had, he had been forced to become their temporary protector; and to engage his knowledge of sorcery in order to help them.

As their temporary protector it was his duty to warn them that they were about to reach a unique threshold; and that it was up to them, both individually and together, to attain that threshold by entering a mood of abandon but not recklessness; a mood of caring but not indulgence. He did not want to say more for fear of confusing them or influencing their decision. He felt that if they were to cross that threshold, it had to be with minimal help from him.

The nagual then left them alone in that isolated spot and went to the city to arrange for medicinal herbs, mats, and blankets to be brought to them. His idea was that in solitude they would attain and cross that threshold.


For a long time the two young people lay next to each other, immersed in their own thoughts. The fact that their assemblage points had shifted meant that they could think in greater depth than ordinarily, but it also meant that they worried, pondered, and were afraid in equally greater depth.

Since Talia could talk and was a bit stronger. She broke their silence: She asked the young actor if he was afraid. He nodded affirmatively. She felt a great compassion for him and took off a shawl she was wearing to put over his shoulders, and she held his hand.

The young man did not dare voice what he felt. His fear that his pain would recur if he spoke was too great and too vivid. He wanted to apologize to her; to tell her that his only regret was having hurt her, and that it did not matter that he was going to die- for he knew with certainty that he was not going to survive the day.

Talia's thoughts were on the same subject. She said that she too had only one regret: that she had fought him hard enough to bring on his death. She was very peaceful now, a feeling which, agitated as she always was and driven by her great strength, was unfamiliar to her. She told him that her death was very near, too, and that she was glad it all would end that day.

The young actor, hearing his own thoughts being spoken by Talia, felt a chill. A surge of energy came to him then and made him sit up. He was not in pain, nor was he coughing. He took in great gulps of air, something he had no memory of having done before. He took the girl's hand and they began to talk without vocalizing.

Don Juan said it was at that instant that the spirit came to them. And they 'saw'. They were deeply Catholic, and what they saw was a vision of heaven where everything was alive; bathed in light. They saw a world of miraculous sights.

When the nagual returned, they were exhausted, although not injured. Talia was unconscious, but the young man had managed to remain aware by a supreme effort of self-control. He insisted on whispering something in the nagual's ear.

"We saw heaven," he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"You saw more than that," the nagual Elfas retorted. "You saw the spirit."

Don Juan said that since the spirit's descent is always shrouded, naturally, Talia and the young actor could not hold onto their vision. They soon forgot it, as anyone would. The uniqueness of their experience was that, without any training and without being aware of it, they had dreamed together and had seen the spirit. For them to have achieved this with such ease was quite out of the ordinary.

"Those two were really the most remarkable beings I have ever met," don Juan added.

I, naturally, wanted to know more about them. But don Juan would not indulge me. He said that this was all there was about his benefactor and the fourth abstract core.

He seemed to remember something he was not telling me and laughed uproariously. Then he patted me on the back and told me it was time to set out for the cave.


When we got to the rock ledge it was almost dark. Don Juan sat down hurriedly, in the same position as the first time. He was to my right, touching me with his shoulder. He immediately seemed to enter into a deep state of relaxation, which pulled me into total immobility and silence. I could not even hear his breathing. I closed my eyes, but he nudged me to warn me to keep them open.

By the time it became completely dark, an immense fatigue had begun to make my eyes sore and itchy. Finally I gave up my resistance and was pulled into the deepest, blackest sleep I have ever had. Yet I was not totally asleep. I could feel the thick blackness around me. I had an entirely physical sensation of wading through blackness. Then it suddenly became reddish, then orange, then glaring white, like a terribly strong neon light.

Gradually I focused my vision until I saw I was still sitting in the same position with don Juan- but no longer in the cave. We were on a mountaintop looking down over exquisite flatlands with mountains in the distance. This beautiful prairie was bathed in a glow that, like rays of light, emanated from the land itself. Wherever I looked, I saw familiar features: rocks, hills, rivers, forests, canyons, enhanced and transformed by their inner vibration; their inner glow. This glow that was so pleasing to my eyes also tingled out of my very being.

"Your assemblage point has moved," don Juan seemed to say to me.

The words had no sound; nevertheless I knew what he had just said to me. My rational reaction was to try to explain to myself that I had no doubt heard him as I would have if he had been talking in a vacuum, probably because my ears had been temporarily affected by what was transpiring.

"Your ears are fine. We are in a different realm of awareness," don Juan again seemed to say to me.

I could not speak. I felt the lethargy of deep sleep preventing me from saying a word, yet I was as alert as I could be.

"What is happening?" I thought.

"The cave made your assemblage point move," don Juan thought, and I heard his thoughts as if they were my own words, voiced to myself.

I sensed a command that was not expressed in thoughts. Something ordered me to look again at the prairie.

As I stared at the wondrous sight, filaments of light began to radiate from everything on that prairie. At first it was like the explosion of an infinite number of short fibers, then the fibers became long threadlike strands of luminosity bundled together into beams of vibrating light that reached infinity. There was really no way for me to make sense of what I was seeing, or to describe it, except as filaments of vibrating light. The filaments were not intermingled or entwined. Although they sprang, and continued to spring, in every direction, each one was separate, and yet all of them were inextricably bundled together.

"You are seeing the Eagle's emanations and the force that keeps them apart and bundles them together," don Juan thought.

The instant I caught his thought the filaments of light seemed to consume all my energy. Fatigue overwhelmed me. It erased my vision and plunged me into darkness.


When I became aware of myself again, there was something so familiar around me, although I could not tell what it was, that I believed myself to be back in a normal state of awareness. Don Juan was asleep beside me, his shoulder against mine.

Then I realized that the darkness around us was so intense that I could not even see my hands. I speculated that fog must have covered the ledge and filled the cave; or perhaps it was the wispy low clouds that descended every rainy night from the higher mountains like a silent avalanche.

Yet in spite of the total blackness, somehow I saw that don Juan had opened his eyes immediately after I became aware, although he did not look at me. Instantly I realized that seeing him was not a consequence of light on my retina. It was, rather, a bodily sense.

I became so engrossed in observing don Juan without my eyes that I was not paying attention to what he was telling me. Finally he stopped talking and turned his face to me as if to look me in the eye.

He coughed a couple of times to clear his throat and started to talk in a very low voice. He said that his benefactor used to come to the cave quite often, both with him and with his other disciples, but more often by himself. In that cave his benefactor saw the same prairie we had just seen; a vision that gave him the idea of describing the spirit as the flow of things.

Don Juan repeated that his benefactor was not a good thinker. Had he been, he would have realized in an instant that what he had seen and described as the flow of things was intent; the force that permeates everything. Don Juan added that if his benefactor ever became aware of the nature of his seeing, he didn't reveal it. Don Juan had the idea that his benefactor never knew it. Instead, his benefactor believed that he had seen the flow of things, which was the absolute truth, but not the way he meant it.

Don Juan was so emphatic about this that I wanted to ask him what the difference was, but I could not speak. My throat seemed frozen. We sat there in complete silence and immobility for hours, yet I did not experience any discomfort: my muscles did not get tired, my legs did not fall asleep, my back did not ache.

When don Juan began to talk again, I did not even notice the transition, and I readily abandoned myself to listening to his voice. It was a melodic, rhythmical sound that emerged from the total blackness that surrounded me.

He said that at that very moment I was not in my normal state of awareness nor was I in heightened awareness. I was suspended in a lull, in the blackness of nonperception. My assemblage point had moved away from perceiving the daily world, but it had not moved enough to reach and light a totally new bundle of energy fields. Properly speaking, I was caught between two perceptual possibilities. This in-between state, this lull of perception had been reached through the influence of the cave which was itself guided by the intent of the sorcerers who carved it.

Don Juan asked me to pay close attention to what he was going to say next. He said that thousands of years ago, by means of seeing, sorcerers became aware that the earth was sentient and that its awareness could affect the awareness of humans. They tried to find a way to use the earth's influence on human awareness and they discovered that certain caves were most effective.

Don Juan said that the search for caves became nearly full-time work for those sorcerers; and that through their endeavors they were able to discover a variety of uses for a variety of cave configurations. He added that out of all that work the only result pertinent to us was this particular cave and its capacity to move the assemblage point until it reached a lull of perception.

As don Juan spoke, I had the unsettling sensation that something was clearing in my mind. Something was funneling my awareness into a long narrow channel. All the superfluous half-thoughts and feelings of my normal awareness were being squeezed out.

Don Juan was thoroughly aware of what was happening to me. I heard his soft chuckle of satisfaction. He said that now we could talk more easily and our conversation would have more depth.

I remembered at that moment scores of things he had explained to me before. For instance, I knew that I was dreaming. I was actually sound asleep yet I was totally aware of myself through my second attention- the counterpart of my normal attentiveness.

I was certain I was asleep because of a bodily sensation plus a rational deduction based on statements that don Juan had made in the past. I had just seen the Eagle's emanations, and don Juan had said that it was impossible for sorcerers to have a sustained view of the Eagle's emanations in any way except in dreaming, therefore I had to be dreaming.

Don Juan had explained that the universe is made up of energy fields which defy description or scrutiny. He had said that they resembled filaments of ordinary light, except that light is lifeless compared to the Eagle's emanations, which exude awareness.

I had never, until this night, been able to see them in a sustained manner, and indeed they were made out of a light that was alive. Don Juan had maintained in the past that my knowledge and control of intent were not adequate to withstand the impact of that sight. He had explained that normal perception occurs when intent, which is pure energy, lights up a portion of the luminous filaments inside our cocoon, and at the same time brightens a long extension of the same luminous filaments extending into infinity outside our cocoon.

Extraordinary perception, 'seeing', occurs when by the force of intent a different cluster of energy fields energizes and lights up. He had said that when a crucial number of energy fields are lit up inside the luminous cocoon, a sorcerer is able to see the energy fields themselves.

On another occasion don Juan had recounted the rational thinking of the early sorcerers. He told me that, through their seeing, they realized that awareness took place when the energy fields inside our luminous cocoon were aligned with the same energy fields outside. They believed they had discovered alignment as the source of awareness.

Upon close examination, however, it became evident that what they had called alignment of the Eagle's emanations did not entirely explain what they were seeing. They had noticed that only a very small portion of the total number of luminous filaments inside the cocoon was energized while the rest remained unaltered. Seeing these few filaments energized had created a false discovery.

The filaments did not need to be aligned to be lit up because the ones inside our cocoon were the same as those outside. Whatever energized them was definitely an independent force. They felt they could not continue to call it awareness, as they had, because awareness was the glow of the energy fields being lit up. So the force that lit up the fields was named will.

Don Juan had said that when their seeing became still more sophisticated and effective, they realized that will was the force that kept the Eagle's emanations separated and was not only responsible for our awareness, but also for everything in the universe.

They saw that this force had total consciousness and that it sprang from the very fields of energy that made the universe. They decided then that intent was a more appropriate name for it than will. In the long run, however, the name proved disadvantageous, because it does not describe its overwhelming importance nor the living connection it has with everything in the universe.

Don Juan had asserted that our great collective flaw is that we live our lives completely disregarding that connection. The busyness of our lives, our relentless interests, concerns, hopes, frustrations, and fears take precedence; and on a day-to-day basis we are unaware of being linked to everything else.

Don Juan had stated his belief that the Christian idea of being cast out from the Garden of Eden sounded to him like an allegory for losing our silent knowledge; our knowledge of intent. Sorcery, then, was a going back to the beginning; a return to paradise.

We stayed seated in the cave in total silence; perhaps for hours, or perhaps it was only a few instants. Suddenly don Juan began to talk, and the unexpected sound of his voice jarred me. I did not catch what he said. I cleared my throat to ask him to repeat what he had said, and that act brought me completely out of my reflectiveness.

I quickly realized that the darkness around me was no longer impenetrable. I could speak now. I felt I was back in my normal state of awareness.

In a calm voice don Juan told me that for the very first time in my life I had seen the spirit; the force that sustains the universe. He emphasized that intent is not something one might use or command or move in any way- nevertheless, one could use it, command it, or move it as one desires.

This contradiction, he said, is the essence of sorcery. To fail to understand it had brought generations of sorcerers unimaginable pain and sorrow. Modern-day naguals, in an effort to avoid paying this exorbitant price in pain, had developed a code of behavior called the warrior's way, or the impeccable action; which prepared sorcerers by enhancing their sobriety and thoughtfulness.

Don Juan explained that at one time in the remote past, sorcerers were deeply interested in the general connecting link that intent has with everything. And by focusing their second attention on that link, they acquired not only direct knowledge but also the ability to manipulate that knowledge and perform astounding deeds. They did not acquire, however, the soundness of mind needed to manage all that power.

So in a judicious mood, sorcerers decided to focus their second attention solely on the connecting link of creatures who have awareness. This included the entire range of existing organic beings; as well as the entire range of what sorcerers call inorganic beings, or allies, which they described as entities with awareness, but no life as we understand life. This solution was not successful either, because it, too, failed to bring them wisdom.

In their next reduction, sorcerers focused their attention exclusively on the link that connects human beings with intent. The end result was very much as before.

Then, sorcerers sought a final reduction. Each sorcerer would be concerned solely with his individual connection. But this proved to be equally ineffective.

Don Juan said that although there were remarkable differences among those four areas of interest, one was as corrupting as another. So in the end, sorcerers concerned themselves exclusively with the capacity that their individual connecting link with intent had to set them free to light the fire from within.

He asserted that all modern-day sorcerers have to struggle fiercely to gain soundness of mind. A nagual has to struggle especially hard because he has more strength; a greater command over the energy fields that determine perception; and more training in and familiarity with the intricacies of silent knowledge- which is nothing but direct contact with intent.

Examined in this way, sorcery becomes an attempt to reestablish our knowledge of intent and regain use of it without succumbing to it. And the abstract cores of the sorcery stories are shades of realization; degrees of our being aware of intent.

I understood don Juan's explanation with perfect clarity. But the more I understood and the clearer his statements became, the greater my sense of loss and despondency. At one moment I sincerely considered ending my life right there. I felt I was damned.

Nearly in tears, I told don Juan that there was no point in his continuing his explanation, for I knew that I was about to lose my clarity of mind, and that when I reverted to my normal state of awareness, I would have no memory of having seen or heard anything. My mundane consciousness would impose its lifelong habit of repetition and the reasonable predictability of its logic. That was why I felt damned. I told him that I resented my fate.

Don Juan responded that even in heightened awareness I thrived on repetition, and that periodically I would insist on boring him by describing my attacks of feeling worthless. He said that if I had to go under it should be fighting, not apologizing or feeling sorry for myself; and that it did not matter what our specific fate was as long as we faced it with ultimate abandon.

His words made me feel blissfully happy. I repeated over and over, tears streaming down my cheeks, that I agreed with him. There was such profound happiness in me that I suspected my nerves were getting out of hand. I called upon all my forces to stop this and I felt the sobering effect of my mental brakes. But as this happened, my clarity of mind began to diffuse. I silently fought- trying to be both less sober and less nervous. Don Juan did not make a sound and left me alone.

By the time I had reestablished my balance, it was almost dawn. Don Juan stood, stretched his arms above his head and tensed his muscles, making his joints crack. He helped me up and commented that I had spent a most enlightening night: I had experienced what the spirit was, and had been able to summon hidden strength to accomplish something, which on the surface amounted to calming my nervousness; but at a deeper level it had actually been a very successful, volitional movement of my assemblage point. He signaled then that it was time to start on our way back.






The Power Of Silence: Part 4: Chapter 08 - The Somersault Of Thought.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4: Chapter 08 - The Somersault Of Thought.

We walked into his house around seven in the morning; in time for breakfast. I was famished but not tired. We had left the cave to climb down to the valley at dawn. Don Juan, instead of following the most direct route, made a long detour that took us along the river. He explained that we had to collect our wits before we got home.

I answered it was very kind of him to say 'our wits' when I was the only one whose wits were disordered. But he replied that he was acting not out of kindness, but out of warrior's training. A warrior, he said, was on permanent guard against the roughness of human behavior. A warrior was magical and ruthless; a maverick with the most refined taste and manners, whose wordly task was to sharpen, yet disguise, his cutting edges so that no one would be able to suspect his ruthlessness.

After breakfast I thought it would be wise to get some sleep, but don Juan contended I had no time to waste. He said that all too soon I would lose the little clarity I still had, and if I went to sleep I would lose it all.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out that there is hardly any way to talk about intent" he said quickly as he scrutinized me from head to toe. "But making this statement doesn't mean anything. It is the reason why sorcerers rely instead on the sorcery stories. And their hope is that someday the abstract cores of the stories will make sense to the listener."

I understood what he was saying, but I still could not conceive what an abstract core was or what it was supposed to mean to me. I tried to think about it. Thoughts barraged me. Images passed rapidly through my mind giving me no time to think about them. I could not slow them down enough even to recognize them. Finally anger overpowered me and I slammed my fist on the table.

Don Juan shook from head to toe, choking with laughter.

"Do what you did last night," he urged me, winking. "Slow yourself down."

My frustration made me very aggressive. I immediately put forth some senseless arguments; then I became aware of my error and apologized for my lack of restraint.

"Don't apologize," he said. "I should tell you that the understanding you're after is impossible at this time. The abstract cores of the sorcery stories will say nothing to you now. Later- years later, I mean- they may make perfect sense to you."

I begged don Juan not to leave me in the dark; to discuss the abstract cores. It was not at all clear to me what he wanted me to do with them. I assured him that my present state of heightened awareness could be very helpful to me in allowing me to understand his discussion.

I urged him to hurry, for I could not guarantee how long this state would last. I told him that soon I would return to my normal state and would become a bigger idiot than I was at that moment. I had said it half in jest. His laughter told me that he had taken it as such, but I was deeply affected by my own words. A tremendous sense of melancholy overtook me.

Don Juan gently took my arm, pulled me to a comfortable armchair, then sat down facing me. He gazed fixedly into my eyes, and for a moment I was incapable of breaking the force of his stare.

"Sorcerers constantly stalk themselves," he said in a reassuring voice, as if trying to calm me with the sound of his voice.

I wanted to say that my nervousness had passed and that it had probably been caused by my lack of sleep, but he did not allow me to say anything.

He assured me that he had already taught me everything there was to know about stalking, but I had not yet retrieved my knowledge from the depth of heightened awareness where I had it stored.

I told him I had the annoying sensation of being bottled up. I felt there was something locked inside me; something that made me slam doors and kick tables; something that frustrated me and made me irascible.

"That sensation of being bottled up is experienced by every human being," he said. "It is a reminder of our existing connection with intent. For sorcerers this sensation is even more acute, precisely because their goal is to sensitize their connecting link until they can make it function at will.

"When the pressure of their connecting link is too great, sorcerers relieve it by stalking themselves."

"I still do not think I understand what you mean by stalking" I said. "But at a certain level I think I know exactly what you mean."

"I'll try to help you clarify what you know, then," he said. "Stalking is a procedure; a very simple one. Stalking is special behavior that follows certain principles. It is secretive, furtive, deceptive behavior designed to deliver a jolt. And when you stalk yourself, you jolt yourself using your own behavior in a ruthless, cunning way."

He explained that when a sorcerer's awareness became bogged down with the weight of his perceptual input- which was what was happening to me- the best, or even perhaps the only remedy was to use the idea of death to deliver that stalking jolt.

"The idea of death, therefore, is of monumental importance in the life of a sorcerer," don Juan continued. "I have shown you innumerable things about death to convince you that the knowledge of our impending and unavoidable end is what gives us sobriety. Our most costly mistake as average men is indulging in a sense of immortality. It is as though we believe that if we don't think about death, we can protect ourselves from it."

"You must agree, don Juan, not thinking about death certainly protects us from worrying about it."

"Yes, it serves that purpose," he conceded. "But that purpose is an unworthy one for average men and a travesty for sorcerers. Without a clear view of death, there is no order; no sobriety; no beauty. Sorcerers struggle to gain this crucial insight in order to help them realize at the deepest possible level that they have no assurance whatsoever that their lives will continue beyond the moment. This realization gives sorcerers the courage to be patient and yet take action; courage to be acquiescent without being stupid."

Don Juan fixed his gaze on me. He smiled and shook his head.

"Yes," he went on. "The idea of death is the only thing that can give sorcerers courage. Strange, isn't it? It gives sorcerers the courage to be cunning without being conceited, and above all it gives them courage to be ruthless without being self-important."

He smiled again and nudged me. I told him I was absolutely terrified by the idea of my death; that I thought about it constantly, but it certainly didn't give me courage or spur me to take action. It only made me cynical or caused me to lapse into moods of profound melancholy.

"Your problem is very simple," he said. "You become easily obsessed. I have been telling you that sorcerers stalk themselves in order to break the power of their obsessions. There are many ways of stalking oneself. If you don't want to use the idea of your death, use the poems you read me to stalk yourself."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have told you that there are many reasons I like poems," he said. "What I do is stalk myself with them. I deliver a jolt to myself with them. I listen, and as you read, I shut off my internal dialogue and let my inner silence gain momentum. Then the combination of the poem and the silence delivers the jolt."

He explained that poets unconsciously long for the sorcerers' world; but because they are not sorcerers on the path of knowledge, longing is all they have.

"Let us see if you can feel what I'm talking about," he said, handing me a book of poems by Jose Gorostiza.

I opened it at the bookmark and he pointed to the poem he liked.


...this incessant stubborn dying;

this living death

that slays you, oh God,

in your rigorous handiwork;

in the roses;

in the stones;

in the indomitable stars;

and in the flesh that burns out

like a bonfire lit by a song;

a dream;

a hue that hits the eye.


...and you, yourself,

perhaps have died

eternities of ages ago out there

without us knowing about it;

we dregs, crumbs, ashes of you.

You that still are present

like a star faked by its very light;

an empty light without star

that reaches us

hiding its infinite catastrophe.


"As I hear the words," don Juan said when I had finished reading, "I feel that that man is seeing the essence of things and I can see with him. I don't care what the poem is about. I care only about the feeling the poet's longing brings me. I borrow his longing, and with it I borrow the beauty. And I marvel at the fact that he, like a true warrior, lavishes it on the recipients, the beholders, retaining for himself only his longing. This jolt, this shock of beauty, is stalking."

I was very moved. Don Juan's explanation had touched a strange chord in me.

"Would you say, don Juan, that death is the only real enemy we have?" I asked him a moment later.

"No," he said with conviction. "Death is not an enemy, although it appears to be. Death is not our destroyer, although we think it is."

"What is it, then, if not our destroyer?" I asked.

"Sorcerers say death is the only worthy opponent we have," he replied. "Death is our challenger. We are born to take that challenge, average men or sorcerers. Sorcerers know about it; average men do not."

"I personally would say, don Juan, life, not death, is the challenge."

"Life is the process by means of which death challenges us," he said. "Death is the active force. Life is the arena. And in that arena there are only two contenders at any time: oneself and death."

"I would think, don Juan, that we human beings are the challengers," I said.

"Not at all," he retorted. "We are passive. Think about it. If we move, it's only when we feel the pressure of death. Death sets the pace for our actions and feelings and pushes us relentlessly until it breaks us and wins the bout, or else we rise above all possibilities and defeat death.

"Sorcerers defeat death and death acknowledges the defeat by letting the sorcerers go free, never to be challenged again."

"Does that mean that sorcerers become immortal?"

"No. It doesn't mean that," he replied. "Death stops challenging them, that's all."

"But what does that mean, don Juan?" I asked.

"It means thought has taken a somersault into the inconceivable," he said.

"What is a somersault of thought into the inconceivable?" I asked, trying not to sound belligerent. "The problem you and I have is that we do not share the same meanings."

"You're not being truthful," don Juan interrupted. "You understand what I mean. For you to demand a rational explanation of a somersault of thought into the inconceivable is a travesty. You know exactly what it is."

"No, I don't," I said.

And then I realized that I did, or rather, that I intuited what it meant. There was some part of me that could transcend my rationality and understand and explain, beyond the level of metaphor, a somersault of thought into the inconceivable. The trouble was that part of me was not strong enough to surface at will.

I said as much to don Juan, who laughed and commented that my awareness was like a yo-yo. Sometimes it rose to a high spot and my command was keen, while at others it descended and I became a rational moron. But most of the time it hovered at an unworthy median where I was neither fish nor fowl.

"A somersault of thought into the inconceivable," he explained with an air of resignation, "is the descent of the spirit; the act of breaking our perceptual barriers. It is the moment in which man's perception reaches its limits. Sorcerers practice the art of sending scouts- advance runners to probe our perceptual limits. This is another reason I like poems. I take them as advance runners. But, as I've said to you before, poets don't know as exactly as sorcerers what those advance runners can accomplish."


In the early evening, don Juan said that we had many things to discuss and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. I was in a peculiar state of mind. Earlier I had noticed a strange aloofness in myself that came and went. At first I thought it was physical fatigue clouding my thoughts. But my thoughts were crystal clear. So I became convinced that my strange detachment was a product of my shift to heightened awareness.

We left the house and strolled around the town's plaza. I quickly asked don Juan about my aloofness before he had a chance to begin on anything else. He explained it as a shift of energy. He said that as the energy that was ordinarily used to maintain the fixed position of the assemblage point became liberated, it focused automatically on that connecting link.

He assured me that there were no techniques or maneuvers for a sorcerer to learn beforehand to move energy from one place to the other. Rather it was a matter of an instantaneous shift taking place once a certain level of proficiency had been attained.

I asked him what the level of proficiency was.

"Pure understanding," he replied. "In order to attain that instantaneous shift of energy, one needed a clear connection with intent, and to get a clear connection one needed only to intend it through pure understanding."

Naturally I wanted him to explain pure understanding. He laughed and sat down on a bench.

"I'm going to tell you something fundamental about sorcerers and their acts of sorcery," he went on. "Something about the somersault of their thought into the inconceivable."

He said that some sorcerers were storytellers. Storytelling for them was not only the advance runner that probed their perceptual limits, but also their path to perfection; to power; to the spirit.

He was quiet for a moment, obviously searching for an appropriate example. Then he reminded me that the Yaqui Indians had a collection of historical events they called 'the memorable dates'.

I knew that the memorable dates were oral accounts of their history as a nation when they waged war against the invaders of their homeland: the Spaniards first; the Mexicans later. Don Juan, a Yaqui himself, stated emphatically that the memorable dates were accounts of their defeats and disintegration.

He asked me, "So, what would you say- since you are a learned man- about a sorcerer storyteller's taking an account from the memorable dates- let's say, for example, the story of Calixto Muni- and changing the ending so that instead of describing how Calixto Muni was drawn and quartered by the Spanish executioners, which is what happened; he tells a story of Calixto Muni the victorious rebel who succeeded in liberating his people?"

I knew the story of Calixto Muni. He was a Yaqui Indian who, according to the memorable dates, served for many years on a buccaneer ship in the Caribbean in order to learn war strategy. Then he returned to his native Sonora, managed to start an uprising against the Spaniards, and declared a war of independence; only to be betrayed, captured, and executed.

Don Juan coaxed me to comment. I told him I would have to assume that changing the factual account in the manner he was describing would be a psychological device; a sort of wishful thinking on the sorcerer storyteller's part. Or perhaps it would be a personal, idiosyncratic way of alleviating frustration. I added that I would even call such a sorcerer storyteller a patriot because he was unable to accept bitter defeat.

Don Juan laughed until he was choking.

"But it's not a matter of one sorcerer storyteller," he argued. "They all do that."

"Then it's a socially sanctioned device to express the wishful thinking of a whole society," I retorted. "A socially accepted way of releasing psychological stress collectively."

"Your argument is glib and convincing and reasonable," he commented. "But because your spirit is dead, you can't see the flaw in your argument."

He eyed me as if coaxing me to understand what he was saying. I had no comment, and anything I might have said would have made me sound peevish.

"The sorcerer storyteller who changes the ending of the 'factual' account," he said, "does it at the direction and under the auspices of the spirit. Because he can manipulate his elusive connection with intent, he can actually change things. The sorcerer storyteller signals that he has intended it by taking off his hat, putting it on the ground, and turning it a full three hundred and sixty degrees counterclockwise. Under the auspices of the spirit, that simple act plunges him into the spirit itself. He has let his thought somersault into the inconceivable."

Don Juan lifted his arm above his head and pointed for an instant to the sky above the horizon.

"Because his pure understanding is an advance runner probing that immensity out there," don Juan went on, "the sorcerer storyteller knows without a shadow of doubt that somewhere, somehow, in that infinity, at this very moment the spirit has descended. Calixto Muni is victorious. He has delivered his people. His goal has transcended his person."






The Power Of Silence: Part 4: Chapter 09 - Moving the Assemblage Point.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4: Chapter 09 - Moving the Assemblage Point.

A couple of days later, don Juan and I made a trip to the mountains. Halfway up the foothills we sat down to rest. Earlier that day, don Juan had decided to find an appropriate setting in which to explain some intricate aspects of the mastery of awareness. Usually he preferred to go to the closer western range of mountains.

This time, however, he chose the eastern peaks. They were much higher and farther away. To me they seemed more ominous, darker, and more massive. But I could not tell whether this impression was my own or if I had somehow absorbed don Juan's feelings about these mountains.

I opened my backpack. The women seers from don Juan's group had prepared it for me, and I discovered that they had packed some cheese. I experienced a moment of annoyance because, while I liked cheese, it did not agree with me. Yet I was incapable of refusing it whenever it was made available.

Don Juan had pointed this out as a true weakness and had made fun of me. I was embarrassed at first, but found that when I did not have cheese around I did not miss it.

The problem was that the practical jokers in don Juan's group always packed a big chunk of cheese for me, which, of course, I always ended up eating.

"Finish it in one sitting," don Juan advised me with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That way you won't have to worry about it anymore."

Perhaps influenced by his suggestion, I had the most intense desire to devour the whole chunk. Don Juan laughed so much that I suspected once again that he had schemed with his group to set me up.

In a more serious mood, he suggested that we spend the night there in the foothills, and take a day or two to reach the higher peaks. I agreed.

Don Juan casually asked me if I had recalled anything about the four moods of stalking. I admitted that I had tried, but that my memory had failed me.

"Don't you remember my teaching you the nature of ruthlessness?" he asked. "Ruthlessness, the opposite of self-pity?"

I could not remember. Don Juan appeared to be considering what to say next. Then he stopped. The corners of his mouth dropped in a gesture of sham impotence. He shrugged his shoulders, stood up and quickly walked a short distance to a small level spot on top of a hill.

"All sorcerers are ruthless," he said, as we sat down on the flat ground. "But you know this. We have discussed this concept at length."

After a long silence, he said that we were going to continue discussing the abstract cores of the sorcery stories, but that he intended to talk less and less about them because the time was approaching when it would be up to me to discover them and allow them to reveal their meaning.

"As I have already told you," he said, "the fourth abstract core of the sorcery stories is called the descent of the spirit, or being moved by intent. The story says that in order to let the mysteries of sorcery reveal themselves to the man we've been talking about, it was necessary for the spirit to descend on that man.

"The spirit chose a moment when the man was distracted and unguarded; and showing no pity, the spirit let its presence by itself move the man's assemblage point to a specific position. This spot was known to sorcerers from then on as the place of no pity. Ruthlessness became, in this way, the first principle of sorcery.

"The first principle should not be confused with the first effect of sorcery apprenticeship, which is the shift between normal and heightened awareness."

"I don't understand what you are trying to tell me," I complained.

"What I want to say is that, to all appearances, having the assemblage point shift is the first thing that actually happens to a sorcery apprentice," he replied. "So, it is only natural for an apprentice to assume that this is the first principle of sorcery. But it is not.

"Ruthlessness is the first principle of sorcery. But we have discussed this before. Now I am only trying to help you remember."

I could honestly have said that I had no idea what he was talking about, but I also had the strange sensation that I did.

"Bring back the recollection of the first time I taught you ruthlessness," he urged. "Recollecting has to do with moving the assemblage point."

He waited a moment to see whether I was following his suggestion. Since it was obvious that I could not, he continued his explanation. He said that, mysterious as the shift into heightened awareness was, all that one needed to accomplish it was the presence of the spirit.

I remarked that his statements that day were either extremely obscure, or I was terribly dense; because I could not follow his line of thought at all. He replied firmly that my confusion was unimportant and insisted that the only thing of real importance was that I understand that the mere contact with the spirit could bring about any movement of the assemblage point.

"I've told you the nagual is the conduit of the spirit," he went on. "Since he spends a lifetime impeccably redefining his connecting link with intent, and since he has more energy than the average man, he can let the spirit express itself through him.

"So, the first thing the sorcerer apprentice experiences is a shift in his level of awareness; a shift brought about simply by the presence of the nagual. And what I want you to know is, that there really is no procedure involved in making the assemblage point move. The spirit touches the apprentice and his assemblage point moves. It is as simple as that."

I told him that his assertions were disturbing because they contradicted what I had painfully learned to accept through personal experience: that heightened awareness was feasible as a sophisticated, although inexplicable, maneuver performed by don Juan by means of which he manipulated my perception. Throughout the years of our association, he had time after time made me enter into heightened awareness by striking me on my back. I pointed out this contradiction.

He replied that striking my back was more a trick to trap my attention and remove doubts from my mind than a bona fide maneuver to manipulate my perception. He called it a simple trick, in keeping with his moderate personality.

He commented, not quite as a joke, that I was lucky he was a plain man, not given to weird behavior. Otherwise, instead of simple tricks, I would have had to endure bizarre rituals before he could remove all doubts from my mind; to let the spirit move my assemblage point.

"What we need to do to allow magic to get hold of us is to banish doubt from our minds," he said. "Once doubts are banished, anything is possible."

He reminded me of an event I had witnessed some months before in Mexico City; which I had found to be incomprehensible until he had explained it using the sorcerers' paradigm.


What I had witnessed was a surgical operation performed by a famous psychic healer. A friend of mine was the patient. The healer was a woman who entered a very dramatic trance to operate on him.

I was able to observe that, using a kitchen knife, she cut his abdominal cavity open in the umbilical region, detached his diseased liver, washed it in a bucket of alcohol, put it back in and closed the bloodless opening with just the pressure of her hands.

There had been a number of people in the semidark room; witnesses to the operation. Some of them seemed to be interested observers like myself. The others seemed to be the healer's helpers.

After the operation, I talked briefly to three of the observers. They all agreed that they had witnessed the same events I had. When I talked to my friend, the patient, he reported that he had felt the operation as a dull, constant pain in his stomach and a burning sensation on his right side.

I had narrated all of this to don Juan and I had even ventured a cynical explanation. I had told him that the semidarkness of the room, in my opinion, lent itself perfectly to all kinds of sleight of hand which could have accounted for the sight of the internal organs being pulled out of the abdominal cavity and washed in alcohol. The emotional shock caused by the healer's dramatic trance- which I also considered trickery- helped to create an atmosphere of almost religious faith.

Don Juan immediately pointed out that this was a cynical opinion, and not a cynical explanation, because it did not explain the fact that my friend had really gotten well. Don Juan had then proposed an alternative view based on sorcerers' knowledge. He had explained that the event hinged on the salient fact that the healer was capable of moving the assemblage point of the exact number of people in her audience. The only trickery involved- if one could call it trickery- was that the number of people present in the room could not exceed the number she could handle.

Her dramatic trance and the accompanying histrionics were, according to him, either well thought out devices the healer used to trap the attention of those present, or unconscious maneuvers dictated by the spirit itself. Whichever; they were the most appropriate means whereby the healer could foster the unity of thought needed to remove doubt from the minds of those present and force them into heightened awareness.

When she cut the body open with a kitchen knife and removed the internal organs, it was not, don Juan had stressed, sleight of hand. These were bona fide events; which by virtue of taking place in heightened awareness, were outside the realm of everyday judgment.

I had asked don Juan how the healer could manage to move the assemblage points of those people without touching them. His reply had been that the healer's power- a gift, or a stupendous accomplishment- served as a conduit for the spirit. It was the spirit, he had said, and not the healer, which had moved those assemblage points.


"I explained to you then, although you didn't understand a word of it," don Juan went on, "that the healer's art and power was to remove doubts from the minds of those present. By doing this, she was able to allow the spirit to move their assemblage points. Once those points had moved, everything was possible. They had entered into the realm where miracles are commonplace."

He asserted emphatically that the healer must also have been a sorceress, and that if I made an effort to remember the operation, I would remember that she had been ruthless with the people around her; especially the patient.

I repeated to him what I could recall of the session. The pitch and tone of the healer's flat, feminine voice changed dramatically when she entered a trance. It changed into a raspy, deep, male voice. That voice announced that the spirit of a warrior of pre-Columbian antiquity had possessed the healer's body. Once the announcement was made, the healer's attitude changed dramatically. She was possessed. She was obviously absolutely sure of herself, and she proceeded to operate with total certainty and firmness.

"I prefer the word 'ruthlessness' to 'certainty and firmness'," don Juan commented, then continued. "That healer had to be ruthless to create the proper setting for the spirit's intervention."

He asserted that events difficult to explain, such as that operation, were really very simple. They were made difficult by our insistence upon thinking. If we did not think, everything fit into place.

"That is truly absurd, don Juan," I said and really meant it.

I reminded him that he demanded serious thinking of all his apprentices, and even criticized his own teacher for not being a good thinker.

"Of course I insist that everyone around me think clearly," he said. "And I explain, to anyone who wants to listen, that the only way to think clearly is to not think at all. I was convinced you understood this sorcerers' contradiction."

In a loud voice I protested the obscurity of his statements. He laughed and made fun of my compulsion to defend myself. Then he explained again that for a sorcerer there were two types of thinking.

One was average day-today thinking, which was ruled by the normal position of his assemblage point. It was muddled thinking that did not really answer his needs and left great murkiness in his head.

The other was precise thinking. It was functional, economical, and left very few things unexplained. Don Juan remarked that for this type of thinking to prevail the assemblage point had to move. Or at least the day-to-day type thinking had to stop to allow the assemblage point to shift. Thus the apparent contradiction, which was really no contradiction at all.

"I want you to recall something you have done in the past," he said. "I want you to recall a special movement of your assemblage point. And to do this, you have to stop thinking the way you normally think. Then the other, the type I call clear thinking, will take over and make you recollect."

"But how do I stop thinking?" I asked, although I knew what he was going to reply.

"By intending the movement of your assemblage point," he said. "Intent is beckoned with the eyes."

I told don Juan that my mind was shifting back and forth between moments of tremendous lucidity, when everything was crystal clear, and lapses into profound mental fatigue during which I could not understand what he was saying.

He tried to put me at ease, explaining that my instability was caused by a slight fluctuation of my assemblage point, which had not stabilized in the new position it had reached some years earlier. The fluctuation was the result of left-over feelings of self-pity.

"What new position is that, don Juan?" I asked.

"Years ago- and this is what I want you to recollect- your assemblage point reached the place of no pity," he replied.

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

"The place of no pity is the site of ruthlessness," he said. "But you know all this. For the time being, though, until you recollect, let's say that ruthlessness, being a specific position of the assemblage point, is shown in the eyes of sorcerers. It's like a shimmering film over the eyes. The eyes of sorcerers are brilliant. The greater the shine, the more ruthless the sorcerer is. At this moment, your eyes are dull."

He explained that when the assemblage point moved to the place of no pity, the eyes began to shine. The firmer the grip of the assemblage point on its new position, the more the eyes shone.

"Try to recall what you already know about this," he urged me. He kept quiet for a moment, then spoke without looking at me.

"Recollecting is not the same as remembering," he continued. "Remembering is dictated by the day-to-day type of thinking, while recollecting is dictated by the movement of the assemblage point.

"A recapitulation of their lives, which sorcerers do, is the key to moving their assemblage points. Sorcerers start their recapitulation by thinking; by remembering the most important acts of their lives. From merely thinking about them they then move on to actually being at the site of the event. When they can do that- be at the site of the event- they have successfully shifted their assemblage point to the precise spot it was when the event took place. Bringing back the total event by means of shifting the assemblage point is known as sorcerers' recollection."

He stared at me for an instant as if trying to make sure I was listening.

"Our assemblage points are constantly shifting," he explained, "imperceptible shifts. Sorcerers believe that in order to make their assemblage points shift to precise spots we must engage intent. Since there is no way of knowing what intent is, sorcerers let their eyes beckon it."

"All this is truly incomprehensible to me," I said.

Don Juan put his hands behind his head and lay down on the ground. I did the same. We remained quiet for a long time. The wind scudded the clouds. Their movement almost made me feel dizzy. And the dizziness changed abruptly into a familiar sense of anguish.

Every time I was with don Juan, I felt, especially in moments of rest and quiet, an overwhelming sensation of despair- a longing for something I could not describe. When I was alone, or with other people, I was never a victim of this feeling. Don Juan had explained that what I felt and interpreted as longing was in fact the sudden movement of my assemblage point.

When don Juan started to speak, all of a sudden the sound of his voice jolted me and I sat up.

"You must recollect the first time your eyes shone," he said, "because that was the first time your assemblage point reached the place of no pity. Ruthlessness possessed you then. Ruthlessness makes sorcerers' eyes shine, and that shine beckons intent. Each spot to which their assemblage points move is indicated by a specific shine of their eyes. Since their eyes have their own memory, they can call up the recollection of any spot by calling up the specific shine associated with that spot."

He explained that the reason sorcerers put so much emphasis on the shine of their eyes and on their gaze is because the eyes are directly connected to intent. Contradictory as it might sound, the truth is that the eyes are only superficially connected to the world of everyday life. Their deeper connection is to the abstract.

I could not conceive how my eyes could store that sort of information, and I said as much. Don Juan's reply was that man's possibilities are so vast and mysterious that sorcerers, rather than thinking about them, choose to explore them with no hope of ever understanding them.

I asked him if an average man's eyes were also affected by intent.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "You know all this. But you know it at such a deep level that it is silent knowledge. You haven't sufficient energy to explain it; not even to yourself.

"The average man knows the same thing about his eyes, but he has even less energy than you. The only advantages sorcerers may have over average men is that they have stored their energy- which means a more precise, clearer connecting link with intent. Naturally, it also means they can recollect at will using the shine of their eyes to move their assemblage points."

Don Juan stopped talking and fixed me with his gaze. I clearly felt his eyes guiding, pushing and pulling something indefinite in me. I could not break away from his stare. His concentration was so intense it actually caused a physical sensation in me: I felt as if I were inside a furnace. And, quite abruptly, I was looking inward. It was a sensation very much like being in an absentminded reverie, but with the strange accompanying sensation of an intense awareness of myself, and an absence of thoughts. Supremely aware, I was looking inward, into nothingness.

With a gigantic effort, I pulled myself out of it and stood up.

"What did you do to me, don Juan?"

"Sometimes you are absolutely unbearable," he said. "Your wastefulness is infuriating. Your assemblage point was just in the most advantageous spot to recollect anything you wanted, and what did you do? You let it all go, to ask me what I did to you."

He kept silent for a moment, and then smiled as I sat down again.

"But being annoying is really your greatest asset," he added. "So why should I complain?"

Both of us broke into a loud laugh. It was a private joke.


Years before, I had been both very moved and very confused by don Juan's tremendous dedication to helping me. I could not imagine why he should show me such kindness. It was evident that he did not need me in any way in his life. He was obviously not investing in me. But I had learned, through life's painful experiences, that nothing was free; and being unable to foresee what don Juan's reward would be made me tremendously uneasy.

One day I asked don Juan point-blank, in a very cynical tone, what he was getting out of our association. I said that I had not been able to guess.

"Nothing you would understand," he replied.

His answer annoyed me. Belligerently I told him I was not stupid, and he could at least try to explain it to me.

"Well, let me just say that, although you could understand it, you are certainly not going to like it," he said with the smile he always had when he was setting me up. "You see, I really want to spare you."

I was hooked, and I insisted that he tell me what he meant.

"Are you sure you want to hear the truth?" he asked, knowing I could never say no, even if my life depended on it.

"Of course I want to hear whatever it is you're dangling in front of me," I said cuttingly.

He started to laugh as if at a big joke; the more he laughed, the greater my annoyance.

"I don't see what's so funny," I said.

"Sometimes the underlying truth shouldn't be tampered with," he said. "The underlying truth here is like a block at the bottom of a big pile of things, a cornerstone. If we take a hard look at the bottom block, we might not like the results. I prefer to avoid that."

He laughed again. His eyes, shining with mischievousness, seemed to invite me to pursue the subject further. And I insisted again that I had to know what he was talking about. I tried to sound calm but persistent.

"Well, if that is what you want," he said with the air of one who had been overwhelmed by the request. "First of all, I'd like to say that everything I do for you is free. You don't have to pay for it.

"As you know, I've been impeccable with you. And as you also know, my impeccability with you is not an investment. I am not grooming you to take care of me when I am too feeble to look after myself. But I do get something of incalculable value out of our association, a sort of reward for dealing impeccably with that bottom block I've mentioned. And what I get is the very thing you are perhaps not going to understand or like."

He stopped and peered at me, with a devilish glint in his eyes.

"Tell me about it, don Juan!" I exclaimed, irritated with his delaying tactics.

"I want you to bear in mind that I am telling you at your insistence," he said, still smiling.

He paused again. By then I was fuming.

"If you were to judge me by my actions with you," he said, "you would have to admit that I have been a paragon of patience and consistency. But what you don't know is that to accomplish this I have had to fight for impeccability as I have never fought before. In order to spend time with you, I have had to transform myself daily; restraining myself with the most excruciating effort."

Don Juan had been right. I did not like what he said. I tried not to lose face and made a sarcastic comeback.

"I'm not that bad, don Juan," I said.

My voice sounded surprisingly unnatural to me.

"Oh, yes, you are that bad," he said with a serious expression. "You are petty, wasteful, opinionated, coercive, short-tempered, conceited. You are morose, ponderous, and ungrateful. You have an inexhaustible capacity for self-indulgence. And worst of all, you have an exalted idea of yourself with nothing whatever to back it up.

"I could sincerely say that your mere presence makes me feel like vomiting."

I wanted to get angry. I wanted to protest; to complain that he had no right to talk to me that way, but I could not utter a single word. I was crushed. I felt numb.

My expression, upon hearing the bottom truth, must have been something because don Juan broke into such gales of laughter that I thought he was going to choke.

"I told you you were not going to like it or understand it," he said. "Warriors' reasons are very simple, but their finesse is extreme. It is a rare opportunity for a warrior to be given a genuine chance to be impeccable in spite of his basic feelings.

"You gave me such a unique chance. The act of giving freely and impeccably rejuvenates me and renews my wonder. What I get from our association is indeed of incalculable value to me. I am in your debt."


His eyes were shining, but without mischievousness, as he peered at me.

Don Juan began to explain what he had done.

"I am the nagual, I moved your assemblage point with the shine of my eyes," he said matter-of-factly. "The nagual's eyes can do that. It's not difficult. After all, the eyes of all living beings can move someone else's assemblage point, especially if their eyes are focused on intent. Under normal conditions, however, people's eyes are focused on the world, looking for food... looking for shelter..."

He nudged my shoulder.

"Looking for love," he added and broke into a loud laugh.

Don Juan constantly teased me about my 'looking for love'. He never forgot a naive answer I once gave him when he had asked me what I actively looked for in life. He had been steering me toward admitting that I did not have a clear goal, and he roared with laughter when I said that I was looking for love.

"A good hunter mesmerizes his prey with his eyes," he went on. "With his gaze he moves the assemblage point of his prey, and yet his eyes are on the world, looking for food."

I asked him if sorcerers could mesmerize people with their gaze. He chuckled and said that what I really wanted to know was if I could mesmerize women with my gaze in spite of the fact that my eyes were focused on the world, looking for love. He added, seriously, that the sorcerers' safety valve was that by the time their eyes were really focused on intent, they were no longer interested in mesmerizing anyone.

"But, for sorcerers to use the shine of their eyes to move their own or anyone else's assemblage point," he continued, "they have to be ruthless. That is, they have to be familiar with that specific position of the assemblage point called the place of no pity. This is especially true for the naguals."

He said that each nagual developed a brand of ruthlessness specific to him alone. He took my case as an example, and said that because of my unstable natural configuration, I appeared to seers as a sphere of luminosity not composed of four balls compressed into one- the usual structure of a nagual- but as a sphere composed of only three compressed balls. This configuration made me automatically hide my ruthlessness behind a mask of indulgence and laxness.

"Naguals are very misleading," don Juan went on. "They always give the impression of something they are not, and they do it so completely that everybody, including those who know them best, believe their masquerade."

"I really don't understand how you can say that I am masquerading, don Juan," I protested.

"You pass yourself off as an indulgent, relaxed man," he said. "You give the impression of being generous; of having great compassion. And everybody is convinced of your genuineness. They can even swear that that is the way you are."

"But that is the way I am!"

Don Juan doubled up with laughter. The direction the conversation had taken was not to my liking. I wanted to set the record straight. I argued vehemently that I was truthful in everything I did, and challenged him to give me an example of my being otherwise.

He said I compulsively treated people with unwarranted generosity, giving them a false sense of my ease and openness. And I argued that being open was my nature. He laughed and retorted that if this were the case, why should be that I always demanded, without voicing it, that the people I dealt with be aware I was deceiving them? The proof was that when they failed to be aware of my ploy and took my pseudo-laxness at face value, I turned on them with exactly the cold ruthlessness I was trying to mask.

His comments made me feel desperate, because I couldn't argue with them. I remained quiet. I did not want to show that I was hurt. I was wondering what to do when he stood and started to walk away.

I stopped him by holding his sleeve. It was an unplanned move on my part which startled me and made him laugh. He sat down again with a look of surprise on his face.

"I didn't mean to be rude," I said, "but I've got to know more about this. It upsets me."

"Make your assemblage point move," he urged. "We've discussed ruthlessness before. Recollect it!"

He eyed me with genuine expectation although he must have seen that I could not recollect anything, for he continued to talk about the naguals' patterns of ruthlessness. He said that his own method consisted of subjecting people to a flurry of coercion and denial, hidden behind sham understanding and reasonableness.

"What about all the explanations you give me?" I asked. "Aren't they the result of genuine reasonableness and desire to help me understand?"

"No," he replied. "They are the result of my ruthlessness."

I argued passionately that my own desire to understand was genuine. He patted me on the shoulder and explained that my desire to understand was genuine, but my generosity was not. He said that naguals masked their ruthlessness automatically, even against their will.

As I listened to his explanation, I had the peculiar sensation in the back of my mind that at some point we had covered the concept of ruthlessness extensively.

"I'm not a rational man," he continued, looking into my eyes. "I only appear to be because my mask is so effective. What you perceive as reasonableness is my lack of pity, because that's what ruthlessness is: a total lack of pity.

"In your case, since you mask your lack of pity with generosity, you appear at ease; open. But actually you are as generous as I am reasonable. We are both fakes. We have perfected the art of disguising the fact that we feel no pity."

He said his benefactor's total lack of pity was masked behind the facade of an easygoing, practical joker with an irresistible need to poke fun at anyone with whom he came into contact.

"My benefactor's mask was that of a happy, unruffled man without a care in the world," don Juan continued. "But underneath all that he was, like all the naguals, as cold as the arctic wind."

"But you are not cold, don Juan," I said sincerely.

"Of course I am," he insisted. "The effectiveness of my mask is what gives you the impression of warmth."

He went on to explain that the nagual Elias's mask consisted of a maddening meticulousness about all details and accuracy, which created the false impression of attention and thoroughness.

He started to describe the nagual Elias's behavior. As he talked, he kept watching me. And perhaps because he was observing me so intently, I was unable to concentrate at all on what he was saying. I made a supreme effort to gather my thoughts.

He watched me for an instant, then went back to explaining ruthlessness, but I no longer needed his explanation.

I told him that I had recollected what he wanted me to recollect: the first time my eyes had shone. Very early in my apprenticeship I had achieved- by myself- a shift in my level of awareness. My assemblage point reached the position called the place of no pity.






The Power Of Silence: Part 4: Chapter 10 - The Place of No Pity.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 4: Chapter 10 - The Place of No Pity.

Don Juan told me that there was no need to talk about the details of my recollection, at least not at that moment, because talk was used only to lead one to recollecting. Once the assemblage point moved, the total experience was relived. He also told me the best way to assure a complete recollection was to walk around.

And so both of us stood up; walked very slowly and in silence, following a trail in those mountains, until I had recollected everything.


We had been in the outskirts of Guaymas, in northern Mexico, on a drive from Nogales, Arizona, when it became evident to me that something was wrong with don Juan. For the last hour or so he had been unusually quiet and somber.

I did not think anything of it, but then, abruptly, his body twitched out of control. His chin hit his chest as if his neck muscles could no longer support the weight of his head.

"Are you getting carsick, don Juan?" I asked, suddenly alarmed.

He did not answer. He was breathing through his mouth.

During the first part of our drive, which had taken several hours, he had been fine. We had talked a great deal about everything. When we had stopped in the city of Santa Ana to get gas, he had even been doing push-outs against the roof of the car to loosen up the muscles of his shoulders.

"What's wrong with you, don Juan?" I asked.

I felt pangs of anxiety in my stomach. With his head down, he mumbled that he wanted to go to a particular restaurant and in a slow, faltering voice gave me precise directions on how to get there.

I parked my car on a side street, a block from the restaurant. As I opened the car door on my side, he held onto my arm with an iron grip. Painfully, and with my help, he dragged himself out of the car, over the driver's seat. Once he was on the sidewalk, he held onto my shoulders with both hands to straighten his back. In ominous silence, we shuffled down the street toward the dilapidated building where the restaurant was.

Don Juan was hanging onto my arm with all his weight. His breathing was so accelerated and the tremor in his body so alarming that I panicked. I stumbled and had to brace myself against the wall to keep us both from falling to the sidewalk. My anxiety was so intense I could not think. I looked into his eyes. They were dull. They did not have the usual shine.

We clumsily entered the restaurant and a solicitous waiter rushed over, as if on cue, to help don Juan.

"How are you feeling today?" he yelled into don Juan's ear.

He practically carried don Juan from the door to a table, seated him, and then disappeared.

"Does he know you, don Juan?" I asked when we were seated.

Without looking at me, he mumbled something unintelligible. I stood up and went to the kitchen to look for the busy waiter.

"Do you know the old man I am with?" I asked when I was able to corner him.

"Of course I know him," he said with the attitude of someone who has just enough patience to answer one question. "He's the old man who suffers from strokes."

That statement settled things for me. I knew then that don Juan had suffered a mild stroke while we were driving. There was nothing I could have done to avoid it, but I felt helpless and apprehensive. The feeling that the worst had not yet happened made me feel sick to my stomach.

I went back to the table and sat down in silence. Suddenly the same waiter arrived with two plates of fresh shrimp and two large bowls of sea-turtle soup. The thought occurred to me that either the restaurant served only shrimp and sea-turtle soup, or don Juan ate the same thing every time he was here.

The waiter talked so loudly to don Juan he could be heard above the clatter of customers.

"Hope you like your food!" he yelled. "If you need me, just lift your arm. I'll come right away."

Don Juan nodded his head affirmatively, and the waiter left after patting don Juan affectionately on the back.

Don Juan ate voraciously, smiling to himself from time to time. I was so apprehensive that just the thought of food made me feel nauseous. But then I reached a familiar threshold of anxiety, and the more I worried, the hungrier I became. I tried the food, and found it incredibly good.

I felt somewhat better after having eaten, but the situation had not changed, nor had my anxiety diminished.

When don Juan was through eating, he shot his arm straight above his head. In a moment, the waiter came over and handed me the bill.

I paid him and he helped don Juan stand up. He guided him by the arm out of the restaurant. The waiter even helped him out to the street and said goodbye to him effusively.

We walked back to the car in the same laborious way with don Juan leaning heavily on my arm, and panting and stopping to catch his breath every few steps. The waiter stood in the doorway as if to make sure I was not going to let don Juan fall.

Don Juan took two or three full minutes to climb into the car.

"Tell me, what can I do for you, don Juan?" I pleaded.

"Turn the car around," he ordered in a faltering, barely audible voice. "I want to go to the other side of town to the store. They know me there, too. They are my friends."

I told him I had no idea what store he was talking about. He mumbled incoherently and had a tantrum. He stamped on the floor of the car with both feet. He pouted and actually drooled on his shirt.

Then he seemed to have an instant of lucidity. I got extremely nervous watching him struggle to arrange his thoughts. He finally succeeded in telling me how to get to the store.

My discomfort was at its peak. I was afraid that the stroke don Juan had suffered was more serious than I thought. I wanted to be rid of him; to take him to his family or his friends, but I did not know who they were.

I did not know what else to do. I made a U-turn, and drove to the store which he said was on the other side of town.

I wondered about going back to the restaurant to ask the waiter if he knew don Juan's family. I hoped someone in the store might know him. The more I thought about my predicament, the sorrier I felt for myself. Don Juan was finished. I had a terrible sense of loss, of doom. I was going to miss him, but my sense of loss was offset by my feeling of annoyance at being saddled with him at his worst.

I drove around for almost an hour looking for the store. I could not find it. Don Juan admitted that he might have made a mistake, that the store might be in a different town. By then I was completely exhausted and had no idea what to do next.

In my normal state of awareness I always had the strange feeling that I knew more about him than my reason told me. Now, under the pressure of his mental deterioration, I was certain, without knowing why, that his friends were waiting for him somewhere in Mexico, although I did not know where.

My exhaustion was more than physical. It was a combination of worry and guilt. It worried me that I was stuck with a feeble old man who might, for all I knew, be mortally ill. And I felt guilty for being so disloyal to him.

I parked my car near the waterfront. It took nearly ten minutes for don Juan to get out of the car. We walked toward the ocean, but as we got closer, don Juan shied like a mule and refused to go on. He mumbled that the water of Guaymas Bay scared him.

He turned around and led me to the main square: a dusty plaza without even benches. Don Juan sat down on the curb. A street-cleaning truck went by, rotating its steel brushes, but no water was squirting into them. The cloud of dust made me cough.

I was so disturbed by my situation that the thought of leaving him sitting there crossed my mind. I felt embarrassed at having had such a thought and patted don Juan's back.

"You must make an effort and tell me where I can take you," I said softly. "Where do you want me to go."

"I want you to go to hell!" he replied in a cracked, raspy voice.

Hearing him speak to me like this, I had the suspicion that don Juan might not have suffered from a stroke, but some other crippling brain condition that had made him lose his mind and become violent.

Suddenly he stood up and walked away from me. I noticed how frail he looked. He had aged in a matter of hours. His natural vigor was gone, and what I saw before me was a terribly old, weak man.

I rushed to lend him a hand. A wave of immense pity enveloped me. I saw myself old and weak; barely able to walk. It was intolerable. I was close to weeping, not for don Juan but for myself. I held his arm and made him a silent promise that I would look after him, no matter what.

I was lost in a reverie of self-pity when I felt the numbing force of a slap across my face. Before I recovered from the surprise, don Juan slapped me again across the back of my neck. He was standing facing me, shivering with rage. His mouth was half open and shook uncontrollably.

"Who are you?" he yelled in a strained voice.

He turned to a group of onlookers who had immediately gathered.

"I don't know who this man is," he said to them. "Help me. I'm a lonely old Indian. He's a foreigner and he wants to kill me. They do that to helpless old people; kill them for pleasure."

There was a murmur of disapproval. Various young, husky men looked at me menacingly.

"What are you doing, don Juan?" I asked him in a loud voice. I wanted to reassure the crowd that I was with him.

"I don't know you," don Juan shouted. "Leave me alone."

He turned to the crowd, and asked them to help him. He wanted them to restrain me until the police came.

"Hold him," he insisted. "And someone, please call the police. They'll know what to do with this man."

I had the image of a Mexican jail. No one would know where I was. The idea that months would go by before anyone noticed my disappearance made me react with vicious speed. I kicked the first young man who came close me, then took off at a panicked run. I knew I was running for my life. Several young men ran after me. As I raced toward the main street, I realized that in a small city like Guaymas there were policemen all over the place patrolling on foot. There were none in sight, and before I ran into one I entered the first store in my path. I pretended to be looking for curios.

The young men running after me went by noisily. I conceived a quick plan: to buy as many things as I could. I was counting on being taken for a tourist by the people in the store. Then I was going to ask someone to help me carry the packages to my car. It took me quite a while to select what I wanted. I paid a young man in the store to help me carry my packages, but as I got closer to my car, I saw don Juan standing by it, still surrounded by people. He was talking to a policeman, who was taking notes.

It was useless. My plan had failed. There was no way to get to my car. I instructed the young man to leave my packages on the sidewalk. I told him a friend of mine was going to drive by presently to take me to my hotel. He left and I remained hidden behind the packages I was holding in front of my face, out of sight of don Juan and the people around him.

I saw the policeman examining my California license plates. And that completely convinced me I was done for. The accusation of the crazy old man was too grave. And the fact that I had run away would have only reinforced my guilt in the eyes of any policeman. Besides, I would not have put it past the policeman to ignore the truth just to arrest a foreigner.

I stood in a doorway for perhaps an hour. The policeman left, but the crowd remained around don Juan, who was shouting and agitatedly moving his arms. I was too far away to hear what he was saying, but I could imagine the gist of his fast, nervous shouting.

I was in desperate need of another plan. I considered checking into a hotel and waiting there for a couple of days before venturing out to get my car. I thought of going back to the store and having them call a taxi. I had never had to hire a cab in Guaymas and I had no idea if there were any. But my plan died instantly with the realization that if the police were fairly competent, and had taken don Juan seriously, they would check the hotels. Perhaps the policeman had left don Juan in order to do just that.

Another alternative that crossed my mind was to get to the bus station and catch a bus to any town along the international border. Or to take any bus leaving Guaymas any direction. I abandoned the idea immediately. I was sure don Juan had given my name to the policeman and the police had probably already alerted the bus companies. My mind plunged into blind panic. I took short breaths to calm my nerves.

I noticed then that the crowd around don Juan was beginning to disperse. The policeman returned with a colleague. Then the two of them moved away, walking slowly toward the end of the street.

It was at that point that I felt sudden uncontrollable urge. It was as if my body were disconnected from my brain. I walked to my car, carrying the packages. Without even the slightest trace of fear or concern, I opened the trunk, put the packages inside, then opened the driver's door.

Don Juan was on the sidewalk, by my car, looking at me absentmindedly. I stared at him with a thoroughly uncharacteristic coldness. Never in my life had I had such a feeling. It was not hatred I felt, or even anger. I was not even annoyed with him. What I felt was not resignation or patience, either. And it was certainly not kindness.

Rather it was a cold indifference; a frightening lack of pity. At that instant, I could not have cared less about what happened to don Juan or myself.

Don Juan shook his upper body the way a dog shakes itself dry after a swim. And then, as if all of it had only been a bad dream, he was again the man I knew. He quickly turned his jacket inside out. It was a reversible jacket, beige on one side and black on the other. Now he vas wearing a black jacket. He threw his straw hat inside the car and carefully combed his hair. He pulled his shirt collar over the jacket collar, instantly making himself look younger. Without saying a word, he helped me put the rest of the packages in the car.

When the two policemen ran back to us, blowing their whistles, drawn by the noise of the car doors being opened and closed, don Juan very nimbly rushed to meet them. He listened to them attentively and assured them they had nothing to worry about. He explained that they must have encountered his father, a feeble old Indian who suffered from brain damage. As he talked to them, he opened and closed the car doors, as if checking the locks. He moved the packages from the trunk to the back seat.

His agility and youthful strength were the opposite of the old man's movements of a few minutes ago. I knew that he was acting for the benefit of the policeman who had seen him before. If I had been that man, there would have been no doubt in my mind that I was now seeing the son of the old braindamaged Indian.

Don Juan gave them the name of the restaurant where they knew his father, and then bribed them shamelessly.

I did not bother to say anything to the policemen. There was something that made me feel hard, cold, efficient, and silent.

We got in the car without a word. The policemen did not attempt to ask me anything. They seemed too tired even to try. We drove away.

"What kind of act did you pull out there, don Juan?" I asked, and the coldness in my tone surprised me.

"It was the first lesson in ruthlessness," he said.

He remarked that on our way to Guaymas he had warned me about the impending lesson on ruthlessness.

I confessed that I had not paid attention because I had thought that we were just making conversation to break the monotony of driving.

"I never just make conversation," he said sternly. "You should know that by now. What I did this afternoon was to create the proper situation for you to move your assemblage point to the precise spot where pity disappears. That spot is known as the place of no pity.

"The problem that sorcerers have to solve," he went on, "is that the place of no pity has to be reached with only minimal help. The nagual sets the scene, but it is the apprentice who makes his assemblage point move.

"Today you just did that. I helped you, perhaps a bit dramatically, by moving my own assemblage point to specific position that made me into a feeble and unpredictable old man. I was not just acting old and feeble. I was old"

The mischievous glint in his eyes told me that he was enjoying the moment.

"It was not absolutely necessary that I do that," he went on. "I could have directed you to move your assemblage point without the hard tactics, but I couldn't help myself, this event will never be repeated, I wanted to know whether or not I could act, in some measure, like my own benefactor. Believe me, I surprised myself as much as I must have surprised you."

I felt incredibly at ease. I had no problems in accepting what he was saying to me, and no questions, because I understood everything without needing him to explain. He then said something which I already knew, but could not verbalize, because I would not have been able to find the appropriate words to describe it. He said that everything sorcerers did was done as a consequence of a movement of their assemblage points, and that such movements were ruled by the amount of energy sorcerers had at their command.

I mentioned to don Juan that I knew all that and much more. And he commented that inside every human being was a gigantic, dark lake of silent knowledge which each of us could intuit. He told me I could intuit it perhaps with a bit more clarity than the average man because of my involvement in the warrior's path. He then said that sorcerers were the only beings on earth who deliberately went beyond the intuitive level by training themselves to do two transcendental things: first, to conceive the existence of the assemblage point, and second, to make that assemblage point move.

He emphasized over and over that the most sophisticated knowledge sorcerers possessed was of our potential as perceiving beings; and the knowledge that the content of perception depended on the position of the assemblage point.

At that point I began to experience a unique difficulty in concentrating on what he was saying, not because I was distracted or fatigued, but because my mind, on its own, had started to play the game of anticipating his words. It was as if an unknown part of myself were inside me, trying unsuccessfully to find adequate words to voice a thought. As don Juan spoke, I felt I could anticipate how he was going to express my own silent thoughts. I was thrilled to realize his choice of words was always better than mine could have been. But anticipating his words also diminished my concentration.

I abruptly pulled over to the side of the road. And right there I had, for the first time in my life, a clear knowledge of a dualism in me. Two obviously separate parts were within my being.

One was extremely old, at ease, indifferent. It was heavy, dark, and connected to everything else. It was the part of me that did not care because it was equal to anything. It enjoyed things with no expectation.

The other part was light, new, fluffy, and agitated. It was nervous, and fast. It cared about itself because it was insecure; and did not enjoy anything, simply because it lacked the capacity to connect itself to anything. It was alone; on the surface; vulnerable. That was the part with which I normally looked at the world.

I deliberately looked around with that part. Everywhere I looked I saw extensive farmlands. And that insecure, fluffy, and caring part of me got caught between being proud of the industriousness of man and being sad at the sight of the magnificent old Sonoran desert turned into an orderly scene of furrows and domesticated plants.

The old, dark, heavy part of me did not care. And the two parts entered into a debate. The fluffy part wanted the heavy part to care, and the heavy part wanted the other one to stop fretting, and to enjoy.

"Why did you stop?" don Juan asked.

His voice produced a reaction, but it would be inaccurate to say that it was I who reacted. The sound of his voice seemed to solidify the fluffy part, and suddenly I was recognizably myself.

I described to don Juan the realization I had just had bout my dualism. He began to explain it in terms of the position of the assemblage point, and I lost my solidity. The fluffy part became as fluffy as it had been when I first noticed my dualism, and once again I knew what don Juan was explaining.

He said that when the assemblage point moves and reaches the place of no pity, the position of rationality and common sense becomes weak. The sensation I was having of an older, dark, silent side was a view of the antecedents of reason.

"I know exactly what you are saying," I told him. "I know a great number of things, but I can't speak of what I know. I don't know how to begin."

"I have mentioned this to you already," he said. "What you are experiencing and call dualism is a view from another position of your assemblage point. From that position, you can feel the older side of man. And what the older side of man knows is called silent knowledge. It's a knowledge that you cannot yet voice."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because in order to voice it, it is necessary for you to have and use an inordinate amount of energy," he replied. "You don't at this time have that kind of energy to spare.

"Silent knowledge is something that all of us have," he went on. "Something that has complete mastery; complete knowledge of everything. But it cannot think, therefore, it cannot speak of what it knows.

"Sorcerers believe that when man became aware that he knew, and wanted to be conscious of what he knew, he lost sight of what he knew. This silent knowledge, which you cannot describe, is of course intent- the spirit, the abstract. Man's error was to want to know it directly, the way he knew everyday life. The more he wanted, the more ephemeral it became."

"But what does that mean in plain words, don Juan?" I asked.

"It means that man gave up silent knowledge for the world of reason," he replied. "The more he clings to the world of reason, the more ephemeral intent becomes."

I started the car and we drove in silence. Don Juan did not attempt to give me directions or tell me how to drive- a thing he often did in order to exacerbate my self-importance. I had no clear idea where I was going, yet something in me knew. I let that part take over.

Very late in the evening we arrived at the big house don Juan's group of sorcerers had in a rural area of the state of Sinaloa in northwestern Mexico. The journey seemed to have taken no time at all. I could not remember the particulars of our drive. All I knew about it was that we had not talked.

The house seemed to be empty. There were no signs of people living there. I knew, however, that don Juan's friends were in the house. I could feel their presence without actually having to see them.

Don Juan lit some kerosene lanterns and we sat down at a sturdy table. It seemed that don Juan was getting ready to eat. I was wondering what to say or do when a woman entered noiselessly and put a large plate of food on the table. I was not prepared for her entrance, and when she stepped out of the darkness into the light as if she had materialized out of nowhere, I gasped involuntarily.

"Don't be scared, it's me, Carmela," she said and disappeared, swallowed again by the darkness.

I was left with my mouth open in mid-scream. Don Juan laughed so hard that I knew everybody in the house must have heard him. I half expected them to come, but no one appeared.

I tried to eat, but I was not hungry. I began to think about the woman. I did not know her. That is, I could almost identify her, but I could not quite work my memory of her out of the fog that obscured my thoughts. I struggled to clear my mind. I felt that it required too much energy and I gave up.

Almost as soon as I had stopped thinking about her, I began to experience a strange, numbing anxiety. At first I believed that the dark, massive house, and the silence in and around it were depressing.

But then my anguish rose to incredible proportions right after I heard the faint barking of dogs in the distance. For a moment I thought that my body was going to explode. Don Juan intervened quickly. He jumped to where I was sitting and pushed my back until it cracked. The pressure on my back brought me immediate relief.

When I had calmed down, I realized I had lost, together with the anxiety that had nearly consumed me, the clear sense of knowing everything. I could no longer anticipate how don Juan was going to articulate what I myself knew.

Don Juan then started a most peculiar explanation. First he said that the origin of the anxiety that had overtaken me with the speed of wildfire was the sudden movement of my assemblage point caused by Carmela's sudden appearance; and by my unavoidable effort to move my assemblage point to the place where I would be able to identify her completely.

He advised me to get used to the idea of recurrent attacks of the same type of anxiety because my assemblage point was going to keep moving.

"Any movement of the assemblage point is like dying," he said. "Everything in us gets disconnected, then reconnected again to a source of much greater power. That amplification of energy is felt as a killing anxiety."

"What am I to do when this happens?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Just wait. The outburst of energy will pass. What's dangerous is not knowing what is happening to you. Once you know, there is no real danger."

Then he talked about ancient man. He said that ancient man knew in the most direct fashion what to do and how best to do it. But, because he performed so well, he started to develop a sense of selfness which gave him the feeling that he could predict and plan the actions he was used to performing.

And thus the idea of an individual self appeared; an individual self which began to dictate the nature and scope of man's actions. As the feeling of the individual self became stronger, man lost his natural connection to silent knowledge.

Modern man, being heir to that development, therefore, finds himself so hopelessly removed from the source of everything that all he can do is express his despair in violent and cynical acts of self-destruction. Don Juan asserted that the reason for man's cynicism and despair is the bit of silent knowledge left in him, which does two things: one, it gives man an inkling of his ancient connection to the source of everything; and two, it makes man feel that without this connection, he has no hope of peace, of satisfaction, of attainment.

I thought I had caught don Juan in a contradiction. I pointed out to him that he had once told me that war was the natural state for a warrior, that peace was an anomaly.

"That's right," he admitted. "But war for a warrior doesn't mean acts of individual or collective stupidity or wanton violence. War, for a warrior, is the total struggle against that individual self that has deprived man of his power."


Don Juan said then that it was time for us to talk further about ruthlessness- the most basic premise of sorcery. He explained that sorcerers had discovered that any movement of the assemblage point meant a movement away from the excessive concern with that individual self which was the mark of modern man.

He went on to say that sorcerers believed it was the position of the assemblage point which made modern man a homicidal egotist, a being totally involved with his self-image. Having lost hope of ever returning to the source of everything, man sought solace in his selfness. And, in doing so, he succeeded in fixing his assemblage point in the exact position to perpetuate his self-image. It was therefore safe to say that any movement of the assemblage point away from its customary position resulted in a movement away from man's self-reflection and its concomitant self-importance.

Don Juan described self-importance as the force generated by man's self-image. He reiterated that it is that force which keeps the assemblage point fixed where it is at present. For this reason, the thrust of the warriors' way is to dethrone self-importance, and everything sorcerers do is toward accomplishing this goal.

He explained that sorcerers had unmasked self-importance and found that it is self-pity masquerading as something else.

"It doesn't sound possible, but that is what it is," he said. "Self-pity is the real enemy, and the source of man's misery.

"Without a degree of pity for himself, man could not afford to be as self-important as he is.

"However, once the force of self-importance is engaged, it develops its own momentum. And it is this seemingly independent nature of self-importance which gives it its fake sense of worth."

His explanation, which I would have found incomprehensible under normal conditions, seemed thoroughly cogent to me. But because of the duality in me which still pertained, it appeared a bit simplistic. Don Juan seemed to have aimed his thoughts and words at a specific target. And I, in my normal state of awareness, was that target.

He continued his explanation, saying that sorcerers are absolutely convinced that by moving our assemblage points away from their customary position, we achieve a state of being which could only be called ruthlessness.

Sorcerers knew, by means of their practical actions, that as soon as their assemblage points move, their self-importance crumbles. Without the customary position of their assemblage points, their self-image can no longer be sustained. And without the heavy focus on that self-image, they lose their self-compassion, and with it their self-importance. Sorcerers are right, therefore, in saying that self-importance is merely self-pity in disguise.


He then took my experience of the afternoon and went through it step by step. He stated that a nagual in his role as leader or teacher has to behave in the most efficient, but the same time most impeccable, way.

Since it is not possible for him to plan the course of his actions rationally, the nagual always lets the spirit decide his course. For example, he said he had had no plans to do what he did until the spirit gave him an indication, very early that morning when we were having breakfast in Nogales. He urged me recall the event and tell him what I could remember. I recalled that during breakfast I got very embarrassed because don Juan made fun of me.

"Think about the waitress," don Juan urged me.

"All I can remember about her is that she was rude."

"But what did she do?" he insisted. "What did she do while she waited to take our order?"


After a moment's pause, I remembered that she was a hard-looking young woman who threw the menu at me and stood there, almost touching me, silently demanding that I hurry up and order.

While she waited, impatiently tapping her big foot on the floor, she pinned her long black hair up on her head. The change was remarkable. She looked more appealing, more mature.

I was frankly taken by the change in her. In fact, I overlooked her bad manners because of it.


"That was the omen," don Juan said. "Hardness and transformation were the indication of the spirit."

He said that his first act of the day, as a nagual, was to let me know his intentions. To that end, he told me in very plain language, but in a surreptitious manner, that he was going to give me a lesson in ruthlessness.

"Do you remember now?" he asked. "I talked to the waitress and to an old lady at the next table."


Guided by him in this fashion, I did remember don Juan practically flirting with an old lady and the ill-mannered waitress. He talked to them for a long time while I ate. He told them idiotically funny stories about graft and corruption in government, and jokes about farmers in the city.

Then he asked the waitress if she was an American. She said no and laughed at the question. Don Juan said that that was good, because I was a Mexican-American in search of love. And I might as well start here, after eating such a good breakfast.

The women laughed. I thought they laughed at my being embarrassed. Don Juan said to them that, seriously speaking, I had come to Mexico to find a wife. He asked if they knew of any honest, modest, chaste woman who wanted to get married and was not too demanding in matters of male beauty. He referred to himself as my spokesman.

The women were laughing very hard. I was truly chagrined. Don Juan turned to the waitress, and asked her if she would marry me. She said that she was engaged. It looked to me as though she was taking don Juan seriously.

"Why don't you let him speak for himself?" the old lady asked don Juan.

"Because he has a speech impediment," he said. "He stutters horribly."

The waitress said that I had been perfectly normal when I ordered my food.

"Oh! You're so observant," don Juan said. "Only when he orders food can he speak like anyone else. I've told him time and time again that if he wants to learn to speak normally, he has to be ruthless. I brought him here to give him some lessons in ruthlessness."

"Poor man," the old woman said.

"Well, we'd better get going if we are going to find love for him today," don Juan said as he stood to leave.

"You're serious about this marriage business," the young waitress said to don Juan.

"You bet," he replied. "I'm going to help him get what he needs so he can cross the border and go to the place of no pity."

I thought don Juan was calling either marriage or the U.S.A. the place of no pity. I laughed at the metaphor, and stuttered horribly for a moment; which scared the women to death, and made don Juan laugh hysterically.


"It was imperative that I state my purpose to you then," Juan said, continuing his explanation. "I did, but it bypassed you completely, as it should have."

He said that from the moment the spirit manifested itself, every step was carried to its satisfactory completion with absolute ease. My assemblage point reached the place of no pity when, under the stress of his transformation, it was forced to abandon its customary place of self-reflection.

"The position of self-reflection," don Juan went on, "forces the assemblage point to assemble a world of sham compassion, but of very real cruelty and self-centeredness. In that world the only real feelings are those convenient for one who feels them.

"For a sorcerer, ruthlessness is not cruelty. Ruthlessness is the opposite of self-pity or self-importance. Ruthlessness is sobriety."






The Power Of Silence: Part 5 - The Requirements Of Intent.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 5 - The Requirements Of Intent.

  • Breaking The Mirror Of Self-Reflection.
  • The Ticket To Impeccability.





The Power Of Silence: Part 5: Chapter 11 - Breaking the Mirror of Self-Reflection.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Chapter 11 - Breaking the Mirror of Self-Reflection.

We spent a night at the spot where I had recollected my experience in Guaymas. During that night, because my assemblage point was pliable, don Juan helped me to reach new positions, which immediately became blurry non-memories.

The next day I was incapable of remembering what had happened or what I had perceived. I had, nonetheless, the acute sensation of having had bizarre experiences. Don Juan agreed that my assemblage point had moved beyond his expectations, yet he refused to give me even a hint of what I had done. His only comment was that some day I would recollect everything.

Around noon, we continued on up the mountains. We walked in silence and without stopping until late in the afternoon. As we slowly climbed a mildly steep mountain ridge, don Juan suddenly spoke. I did not understand any of what he was saying. He repeated it until I realized he wanted to stop on a wide ledge visible from where we were. He was telling me that we would be protected there from the wind by the boulders and large, bushy shrubs.

"Tell me, which spot on the ledge would be the best for us to sit out all night?" he asked.

Earlier, as we were climbing, I had spotted the almost unnoticeable ledge. It appeared as a patch of darkness on the face of the mountain. I had identified it with a very quick glance. Now that don Juan was asking my opinion, I elected a spot of even greater darkness, one almost black, on the south side of the ledge. The dark ledge and the almost black spot in it did not generate any feeling of fear or anxiety. I felt that I liked that ledge. And I liked its dark spot even more.

"That spot there is very dark, but I like it," I said, when we reached the ledge.

He agreed that that was the best place to sit all night. He said it was a place with a special level of energy, and that he also liked its pleasing darkness.

We headed toward some protruding rocks. Don Juan cleared an area by the boulders and we sat with our backs against them.

I told him that on the one hand I thought it had been a lucky guess on my part to choose that very spot, but on the other I could not overlook the fact that I had perceived it with my eyes.

"I wouldn't say that you perceived it exclusively with your eyes," he said. "It was a bit more complex than that."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?" I asked.

"I mean that you have possibilities you are not yet aware of," he replied. "Since you're quite careless, you may think that all of what you perceive is simply average sensory perception."

He said that if I doubted him, he dared me to go down to the base of the mountain again and corroborate what he was saying. He predicted that it would be impossible for me to see the dark ledge merely by looking at it.

I stated vehemently that I had no reason to doubt him. I was not going to climb down that mountain.

He insisted that we climb down. I thought he was doing it just to tease me. I got nervous, though, when it occurred to me that he might be serious. He laughed so hard he choked.

He commented on the fact that all animals could detect in their surroundings areas with special levels of energy. Most animals were frightened of these spots and avoided them. The exceptions were mountain lions and coyotes which lay and even slept on such spots whenever they happened upon them. But, only sorcerers deliberately sought such spots for their effects.

I asked him what the effects were. He said that they gave out imperceptible jolts of invigorating energy. He remarked that the average man living in natural settings could find such spots even though he was not conscious about having found them nor aware of their effects.

"How do they know they have found them?" I asked.

"They never do," he replied. "Sorcerers watching men travel on foot trails notice right away that men always become tired and rest right on the spot with a positive level of energy. If, on the other hand, they are going through an area with an injurious flow of energy, they become nervous and rush. If you ask them about it, they will tell you they rushed through that area because they felt energized. But it is the opposite- the only place that energizes them is the place where they feel tired."

He said that sorcerers are capable of finding such spots by perceiving with their entire bodies minute surges of energy in their surroundings. The sorcerers' increased energy, derived from the curtailment of their self-reflection, allows their senses a greater range of perception.

"I've been trying to make clear to you that the only worthwhile course of action, whether for sorcerers or average men, is to restrict our involvement with our self-image," he continued. "What a nagual aims at with his apprentices is the shattering of their mirror of self-reflection."

He added that each apprentice was an individual case, and that the nagual had to let the spirit decide about the particulars.

"Each of us has a different degree of attachment to our self-reflection," he went on. "And that attachment is felt as need. For example, before I started on the path of knowledge, my life was endless need. And years after the nagual Julian had taken me under his wing, I was still just as needy, if not more so.

"But there are examples of people, sorcerers or average men, who need no one. They get peace, harmony, laughter, knowledge, directly from the spirit. They need no intermediaries. For you and for me, it's different. I'm your intermediary and the nagual Julian was mine. Intermediaries, besides providing a minimal chance- the awareness of intent- help shatter people's mirrors of self-reflection.

"The only concrete help you ever get from me is that I attack your self-reflection. If it weren't for that, you would be wasting your time. This is the only real help you've gotten from me."

"You've taught me, don Juan, more than anyone in my entire life," I protested.

"I've taught you all kinds of things in order to trap your attention," he said. "You'll swear, though, that that teaching has been the important part. It hasn't. There is very little value in instruction. Sorcerers maintain that moving the assemblage point is all that matters. And that movement, as you well know, depends on increased energy and not on instruction."


He then made an incongruous statement. He said that any human being who would follow a specific and simple sequence of actions can learn to move his assemblage point.

I pointed out that he was contradicting himself. To me, a sequence of actions meant instructions; it meant procedures.

"In the sorcerers' world there are only contradictions of terms," he replied. "In practice there are no contradictions. The sequence of actions I am talking about is one that stems from being aware. To become aware of this sequence you need a nagual. This is why I've said that the nagual provides a minimal chance, but that minimal chance is not instruction, like the instruction you need to learn to operate a machine. The minimal chance consists of being made aware of the spirit."

He explained that the specific sequence he had in mind called for being aware that self-importance is the force which keeps the assemblage point fixed. When self-importance is curtailed, the energy it requires is no longer expended. That increased energy then serves as the springboard that launches the assemblage point- automatically and without premeditation- into an inconceivable journey.

Once the assemblage point has moved, the movement itself entails moving from self-reflection, and this, in turn, assures a clear connecting link with the spirit. He commented that, after all, it was self-reflection that had disconnected man from the spirit in the first place.

"As I have already said to you," don Juan went on, "sorcery is a journey of return. We return victorious to the spirit, having descended into hell. And from hell we bring trophies. Understanding is one of our trophies."

I told him that his sequence seemed very easy and very simple when he talked about it, but that when I had tried to put it into practice I had found it the total antithesis of ease and simplicity.

"Our difficulty with this simple progression," he said, "is that most of us are unwilling to accept that we need so little to get on with. We are geared to expect instruction, teaching, guides, or masters. And when we are told that we need no one, we don't believe it. We become nervous, then distrustful, and finally angry and disappointed. If we need help, it is not in methods, but in emphasis. If someone makes us aware that we need to curtail our self-importance, that help is real.

"Sorcerers say we should need no one to convince us that the world is infinitely more complex than our wildest fantasies. So, why are we dependent? Why do we crave someone to guide us when we can do it ourselves? Big question, eh?"

Don Juan did not say anything else. Obviously, he wanted me to ponder the question. But I had other worries in my mind. My recollection had undermined certain foundations that I had believed unshakable, and I desperately needed him to redefine them.

I broke the long silence and voiced my concern. I told him that I had come to accept that it was possible for me to forget whole incidents from beginning to end if they had taken place in heightened awareness. Up to that day, I had had total recall of anything I had done under his guidance in my state of normal awareness. Yet, having had breakfast with him in Nogales had not existed in my mind prior to my recollecting it. And that event simply must have taken place in the world of everyday affairs.

"You are forgetting something essential," he said. "The nagual's presence is enough to move the assemblage point. I have humored you all along with the nagual's blow. The blow between the shoulder blades that I have delivered is only a pacifier. It serves the purpose of removing your doubts. Sorcerers use physical contact as a jolt to the body. It doesn't do anything but give confidence to the apprentice who is being manipulated."

"Then who moves the assemblage point, don Juan?" I asked.

"The spirit does it," he replied in the tone of someone about to lose his patience.

He seemed to check himself and smiled and shook his head from side to side in a gesture of resignation.

"It's hard for me to accept," I said. "My mind is ruled by the principle of cause and effect."

He had one of his usual attacks of inexplicable laughter- inexplicable from my point of view, of course. I must have looked annoyed. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"I laugh like this periodically because you are demented," he said. "The answer to everything you ask me is staring you right in the eyes and you don't see it. I think dementia is your curse."

His eyes were so shiny, so utterly crazy and mischievous, that I ended up laughing myself.

"I have insisted to the point of exhaustion that there are no procedures in sorcery," he went on. "There are no methods, no steps. The only thing that matters is the movement of the assemblage point. And no procedure can cause that. It's an effect that happens all by itself."

He pushed me as if to straighten my shoulders, and then he peered at me, looking right into my eyes. My attention became riveted to his words.

"Let us see how you figure this out," he said. "I have just said that the movement of the assemblage point happens by itself. But I have also said that the nagual's presence moves his apprentice's assemblage point; and that the way the nagual masks his ruthlessness either helps or hinders that movement. How would you resolve this contradiction?"

I confessed that I had been just about to ask him about the contradiction, for I had been aware of it, but that I could not even begin to think of resolving it. I was not a sorcery practitioner.

"What are you, then?" he asked.

"I am a student of anthropology, trying to figure out what sorcerers do," I said.

My statement was not altogether true, but it was not a lie.

Don Juan laughed uncontrollably.

"It's too late for that," he said. "Your assemblage point has moved already. And it is precisely that movement that makes one a sorcerer."

He stated that what seemed a contradiction was really the two sides of the same coin. The nagual entices the assemblage point into moving by helping to destroy the mirror of self-reflection. But that is all the nagual can do. The actual mover is the spirit, the abstract; something that cannot be seen or felt; something that does not seem to exist, and yet does.

For this reason, sorcerers report that the assemblage point moves all by itself. Or they say that the nagual moves it. The nagual, being the conduit of the abstract, is allowed to express the spirit through his actions.

I looked at don Juan questioningly.

"The nagual moves the assemblage point, and yet it is not he himself who does the actual moving," don Juan said. "Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that the spirit expresses itself in accordance with the nagual's impeccability. The spirit can move the assemblage point with the mere presence of an impeccable nagual."

He said that he had wanted to clarify this point, because, if it was misunderstood, it led a nagual back to self-importance and thus to his destruction.

He changed the subject and said that, because the spirit had no perceivable essence, sorcerers deal rather with the specific instances and ways in which they are able to shatter the mirror of self-reflection.

Don Juan noted that in this area it was important to realize the practical value of the different ways in which the naguals masked their ruthlessness. He said my mask of generosity, for example, was adequate for dealing with people on a shallow level, but useless for shattering their self-reflection because it forced me to demand an almost impossible decision on their part. I expected them to jump into the sorcerers' world without any preparation.

"A decision such as that jump must be prepared for," he went on. "And in order to prepare for it, any kind of mask for a nagual's ruthlessness will do, except the mask of generosity."

Perhaps because I desperately wanted to believe that I was truly generous, his comments on my behavior renewed my terrible sense of guilt. He assured me that I had nothing to be ashamed of, and that the only undesirable effect was that my pseudo-generosity did not result in positive trickery.

In this regard, he said, although I resembled his benefactor in many ways, my mask of generosity was too crude, too obvious to be of value to me as a teacher. A mask of reasonableness, such as his own, however, was very effective in creating an atmosphere propitious to moving the assemblage point. His disciples totally believed his pseudo reasonableness. In fact, they were so inspired by it that he could easily trick them into exerting themselves to any degree.

"What happened to you that day in Guaymas was an example of how the nagual's masked ruthlessness shatters self-reflection," he continued. "My mask was your downfall. You, like everyone around me, believed my reasonableness. And, of course, you expected, above all, the continuity of that reasonableness.

"When I faced you with not only the senile behavior of a feeble old man, but with the old man himself, your mind went to extremes in its efforts to repair my continuity and your self-reflection. And so you told yourself that I must have suffered a stroke.

"Finally, when it became impossible to believe in the continuity of my reasonableness, your mirror began to break down. From that point on, the shift of your assemblage point was just a matter of time. The only thing in question was whether it was going to reach the place of no pity."

I must have appeared skeptical to don Juan because he explained that the world of our self-reflection or of our mind was very flimsy and was held together by a few key ideas that served as its underlying order. When those ideas failed, the underlying order ceased to function.

"What are those key ideas, don Juan?" I asked.

"In your case regarding that particular instance, as in the case of the audience of that healer we talked about, continuity was the key idea," he replied.

"What is continuity?" I asked.

"The idea that we are a solid block," he said. "In our minds, what sustains our world is the certainty that we are unchangeable.

We may accept that our behavior can be modified, and that our reactions and opinions can be modified. But the idea that we are malleable to the point of changing appearances- to the point of being someone else- that is not part of the underlying order of our self-reflection. Whenever a sorcerer interrupts that order, the world of reason stops."

I wanted to ask him if breaking an individual's continuity was enough to cause the assemblage point to move. He seemed to anticipate my question. He said that that breakage was merely a softener. What helped the assemblage point move was the nagual's ruthlessness.

He then compared the acts he performed that afternoon in Guaymas with the actions of the healer we had previously discussed. He said that the healer had shattered the self-reflection of the people in her audience with a series of acts for which they had no equivalents in their daily lives- the dramatic spirit possession, changing voices, cutting the patient's body open. As soon as the continuity of the idea of themselves was broken, their assemblage points were ready to be moved.

He reminded me that he had described to me in the past the concept of stopping the world. He had said that stopping the world was as necessary for sorcerers as reading and writing was for me. It consisted of introducing a dissonant element into the fabric of everyday behavior for purposes of halting the otherwise smooth flow of ordinary events- events which were catalogued in our minds by our reason.

The dissonant element was called 'not-doing', or the opposite of doing. 'Doing' was anything that was part of a whole for which we had a cognitive account. Not-doing was an element that did not belong in that charted whole.

"Sorcerers, because they are stalkers, understand human behavior to perfection," he said. They understand, for instance, that human beings are creatures of inventory. Knowing the ins and outs of a particular inventory is what makes a man a scholar or an expert in his field.

"Sorcerers know that when an average person's inventory fails, the person either enlarges his inventory or his world of self-reflection collapses. The average person is willing to incorporate new items into his inventory if they don't contradict the inventory's underlying order. But if the items contradict that order, the person's mind collapses. The inventory is the mind. Sorcerers count on this when they attempt to break the mirror of self-reflection."

He explained that that day he had carefully chosen the props for his act to break my continuity. He slowly transformed himself until he was indeed a feeble old man, and then, in order to reinforce the breaking of my continuity, he took me to a restaurant where they knew him as an old man.

I interrupted him. I had become aware of a contradiction I had not noticed before. He had said, at the time, that the reason he transformed himself was that he wanted to know what it was like to be old. The occasion was propitious and unrepeatable. I had understood that statement as meaning that he had not been an old man before. Yet at the restaurant they knew him as the feeble old man who suffered from strokes.

"The nagual's ruthlessness has many aspects," he said. "It's like a tool that adapts itself to many uses. Ruthlessness is a state of being. It is a level of intent that the nagual attains.

"The nagual uses it to entice the movement of his own assemblage point or those of his apprentices. Or he uses it to stalk. I began that day as a stalker, pretending to be old, and ended up as a genuinely old, feeble man. My ruthlessness, controlled by my eyes, made my own assemblage point move.

"Although I had been at the restaurant many times before as an old, sick man, I had only been stalking, merely playing at being old. Never before that day had my assemblage point moved to the precise spot of age and senility."

He said that as soon as he had intended to be old, his eyes lost their shine, and I immediately noticed it. Alarm was written all over my face. The loss of the shine in his eyes was a consequence of using his eyes to intend the position of an old man. As his assemblage point reached that position, he was able to age in appearance, behavior, and feeling.

I asked him to clarify the idea of intending with the eyes. I had the faint notion I understood it, yet I could not formulate even to myself what I knew.

"The only way of talking about it is to say that intent is intended with the eyes," he said. "I know that it is so. Yet, just like you, I can't pinpoint what it is I know. Sorcerers resolve this particular difficulty by accepting something extremely obvious: Human beings are infinitely more complex and mysterious than our wildest fantasies."

I insisted that he had not shed any light on the matter.

"All I can say is that the eyes do it," he said cuttingly. "I don't know how, but they do it. They summon intent with something indefinable that they have; something in their shine. Sorcerers say that intent is experienced with the eyes, not with the reason."

He refused to add anything and went back to explaining my recollection. He said that once his assemblage point had reached the specific position that made him genuinely old, doubts should have been completely removed from my mind. But due to the fact that I took pride in being super-rational, I immediately did my best to explain away his transformation.

"I've told you over and over that being too rational is a handicap," he said. "Human beings have a very deep sense of magic. We are part of the mysterious. Rationality is only a veneer with us. If we scratch that surface, we find a sorcerer underneath. Some of us, however, have great difficulty getting underneath the surface level; others do it with total ease. You and I are very alike in this respect- we both have to sweat blood before we let go of our self-reflection."

I explained to him that, for me, holding onto my rationality had always been a matter of life or death. Even more so when it came to my experiences in his world.

He remarked that that day in Guaymas my rationality had been exceptionally trying for him. From the start he had had to make use of every device he knew to undermine it. To that end, he began by forcibly putting his hands on my shoulders and nearly dragging me down with his weight. That blunt physical maneuver was the first jolt to my body. And this, together with my fear caused by his lack of continuity, punctured my rationality.

"But puncturing your rationality was not enough," don Juan went on. "I knew that if your assemblage point was going to reach the place of no pity, I had to break every vestige of my continuity. That was when I became really senile and made you run around town, and I finally got angry at you and slapped you.

"You were shocked, but you were on the road to instant recovery when I gave your mirror of self-image what should have been its final blow. I yelled 'bloody murder'. I didn't expect you to run away. I had forgotten about your violent outbursts."

He said that in spite of my on-the-spot recovery tactics, my assemblage point reached the place of no pity when I became enraged at his senile behavior. Or perhaps it had been the opposite: I became enraged because my assemblage point had reached the place of no pity. It did not really matter. What counted was that my assemblage point did arrive there.

Once it was there, my own behavior changed markedly. I became cold and calculating and indifferent to my personal safety.

I asked don Juan whether he had seen all this. I did not remember telling him about it. He replied that to know what I was feeling, all he had to do was introspect and remember his own experience.

He pointed out that my assemblage point became fixed in its new position when he reverted to his natural self. By then, my conviction about his normal continuity had suffered such a profound upheaval that continuity no longer functioned as a cohesive force. And it was at that moment, from its new position, that my assemblage point allowed me to build another type of continuity, one which I expressed in terms of a strange, detached hardness- a hardness that became my normal mode of behavior from then on.

"Continuity is so important in our lives that if it breaks it's always instantly repaired," he went on. "In the case of sorcerers, however, once their assemblage points reach the place of no pity, continuity is never the same.

"Since you are naturally slow, you haven't noticed yet that since that day in Guaymas you have become, among other things, capable of accepting any kind of discontinuity at its face value- after a token struggle of your reason, of course."

His eyes were shining with laughter.

"It was also that day that you acquired your masked ruthlessness," he went on. "Your mask wasn't as well developed as it is now, of course, but what you got then was the rudiments of what was to become your mask of generosity."

I tried to protest. I did not like the idea of masked ruthlessness, no matter how he put it.

"Don't use your mask on me," he said, laughing. "Save it for a better subject: someone who doesn't know you."

He urged me to recollect accurately the moment the mask came to me.

"As soon as you felt that cold fury coming over you," he went on, "you had to mask it. You didn't joke about it, as my benefactor would have done. You didn't try to sound reasonable about it, like I would. You didn't pretend to be intrigued by it, like the nagual Elias would have. Those are the three nagual's masks I know. What did you do then? You calmly walked to your car and gave half of your packages away to the guy who was helping you carry them."

Until that moment I had not remembered that indeed someone helped me carry the packages. I told don Juan that I had seen lights dancing before my face, and I had thought I was seeing them because, driven by my cold fury, I was on the verge of fainting.

"You were not on the verge of fainting," don Juan answered. "You were on the verge of entering a dreaming state and seeing the spirit all by yourself; like Talia and my benefactor."

I said to don Juan that it was not generosity that made me give away the packages but cold fury. I had to do something to calm myself, and that was the first thing that occurred to me.

"But that's exactly what I've been telling you. Your generosity is not genuine," he retorted and began to laugh at my dismay.






The Power Of Silence: Part 5: Chapter 12 - The Ticket to Impeccability.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 5: Chapter 12 - The Ticket to Impeccability.

It had gotten dark while don Juan was talking about breaking the mirror of self-reflection. I told him I was thoroughly exhausted, and we should cancel the rest of the trip and return home; but he maintained that we had to use every minute of our available time to review the sorcery stories, or recollect by making my assemblage point move as many times as possible.

I was in a complaining mood. I said that a state of deep fatigue such as mine could only breed uncertainty and lack of conviction.

"Your uncertainty is to be expected," don Juan said matter-of-factly. "After all, you are dealing with a new type of continuity. It takes time to get used to it. Warriors spend years in limbo where they are neither average men nor sorcerers."

"What happens to them in the end?" I asked. "Do they choose sides?"

"No. They have no choice," he replied. "All of them become aware of what they already are: sorcerers. The difficulty is that the mirror of self-reflection is extremely powerful and only lets its victims go after a ferocious struggle."

He stopped talking and seemed lost in thought. His body entered into the state of rigidity that I had seen before whenever he was engaged in what I characterized as reveries, but which he described as instances in which his assemblage point had moved and he was able to recollect.

"I'm going to tell you the story of a sorcerer's ticket to impeccability," he suddenly said after some thirty minutes of total silence. "I'm going to tell you the story of my death."


He began to recount what had happened to him after his arrival in Durango still disguised in women's clothes following his month long journey through central Mexico. He said that old Belisario took him directly to a hacienda to hide from the monstrous man who was chasing him.

As soon as he arrived, don Juan- very daringly in view of his taciturn nature- introduced himself to everyone in the house. There were seven beautiful women and a strange unsociable man who did not utter a single word.

Don Juan delighted the lovely women with his rendition of the monstrous man's efforts to capture him. Above all, they were enchanted with the disguise which he still wore, and the story that went with it. They never tired of hearing the details of his trip, and all of them advised him on how to perfect the knowledge he had acquired during his journey. What surprised don Juan was their poise and assuredness, which were unbelievable to him.

The seven women were exquisite and they made him feel happy. He liked them and trusted them. They treated him with respect and consideration. But something in their eyes told him that under their facades of charm, there existed a terrifying coldness; an aloofness he could never penetrate.

The thought occurred to him that in order for these strong and beautiful women to be so at ease and to have no regard for formalities, they had to be loose women. Yet it was obvious to him that they were not.

Don Juan was left alone to roam the property. He was dazzled by the huge mansion and its grounds. He had never seen anything like it. It was an old colonial house with a high surrounding wall. Inside were balconies with flowerpots and patios with enormous fruit trees that provided shade, privacy, and quiet.

There were large rooms, and on the ground floor airy corridors around the patios. On the upper floor there were mysterious bedrooms where don Juan was not permitted to set foot.

During the following days don Juan was amazed by the profound interest the women took in his well-being. They did everything for him. They seemed to hang on his every word. Never before had people been so kind to him. But also, never before had he felt so solitary. He was always in the company of the beautiful, strange women, and yet he had never been so alone.

Don Juan believed that his feeling of aloneness came from being unable to predict the behavior of the women or to know their real feelings. He knew only what they told him about themselves.

A few days after his arrival, the woman who seemed to be their leader gave him some brand-new men's clothes and told him that his woman's disguise was no longer necessary, because whoever the monstrous man might have been, he was now nowhere in sight. She told him he was free to go whenever he pleased.

Don Juan begged to see Belisario, whom he had not seen since the day they arrived. The woman said that Belisario was gone. He had left word, however, that don Juan could stay in the house as long as he wanted- but only if he was in danger.

Don Juan declared he was in mortal danger. During his few days in the house, he had seen the monster constantly, always sneaking about the cultivated fields surrounding the house. The woman did not believe him and told him bluntly that he was a con artist pretending to see the monster so they would take him in. She told him their house was not a place to loaf. She stated they were serious people who worked very hard and could not afford to keep a freeloader.

Don Juan was insulted. He stomped out of the house, but when he caught sight of the monster hiding behind the ornamental shrubbery bordering the walk, his fright immediately replaced his anger.

He rushed back into the house and begged the woman to let him stay. He promised to do peon labor for no wages if he could only remain at the hacienda. She agreed, but with the understanding that don Juan would accept two conditions: that he not ask any questions, and that he do exactly as he was told without requiring any explanations. She warned him that if he broke these rules his stay at the house would be in jeopardy.

"I stayed in the house really under protest," don Juan continued. "I did not like to accept her conditions, but I knew that the monster was outside. In the house I was safe. I knew that the monstrous man was always stopped at an invisible boundary that encircled the house, at a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. Within that circle I was safe. As far as I could discern, there must have been something about that house that kept the monstrous man away, and that was all I cared about.

"I also realized that when the people of the house were around me the monster never appeared."

After a few weeks with no change in his situation, the young man who don Juan believed had been living in the monster's house disguised as old Belisario reappeared. He told don Juan that he had just arrived, that his name was Julian, and that he owned the hacienda.

Don Juan naturally asked him about his disguise. But the young man, looking him in the eye and without the slightest hesitation, denied knowledge of any disguise.

"How can you stand here in my own house and talk such rubbish?" he shouted at don Juan. "What do you take me for?"

"But- you are Belisario, aren't you?" don Juan insisted.

"No," the young man said. "Belisario is an old man. I am Julian and I'm young. Don't you see?"

Don Juan meekly admitted that he had not been quite convinced that it was a disguise and immediately realized the absurdity of his statement. If being old was not a disguise, then it was a transformation, and that was even more absurd.

Don Juan's confusion increased by the moment. He asked about the monster and the young man replied that he had no idea what monster he was talking about. He conceded that don Juan must have been scared by something, otherwise old Belisario would not have given him sanctuary. But whatever reason don Juan had for hiding, it was his personal business.

Don Juan was mortified by the coldness of his host's tone and manner. Risking his anger, don Juan reminded him that they had met. His host replied that he had never seen him before that day, but that he was honoring Belisario's wishes as he felt obliged to do.

The young man added that not only was he the owner of the house but that he was also in charge of every person in that household, including don Juan, who, by the act of hiding among them, had become a ward of the house. If don Juan did not like the arrangement, he was free to go and take his chances with the monster no one else was able to see.

Before he made up his mind one way or another, don Juan judiciously decided to ask what being a ward of the house involved.

The young man took don Juan to a section of the mansion that was under construction and said that that part of the house was symbolic of his own life and actions. It was unfinished. Construction was indeed underway, but chances were it might never be completed.

"You are one of the elements of that incomplete construction," he said to don Juan. "Let's say that you are the beam that will support the roof. Until we put it in place and put the roof on top of it, we won't know whether it will support the weight. The master carpenter says it will. I am the master carpenter."

This metaphorical explanation meant nothing to don Juan, who wanted to know what was expected of him in matters of manual labor.

The young man tried another approach.

"I'm a nagual," he explained. "I bring freedom. I'm the leader of the people in this house. You are in this house, and because of that you are part of it whether you like or not."

Don Juan looked at him dumbfounded, unable to say anything.

"I am the nagual Julian," his host said, smiling. "Without my intervention, there is no way to freedom."

Don Juan still did not understand. But he began to wonder about his safety in light of the man's obviously erratic mind. He was so concerned with this unexpected development that he was not even curious about the use of the word nagual. He knew that nagual meant sorcerer, yet he was unable to take in the total implication of the nagual Julian's words. Or perhaps, somehow, he understood it perfectly, although his conscious mind did not.

The young man stared at him for a moment and then said that don Juan's actual job would involve being his personal valet and assistant. There would be no pay for this, but excellent room and board.

From time to time there would be other small jobs for don Juan; jobs requiring special attention. He was to be in charge of either doing the jobs himself or seeing that they got done. For these special services he would be paid small amounts of money which would be put into an account kept for him by the other members of the household. Thus, should he ever want to leave, there would be a small amount of cash to tide him over.

The young man stressed that don Juan should not consider himself a prisoner, but that if he stayed, he would have to work. And still more important than the work were the three requirements he had to fulfill. He had to make a serious effort to learn everything the women taught him. His conduct with all the members of the household must be exemplary, which meant that he would have to examine his behavior and attitude toward them every minute of the day. And he was to address the young man, in direct conversation, as nagual, and when talking of him, to refer to him as the nagual Julian.

Don Juan accepted the terms grudgingly. But although he instantly plunged into his habitual sulkiness and moroseness, he learned his work quickly. What he did not understand was what was expected of him in matters of attitude and behavior. And even though he could not have put his finger on a concrete instance, he honestly believed that he was being lied to and exploited.

As his moroseness got the upper hand, he entered into a permanent sulk and hardly said a word to anyone.

It was then that the nagual Julian assembled all the members of his household and explained to them that even though he badly needed an assistant, he would abide by their decision. If they did not like the morose and unappealing attitude of his new orderly, they had the right to say so. If the majority disapproved of don Juan's behavior, the young man would have to leave and take his chances with whatever was waiting for him outside, be it a monster or his own fabrication.

The nagual Julian then led them to the front of the house and challenged don Juan to show them the monstrous man. Don Juan pointed him out, but no one else saw him. Don then ran frantically from one person to another, insisting that the monster was there, imploring them to help him. They ignored his pleas and called him crazy.

It was then that the nagual Julian put don Juan's fate to vote. The unsociable man did not choose to vote. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. All the women spoke out against don Juan's staying. They argued that he was simply too morose and bad-tempered.

During the heat of the argument, however, the nagual Julian completely changed his attitude and became don Juan's defender. He suggested that the women might be misjudging the poor young man, that he was perhaps not crazy at all and maybe actually did see a monster. He said that perhaps his moroseness was the result of his worries. And a great fight ensued. Tempers flared, and in no time the women were yelling at the nagual.

Don Juan heard the argument but was past caring. He knew they were going to throw him out and that the montrous man would certainly capture him and take him into slavery. In his utter helplessness he began to weep.

His despair and his tears swayed some of the enraged women. The leader of the women proposed another choice: a three-week trial period during which don Juan's actions and attitude would be evaluated daily by all the women. She warned don Juan that if there was one single complaint about his attitude during that time, he would be kicked out for good.

Don Juan recounted how the nagual Julian in a fatherly manner took him aside and proceeded to drive a wedge of ear into him. He whispered to don Juan that he knew for a fact that the monster not only existed but was roaming the property. Nevertheless, because of certain previous agreements with the women, agreements he could not divulge, he was not permitted to tell the women what he knew. He urged don Juan to stop demonstrating his stubborn, morose personality and pretend to be the opposite.

"Pretend to be happy and satisfied," he said to don Juan. "If you don't, the women will kick you out. That prospect alone should be enough to scare you. Use that fear as a real driving force. It's the only thing you have."

Any hesitation or second thoughts that don Juan might have had were instantly dispelled at the sight of the monstrous man. As the monster waited impatiently at the invisible line, he seemed aware of how precarious don Juan's position was. It was as if the monster were ravenously hungry, anxiously anticipating a feast.

The nagual Julian drove his wedge of fear a bit deeper.

"If I were you," he told don Juan, "I would behave like an angel. I'd act any way these women want me to, as long as it kept me from that hellish beast."

"Then you do see the monster?" don Juan asked.

"Of course I do," he replied. "And I also see that if you leave, or if the women kick you out, the monster will capture you and put you in chains. That will change your attitude for sure. Slaves don't have any choice but to behave well with their masters. They say that the pain inflicted by a monster like that is beyond anything."

Don Juan knew that his only hope was to make himself as congenial as he possibly could. The fear of falling prey to that monstrous man was indeed a powerful psychological force.

Don Juan told me that by some quirk in his own nature he was boorish only with the women. He never behaved badly in the presence of the nagual Julian. For some reason that don Juan could not determine in his mind, the nagual was not someone he could attempt to affect either consciously or subconsciously.

The other member of the household, the unsociable man, was of no consequence to don Juan. Don Juan had formed an opinion the moment he met him, and had discounted him. He thought that the man was weak, indolent, and overpowered by those beautiful women. Later on, when he was more aware of the nagual's personality, he knew that the man was definitely overshadowed by the glitter of the others.

As time passed, the nature of leadership and authority among them became evident to don Juan. He was surprised and somehow delighted to realize that no one was better or higher than another. Some of them performed functions of which the others were incapable, but that did not make them superior. It simply made them different.

However, the ultimate decision in everything was automatically the nagual Julian's, and he apparently took great pleasure in expressing his decisions in the form of bestial jokes he played on everyone.

There was also a mystery woman among them. They referred to her as Talia, the nagual woman. Nobody told don Juan who she was, or what being the nagual woman meant. It was made clear to him, however, that one of the seven women was Talia. They all talked so much about her that don Juan's curiosity was aroused to tremendous heights.

He asked so many questions that the woman who was the leader of the other women told him that she would teach him to read and write so that he might make better use of his deductive abilities. She said that he must learn to write things down rather than committing them to memory. In this fashion he would accumulate a huge collection of facts about Talia; facts that he ought to read and study until the truth became evident.

Perhaps anticipating the cynical retort he had in mind, she argued that, although it might seem an absurd endeavor, finding out who Talia was was one of the most difficult and rewarding tasks anyone could undertake.

That, she said, was the fun part. She added more seriously that it was imperative for don Juan to learn basic bookkeeping in order to help the nagual manage the property.

Immediately she started daily lessons and in one year don Juan had progressed so rapidly and extensively that he was able to read, write, and keep account books.

Everything had occurred so smoothly that he did not notice the changes in himself; the most remarkable of which was a sense of detachment. As far as he was concerned, he retained his impression that nothing was happening in the house simply because he still was unable to identify with the members of the household. Those people were mirrors that did not yield reflection.

"I took refuge in that house for nearly three years," don Juan went on. "Countless things happened to me during that time, but I didn't think they were really important. Or at least I had chosen to consider them unimportant. I was convinced that for three years all I had done was hide, shake with fear, and work like a mule."

Don Juan laughed and told me that at one point, at the urging of the nagual Julian, he agreed to learn sorcery so that he might rid himself of the fear that consumed him each time he saw the monster keeping vigil. But although the nagual Julian talked to him a great deal, he seemed more interested in playing jokes on him. So don Juan believed it was fair and accurate to say that he did not learn anything even loosely related to sorcery; simply because it was apparent that nobody in that house knew or practiced sorcery.

One day, however, he found himself walking purposefully, but without any volition on his part, toward the invisible line that held the monster at bay. The monstrous man was, of course, watching the house as usual. But that day, instead of turning back and running to seek shelter inside the house, don Juan kept walking. An incredible surge of energy made him advance with no concern for his safety.

A feeling of total detachment allowed him to face the monster that had terrorized him for so many years. Don Juan expected the monster to lurch out and grab him by the throat; but that thought no longer created any terror in him. From a distance of a few inches he stared at the monstrous man for an instant and then stepped over the line. And the monster did not attack him, as don Juan had always feared he would, but became blurry. He lost his definition and turned into a misty whiteness; a barely perceptible patch of fog.

Don Juan advanced toward the fog and it receded as if in fear. He chased the patch of fog over the fields until he knew there was nothing left of the monster. He knew then that there had never been one. He could not, however, explain what he had feared. He had the vague sensation that although he knew exactly what the monster was, something was preventing him from thinking about it.

He immediately thought that that rascal, the nagual Julian, knew the truth about what was happening. Don Juan would not have put it past the nagual Julian to play that kind of trick.

Before confronting him, don Juan gave himself the pleasure of walking unescorted all over the property. Never before had he been able to do that. Whenever he had needed to venture beyond that invisible line, he had been escorted by a member of the household. That had put a serious constraint on his mobility. The two or three times he had attempted to walk unescorted, he had found that he risked annihilation at the hands of the monstrous being.

Filled with a strange vigor, don Juan went into the house, but instead of celebrating his new freedom and power, he assembled the entire household and angrily demanded that they explain their lies. He accused them of making him work as their slave by playing on his fear of a nonexistent monster.

The women laughed as if he were telling the funniest joke. Only the nagual Julian seemed contrite, especially when don Juan, his voice cracking with resentment, described his three years of constant fear. The nagual Julian broke down and wept openly as don Juan demanded an apology for the shameful way he had been exploited.

"But we told you the monster didn't exist," one of the women said.

Don Juan glared at the nagual Julian, who cowered meekly.

"He knew the monster existed," don Juan yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the nagual.

But at the same time he was aware he was talking nonsense, because the nagual Julian had originally told him that the monster did not exist.

"The monster didn't exist," don Juan corrected himself, shaking with rage. "It was one of his tricks."

The nagual Julian, weeping uncontrollably, apologized to don Juan, while the women howled with laughter. Don Juan had never seen them laughing so hard.

"You knew all along that there was never any monster. You lied to me," he accused the nagual Julian, who, with his head down and his eyes filled with tears, admitted his guilt.

"I have certainly lied to you," he mumbled. "There was never any monster. What you saw as a monster was simply a surge of energy. Your fear made it into a monstrosity."

"You told me that that monster was going to devour me. How could you have lied to me like that?" don Juan shouted at him.

"Being devoured by that monster was symbolic," the nagual Julian replied softly. "Your real enemy is your stupidity. You are in mortal danger of being devoured by that monster now."

Don Juan yelled that he did not have to put up with silly statements. And he insisted they reassure him there were no longer any restrictions on his freedom to leave.

"You can go any time you want," the nagual Julian said curtly.

"You mean I can go right now?" don Juan asked.

"Do you want to?" the nagual asked.

"Of course, I want to leave this miserable place and the miserable bunch of liars who live here," don Juan shouted.

The nagual Julian ordered that don Juan's savings be paid him in full, and with shining eyes wished him happiness, prosperity, and wisdom.

The women did not want to say goodbye to him. They stared at him until he lowered his head to avoid their burning eyes.

Don Juan put his money in his pocket and without a backward glance walked out; glad his ordeal was over. The outside world was a question mark to him. He yearned for it. Inside that house he had been removed from it. He was young, strong. He had money in his pocket and a thirst for living.

He left them without saying thank you. His anger, bottled up by his fear for so long, was finally able to surface. He had even learned to like the members of that household, and now he felt betrayed. He wanted to run as far away from that place as he could.

In the city, he had his first unpleasant encounter. Traveling was very difficult and very expensive. He learned that if he wanted to leave the city at once he would not be able to choose his destination, but would have to wait for whatever muleteers were willing to take him. A few days later he left with a reputable muleteer for the port of Mazatlan.

"Although I was only twenty-three years old at the time," don Juan said, "I felt I had lived a full life. The only thing I had not experienced was sex. The nagual Julian had told me that it was the fact I had not been with a woman that gave me my strength and endurance, and that he had little time left to set things up before the world would catch up with me."

"What did he mean, don Juan?" I asked.

"He meant that I had no idea about the kind of hell I was heading for," don Juan replied, "and that he had very little time to set up my barricades; my silent protectors."

"What's a silent protector, don Juan?" I asked.

"It's a lifesaver," he said. "A silent protector is a surge of inexplicable energy that comes to a warrior when nothing else works.

"My benefactor knew what direction my life would take once I was no longer under his influence. So he struggled to give me as many sorcerers' options as possible. Those sorcerers' options were to be my silent protectors."

"What are sorcerers' options?" I asked.

"Positions of the assemblage point," he replied, "out of the infinite number of positions which the assemblage point can reach. In each and every one of those shallow or deep shifts, a sorcerer can strengthen his new continuity."

He reiterated that everything he had experienced either with his benefactor or while under his guidance had been the result of either a minute or a considerable shift of his assemblage point. His benefactor had made him experience countless sorcerers' options- more than the number that would normally be necessary- because he knew that don Juan's destiny would be to be called upon to explain what sorcerers were and what they did.

"The effect of those shifts of the assemblage point is cumulative," he continued. "It weighs on you whether you understand it or not. That accumulation worked for me in the end.

"Very soon after I came into contact with the nagual, my point of assemblage moved so profoundly that I was capable of seeing. I saw an energy field as a monster. And the point kept on moving until I saw the monster as what it really was: an energy field. I had succeeded in seeing, and I didn't know it. I thought I had done nothing; had learned nothing. I was stupid beyond belief."

"You were too young, don Juan," I said. "You couldn't have done otherwise."

He laughed. He was on the verge of replying, when he seemed to change his mind. He shrugged his shoulders and went on with his account.

Don Juan said that when he arrived in Mazatlan he was practically a seasoned muleteer, and was offered a permanent job running a mule train. He was very satisfied with the arrangements. The idea that he would be making the trip between Durango and Mazatlan pleased him no end.

There were two things, however, that bothered him: first, that he had not yet been with a woman; and second, a strong but unexplainable urge to go north. He did not know why. He knew only that somewhere to the north something was waiting for him. The feeling persisted so strongly that in the end he was forced to refuse the security of a permanent job so he could travel north.

His superior strength and a new and unaccountable cunning enabled him to find jobs even where there were none to be had as he steadily worked his way north to the state of Sinaloa. And there his journey ended. He met a young widow who like himself was a Yaqui Indian; and who had been the wife of a man to whom don Juan was indebted.

He attempted to repay his indebtedness by helping the widow and her children, and without being aware of it, he fell into the role of husband and father.

His new responsibilities put a great burden on him. He lost his freedom of movement, and even his urge to journey farther north. He felt compensated for that loss, however, by the profound affection he felt for the woman and her children.

"I experienced moments of sublime happiness as a husband and father," don Juan said. "But it was at those moments when I first noticed that something was terribly wrong. I realized that I was losing the feeling of detachment- the aloofness I had acquired during my time in the nagual Julian's house. Now I found myself identifying with the people who surrounded me."

Don Juan said that it took about a year of unrelenting abrasion to make him lose every vestige of the new personality he had acquired at the nagual's house. He had begun with a profound yet aloof affection for the woman and her children. This detached affection allowed him to play the role of husband and father with abandon and gusto. As time went by, his detached affection turned into a desperate passion that made him lose his effectiveness.

Gone was his feeling of detachment, which was what had given him the power to love. Without that detachment, he had only mundane needs, desperation, and hopelessness; the distinctive features of the world of everyday life. Gone as well was his enterprise. During his years at the nagual's house, he had acquired a dynamism that had served him well when he set out on his own.

But the most draining pain was knowing that his physical energy had waned. Without actually being in ill health, one day he became totally paralyzed. He did not feel pain. He did not panic. It was as if his body had understood that he would get the peace and quiet he so desperately needed only if it ceased to move.

As he lay helpless in bed, he did nothing but think. And he came to realize that he had failed because he did not have an abstract purpose. He knew that the people in the nagual's house were extraordinary because they pursued freedom as their abstract purpose. He did not understand what freedom was, but he knew that it was the opposite of his own concrete needs.

His lack of an abstract purpose had made him so weak and ineffective that he was incapable of rescuing his adopted family from their abysmal poverty. Instead, they had pulled him back to the very misery, sadness, and despair which he himself had known prior to encountering the nagual.

As he reviewed his life, he became aware that the only time he had not been poor and had not had concrete needs was during his years with the nagual. Poverty was the state of being that had reclaimed him when his concrete needs overpowered him.

For the first time since he had been shot and wounded so many years before, don Juan fully understood that the nagual Julian was indeed the nagual, the leader, and his benefactor. He understood what it was his benefactor had meant when he said to him that there was no freedom without the nagual's intervention. There was now no doubt in don Juan's mind that his benefactor and all the members of his benefactor's household were sorcerers. But what don Juan understood with the most painful clarity was that he had thrown away his chance to be with them.

When the pressure of his physical helplessness seemed unendurable, his paralysis ended as mysteriously as it had begun. One day he simply got out of bed and went to work. But his luck did not get any better. He could hardly make ends meet.

Another year passed. He did not prosper, but there was one thing in which he succeeded beyond his expectations: he made a total recapitulation of his life. He understood then why he loved and could not leave those children, and why he could not stay with them; and he also understood why he could neither act one way nor the other.

Don Juan knew that he had reached a complete impasse, and that to die like a warrior was the only action congruous with what he had learned at his benefactor's house. So every night, after a frustrating day of hardship and meaningless toil, he patiently waited for his death to come.

He was so utterly convinced of his end that his wife and her children waited with him- in a gesture of solidarity, they too wanted to die. All four sat in perfect immobility, night after night, without fail, and recapitulated their lives while they waited for death.

Don Juan had admonished them with the same words his benefactor had used to admonish him.

"Don't wish for it," his benefactor had said. "Just wait until it comes. Don't try to imagine what death is like. Just be there to be caught in its flow."

The time spent quietly strengthened them mentally, but physically their emaciated bodies told of their losing battle.

One day, however, don Juan thought his luck was beginning to change. He found temporary work with a team of farm laborers during the harvest season. But the spirit had other designs for him. A couple of days after he started work, someone stole his hat. It was impossible for him to buy a new one, but he had to have one to work under the scorching sun.

He fashioned a protection of sorts by covering his head with rags and handfuls of straw. His coworkers began to laugh and taunt him. He ignored them. Compared to the lives of the three people who depended on his labor, how he looked had little meaning for him. But the men did not stop. They yelled and laughed until the foreman, fearing that they would riot, fired don Juan.

A wild rage overwhelmed don Juan's sense of sobriety and caution. He knew he had been wronged. The moral right was with him. He let out a chilling, piercing scream, and grabbed one of the men, and lifted him over his shoulders, meaning to crack his back. But he thought of those hungry children. He thought of their disciplined little bodies as they sat with him night after night awaiting death. He put the man down and walked away.

Don Juan said that he sat down at the edge of the field where the men were working, and all the despair that had accumulated in him finally exploded. It was a silent rage, but not against the people around him. He raged against himself. He raged until all his anger was spent.

"I sat there in view of all those people and began to weep," don Juan continued. "They looked at me as if I were crazy, which I really was, but I didn't care. I was beyond caring.

"The foreman felt sorry for me and came over to give a word of advice. He thought I was weeping for myself. He couldn't have possibly known that I was weeping for the spirit."

Don Juan said that a silent protector came to him after his rage was spent. It was in the form of an unaccountable surge of energy that left him with the clear feeling that his death was imminent. He knew that he was not going to have time to see his adopted family again. He apologized to them in a loud voice for not having had the fortitude and wisdom necessary to deliver them from their hell on earth.

The farm workers continued to laugh and mock him. He vaguely heard them. Tears swelled in his chest as he addressed and thanked the spirit for having placed him in the nagual's path, giving him an undeserved chance to be free. He heard the howls of the uncomprehending men. He heard their insults and yells as if from within himself. They had the right to ridicule him. He had been at the portals of eternity and had been unaware of it.

"I understood how right my benefactor had been," don Juan said. "My stupidity was a monster and it had already devoured me. The instant I had that thought, I knew that anything I could say or do was useless. I had lost my chance. Now, I was only clowning for those men. The spirit could not possibly have cared about my despair. There were too many of us- men with our own petty private hells, born of our stupidity- for the spirit to pay attention.

"I knelt and faced the southeast. I thanked my benefactor again and told the spirit I was ashamed. So ashamed. And with my last breath I said goodbye to a world which could have been wonderful if I had had wisdom. An immense wave came for me then. I felt it, first. Then I heard it, and finally I saw it coming for me from the southeast, over the fields. It overtook me and its blackness covered me. And the light of my life was gone. My hell had ended. I was finally dead! I was finally free!"


Don Juan's story devastated me. He ignored all my efforts to talk about it. He said that at another time and in another setting we were going to discuss it. He demanded instead that we get on with what he had come to do: elucidate the mastery of awareness.

A couple of days later, as we were coming down from the mountains, he suddenly began to talk about his story. We had sat down to rest. Actually, I was the one who had stopped to catch my breath. Don Juan was not even breathing hard.


"The sorcerers' struggle for assuredness is the most dramatic struggle there is," don Juan said. "It's painful and costly. Many, many times it has actually cost sorcerers their lives."

He explained that in order for any sorcerer to have complete certainty about his actions, or about his position in the sorcerers' world, or to be capable of utilizing intelligently his new continuity, he must invalidate the continuity of his old life. Only then can his actions have the necessary assuredness to fortify and balance the tenuousness and instability of his new continuity.

"The sorcerer seers of modern times call this process of invalidation the ticket to impeccability, or the sorcerers' symbolic but final death," don Juan said. "And in that field in Sinaloa, I got my ticket to impeccability. I died there. The tenuousness of my new continuity cost me my life."

"But did you die, don Juan, or did you just faint?" I asked, trying not to sound cynical.

"I died in that field," he said. "I felt my awareness flowing out of me and heading toward the Eagle. But as I had impeccably recapitulated my life, the Eagle did not swallow my awareness. The Eagle spat me out. Because my body was dead in the field, the Eagle did not let me go through to freedom. It was as if it told me to go back and try again.

"I ascended the heights of blackness and descended again to the light of the earth. And then I found myself in a shallow grave at the edge of the field, covered with rocks and dirt."

Don Juan said that he knew instantly what to do. After digging himself out he rearranged the grave to look as if a body were still there, and slipped away. He felt strong and determined. He knew that he had to return to his benefactor's house.

But, before he started on his return journey, he wanted to see his family and explain to them that he was a sorcerer and for that reason he could not stay with them. He wanted to explain that his downfall had been not knowing that sorcerers can never make a bridge to join the people of the world. But, if people desire to do so, they have to make a bridge to join sorcerers.

"I went home," don Juan continued, "but the house was empty. The shocked neighbors told me that farm workers had come earlier with the news that I had dropped dead at work, and my wife and her children had left."

"How long were you dead, don Juan?" I asked.

"A whole day, apparently," he said.

Don Juan's smile played on his lips. His eyes seemed to be made of shiny obsidian. He was watching my reaction, waiting for my comments.

"What became of your family, don Juan?" I asked.

"Ah, the question of a sensible man," he remarked. "For a moment I thought you were going to ask me about my death!"

I confessed that I had been about to, but that I knew he was seeing my question as I formulated it in my mind, and just to be contrary I asked something else. I did not mean it as a joke, but it made him laugh.

"My family disappeared that day," he said. "My wife was a survivor. She had to be, with the conditions we lived under. Since I had been waiting for my death, she believed I had gotten what I wanted. There was nothing for her to do there, so she left.

"I missed the children and I consoled myself with the thought that it wasn't my fate to be with them. However, sorcerers have a peculiar bent. They live exclusively in the twilight of a feeling best described by the words "and yet..." When everything is crumbling down around them, sorcerers accept that the situation is terrible, and then immediately escape to the twilight of "and yet..."

"I did that with my feelings for those children and the woman. With great discipline- especially on the part of the oldest boy- they had recapitulated their lives with me. Only the spirit could decide the outcome of that affection."

He reminded me that he had taught me how warriors acted in such situations. They did their utmost, and then, without any remorse or regrets, they relaxed and let the spirit decide the outcome.

"What was the decision of the spirit, don Juan?" I asked.

He scrutinized me without answering. I knew he was completely aware of my motive for asking. I had experienced a similar affection and a similar loss.

"The decision of the spirit is another basic core," he said. "Sorcery stories are built around it. We'll talk about that specific decision when we get to discussing that basic core.

"Now, wasn't there a question about my death you wanted to ask?"

"If they thought you were dead, why the shallow grave?" I asked. "Why didn't they dig a real grave and bury you?"

"That's more like you," he said laughing. "I asked the same question myself and I realized that all those farm workers were pious people. I was a Christian. Christians are not buried just like that, nor are they left to rot like dogs. I think they were waiting for my family to come and claim the body and give it a proper burial. But my family never came."

"Did you go and look for them, don Juan?" I asked.

"No. Sorcerers never look for anyone," he replied. "And I was a sorcerer. I had paid with my life for the mistake of not knowing I was a sorcerer, and that sorcerers never approach anyone.

"From that day on, I have only accepted the company or the care of people or warriors who are dead, as I am."

Don Juan said that he went back to his benefactor's house where all of them knew instantly what he had discovered. And they treated him as if he had not left at all.

The nagual Julian commented that because of don Juan's peculiar nature he had taken a long time to die.

"My benefactor told me then that a sorcerer's ticket to freedom was his death," don Juan went on. "He said that he himself had paid with his life for that ticket to freedom, as had everyone else in his household. And that now we were equals in our condition of being dead."

"Am I dead too, don Juan?" I asked.

"You are dead," he said. "The sorcerers' grand trick, however, is to be aware that they are dead. Their ticket to impeccability must be wrapped in awareness. In that wrapping, sorcerers say, their ticket is kept in mint condition.

"For sixty years, I've kept mine in mint condition."






The Power Of Silence: Part 6 - Handling Intent.

The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 6 - Handling Intent.

  • The Third Point.
  • The Two One-Way Bridges.
  • Intending Appearances.





The Power Of Silence: Part 6: Chapter 13 - The Third Point.

Version 2009.11.08


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 6: Chapter 13 - The Third Point.

Don Juan often took me and the rest of his apprentices on short trips to the western range nearby. On this occasion we left at dawn, and late in the afternoon, started back. I chose to walk with don Juan. To be close to him always soothed and relaxed me, whereas being with his volatile apprentices always produced in me the opposite effect: They made me feel very tired.

As we all came down from the mountains, don Juan and I made one stop before we reached the flatlands. An attack of profound melancholy came upon me with such speed and strength that all I could do was to sit down. Then, following don Juan's suggestion, I lay on my stomach, on top of a large round boulder.

The rest of the apprentices taunted me and continued walking. I heard their laughter and yelling become faint in the distance. Don Juan urged me to relax and let my assemblage point, which he said had moved with sudden speed, settle into its new position.

"Don't fret," he advised me. "In a short while, you'll feel a sort of tug, or a pat on your back, as if someone has touched you. Then you'll be fine."

The act of lying motionless on the boulder, waiting to feel the pat on my back, triggered a spontaneous recollection so intense and clear that I never noticed the pat I was expecting. I was sure, however, that I got it, because my melancholy indeed vanished instantly.

I quickly described what I was recollecting to don Juan. He suggested I stay on the boulder and move my assemblage point back to the exact place it was when I experienced the event that I was recalling.

"Get every detail of it," he warned.


It had happened many years before. Don Juan and I had been at that time in the state of Chihuahua in northern Mexico, in the high desert. I used to go there with him because it was an area rich in the medicinal herbs he collected.

From an anthropological point of view that area also held a tremendous interest for me. Archaeologists had found, not too long before, the remains of what they concluded was a large, prehistoric trading post. They surmised that the trading post, strategically situated in a natural passway, had been the epicenter of commerce along a trade route which joined the American Southwest to southern Mexico and Central America.

The few times I had been in that flat, high desert had reinforced my conviction that archaeologists were right in their conclusions that it was a natural passkey. I, of course, had lectured don Juan on the influence of that passway in the prehistoric distribution of cultural traits on the North American continent. I was deeply interested at that time in explaining sorcery among the Indians of the American Southwest, Mexico, and Central America as a system of beliefs which had been transmitted along trade routes and which had served to create, at a certain abstract level, a sort of pre-Columbian pan-Indianism.

Don Juan, naturally, laughed uproariously every time I expounded my theories.

The event that I recollected had begun in the midafternoon. After don Juan and I had gathered two small sacks of some extremely rare medicinal herbs, we took a break and sat down on top of some huge boulders. But before we headed back to where I had left my car, don Juan insisted on talking about the art of stalking. He said that the setting was the most adequate one for explaining its intricacies, but that in order to understand them I first had to enter into heightened awareness.

I demanded that before he do anything he explain to me again what heightened awareness really was.

Don Juan, displaying great patience, discussed heightened awareness in terms of the movement of the assemblage point. As he kept talking, I realized the facetiousness of my request. I knew everything he was telling me. I remarked that I did not really need anything explained, and he said that explanations were never wasted, because they were imprinted in us for immediate or later use; or to help prepare our way to reaching silent knowledge.

When I asked him to talk about silent knowledge in more detail, he quickly responded that silent knowledge was a general position of the assemblage point, that ages ago it had been man's normal position, but that, for reasons which would be impossible to determine, man's assemblage point had moved away from that specific location and adopted a new one called "reason."

Don Juan remarked that not every human being was a representative of this new position. The assemblage points of the majority of us were not placed squarely on the location of reason itself, but in its immediate vicinity. The same thing had been the case with silent knowledge: not every human being's assemblage point had been squarely on that location either.

He also said that 'the place of no pity', being another position of the assemblage point, was the forerunner of silent knowledge, and that yet another position of the assemblage point called 'the place of concern', was the forerunner of reason.

I found nothing obscure about those cryptic remarks. To me they were self-explanatory. I understood everything he said while I waited for his usual blow to my shoulder blades to make me enter into heightened awareness. But the blow never came, and I kept on understanding what he was saying without really being aware that I understood anything. The feeling of ease, of taking things for granted, proper to my normal consciousness, remained with me, and I did not question my capacity to understand.

Don Juan looked at me fixedly and recommended that I lie face down on top of a round boulder with my arms and legs spread like a frog.

I lay there for about ten minutes, thoroughly relaxed, almost asleep, until I was jolted out of my slumber by a soft, sustained hissing growl. I raised my head, looked up, and my hair stood on end. A gigantic, dark jaguar was squatting on a boulder, scarcely ten feet from me, right above where don Juan was sitting. The jaguar, its fangs showing, was glaring straight at me. He seemed ready to jump on me,

"Don't move!" don Juan ordered me softly. "And don't look at his eyes. Stare at his nose and don't blink. Your life depends on your stare."

I did what he told me. The jaguar and I stared at each other for a moment until don Juan broke the standoff by hurling his hat, like a frisbee, at the jaguar's head. The jaguar jumped back to avoid being hit, and don Juan let out a loud, prolonged, and piercing whistle. He then yelled at the top of his voice and clapped his hands two or three times. It sounded like muffled gunshots.

Don Juan signaled me to come down from the boulder and join him. The two of us yelled and clapped our hands until he decided we had scared the jaguar away.

My body was shaking, yet I was not frightened. I told don Juan that what had caused me the greatest fear had not been the cat's sudden growl or his stare, but the certainty that the jaguar had been staring at me long before I had heard him and lifted my head.

Don Juan did not say a word about the experience. He was deep in thought. When I began to ask him if he had seen the jaguar before I had, he made an imperious gesture to quiet me. He gave me the impression he was ill at ease or even confused.

After a moment's silence, don Juan signaled me to start walking. He took the lead. We walked away from the rocks, zigzagging at a fast pace through the bush.

After about half an hour we reached a clearing in the chaparral where we stopped to rest for a moment. We had not said a single word and I was eager to know what don Juan was thinking.

"Why are we walking in this pattern?" I asked. "Wouldn't it be better to make a beeline out of here, and fast?"

"No!" he said emphatically. "It wouldn't be any good. That one is a male jaguar. He's hungry and he's going to come after us."

"All the more reason to get out of here fast," I insisted.

"It's not so easy," he said. "That jaguar is not encumbered by reason. He'll know exactly what to do to get us. And as sure as I am talking to you, he'll read our thoughts."

"What do you mean, the jaguar reading our thoughts?" I asked.

"That is no metaphorical statement," he said. "I mean what I say. Big animals like that have the capacity to read thoughts. And I don't mean guess. I mean that they know everything directly."

"What can we do then?" I asked, truly alarmed.

"We ought to become less rational and try to win the battle by making it impossible for the jaguar to read us," he replied.

"How would being less rational help us?" I asked.

"Reason makes us choose what seems sound to the mind," he said. "For instance, your reason already told you to run as fast as you can in a straight line. What your reason failed to consider is that we would have had to run about six miles before reaching the safety of your car. And the jaguar will outrun us. He'll cut in front of us and be waiting in the most appropriate place to jump us.

"A better but less rational choice is to zigzag."

"How do you know that it's better, don Juan?" I asked.

"I know it because my connection to the spirit is very clear," he replied. "That is to say, my assemblage point is at the place of silent knowledge. From there I can discern that this is a hungry jaguar, but not one that has already eaten humans. And he's baffled by our actions. If we zigzag now, the jaguar will have to make an effort to anticipate us."

"Are there any other choices beside zigzagging?" I asked.

"There are only rational choices," he said. "And we don't have all the equipment we need to back up rational choices. For example, we can head for the high ground, but we would need a gun to hold it.

"We must match the jaguar's choices. Those choices are dictated by silent knowledge. We must do what silent knowledge tells us, regardless of how unreasonable it may seem."

He began his zigzagging trot. I followed him very closely, but I had no confidence that running like that would save us. I was having a delayed panic reaction. The thought of the dark, looming shape of the enormous cat obsessed me.

The desert chaparral consisted of tall, ragged bushes spaced four or five feet apart. The limited rainfall in the high desert did not allow the growth of plants with thick foliage or of dense underbrush. Yet the visual effect of the chaparral was of thickness and impenetrable growth.

Don Juan moved with extraordinary nimbleness and I followed as best as I could. He suggested that I watch where I stepped and make less noise. He said that the sound of branches cracking under my weight was a dead giveaway.

I deliberately tried to step in don Juan's tracks to avoid breaking dry branches. We zigzagged about a hundred yards in this manner before I caught sight of the jaguar's enormous dark mass no more than thirty feet behind me.

I yelled at the top of my voice. Without stopping, don Juan turned around quickly enough to see the big cat move out of sight. Don Juan let out another piercing whistle and kept clapping his hands, imitating the sound of muffled gunshots.

In a very low voice he said that cats did not like to go uphill and so we were going to cross, at top speed, the wide and deep ravine a few yards to my right.

He gave a signal to go and we thrashed through the bushes as fast as we could. We slid down one side of the ravine, reached the bottom, and rushed up the other side. From there we had a clear view of the slope, the bottom of the ravine, and the level ground where we had been. Don Juan whispered that the jaguar was following our scent, and that if we were lucky we would see him running to the bottom of the ravine, close to our tracks.

Gazing fixedly at the ravine below us, I waited anxiously to catch a glimpse of the animal. But I did not see him. I was beginning to think the jaguar might have run away when I heard the frightening growling of the big cat in the chaparral just behind us. I had the chilling realization that don Juan had been right. To get to where he was, the jaguar must have read our thoughts and crossed the ravine before we had.

Without uttering a single word, don Juan began running at a formidable speed. I followed and we zigzagged for quite a while. I was totally out of breath when we stopped to rest.

The fear of being chased by the jaguar had not, however, prevented me from admiring don Juan's superb physical prowess. He had run as if he were a young man. I began to tell him that he had reminded me of someone in my childhood who had impressed me deeply with his running ability, but he signaled me to stop talking. He listened attentively and so did I.

I heard a soft rustling in the underbrush, right ahead of us. And then the black silhouette of the jaguar was visible for an instant at a spot in the chaparral perhaps fifty yards from us.

Don Juan shrugged his shoulders and pointed in the direction of the animal.

"It looks like we're not going to shake him off," he said with a tone of resignation. "Let's walk calmly, as if we were taking a nice stroll in the park, and you tell me the story of your childhood. This is the right time and the right setting for it. A jaguar is after us with a ravenous appetite, and you are reminiscing about your past: the perfect not-doing for being chased by a jaguar."

He laughed loudly. But when I told him I had completely lost interest in telling the story, he doubled up with laughter.

"You are punishing me now for not wanting to listen to you, aren't you?" he asked.

And I, of course, began to defend myself. I told him his accusation was definitely absurd. I really had lost the thread of the story.

"If a sorcerer doesn't have self-importance, he doesn't give a rat's ass about having lost the thread of a story," he said with a malicious shine in his eyes. "Since you don't have any self-importance left, you should tell your story now. Tell it to the spirit, to the jaguar, and to me, as if you hadn't lost the thread at all."

I wanted to tell him that I did not feel like complying with his wishes, because the story was too stupid and the setting was overwhelming. I wanted to pick the appropriate setting for it, some other time, as he himself did with his stories.

Before I voiced my opinions, he answered me.

"Both the jaguar and I can read thoughts," he said, smiling. "If I choose the proper setting and time for my sorcery stories, it's because they are for teaching and I want to get the maximum effect from them."

He signaled me to start walking. We walked calmly, side by side. I said I had admired his running and his stamina, and that a bit of self-importance was at the core of my admiration, because I considered myself a good runner.

Then I told him the story from my childhood I had remembered when I saw him running so well.


I told him I had played soccer as a boy and had run extremely well. In fact, I was so agile and fast that I felt I could commit any prank with impunity because I would be able to outrun anyone chasing me, especially the old policemen who patrolled the streets of my hometown on foot. If I broke a street light or something of the sort, all I had to do was to take off running and I was safe.

But one day, unbeknownst to me, the old policemen were replaced by a new police corps with military training. The disastrous moment came when I broke a Store window and ran; confident that my speed was my safeguard.

A young policeman took off after me. I ran as I had never run before, but it was to no avail. The officer, who was a crack center forward on the police soccer team, had more speed and stamina than my ten-year-old body could manage. He caught me and kicked me all the way back to the store with the broken window. Very artfully he named off all his kicks, as if he were training on a soccer field. He did not hurt me, he only scared me spitless, yet my intense humiliation was tempered by a ten-year-old's admiration for his prowess and his talent as a soccer player.

I told don Juan that I had felt the same with him that day. He was able to outrun me in spite of our age difference and my old proclivity for speedy getaways.

I also told him that for years I had been having a recurrent dream in which I ran so well that the young policeman was no longer able to overtake me.

"Your story is more important than I thought," don Juan commented. "I thought it was going to be a story about your mama spanking you."

The way he emphasized his words made his statement very funny and very mocking. He added that at certain times it was the spirit, and not our reason, which decided on our stories. This was one of those times. The spirit had triggered this particular story in my mind, doubtlessly because the story was concerned with my indestructible self-importance. He said that the torch of anger and humiliation had burned in me for years, and my feelings of failure and dejection were still intact.

"A psychologist would have a field day with your story and its present context," he went on. "In your mind, I must be identified with the young policeman who shattered your notion of invincibility."

Now that he mentioned it, I had to admit that that had been my feeling, although I would not consciously have thought of it, much less voiced it.


We walked in silence. I was so touched by his analogy that I completely forgot the jaguar stalking us, until a wild growl reminded me of our situation.

Don Juan directed me to jump up and down on the long, low branches of the shrubs and break off a couple of them to make a sort of long broom. He did the same. As we ran, we used them to raise a cloud of dust, stirring and kicking the dry, sandy dirt.

"That ought to worry the jaguar," he said when we stopped again to catch our breath. "We have only a few hours of daylight left. At night the jaguar is unbeatable, so we had better start running straight toward those rocky hills."

He pointed to some hills in the distance, perhaps half a mile south.

"We've got to go east," I said. "Those hills are too far south. If we go that way, we'll never get to my car."

"We won't get to your car today, anyway," he said calmly. "And perhaps not tomorrow either. Who is to say we'll ever get back to it?"

I felt a pang of fear, and then a strange peace took possession of me. I told don Juan that if death was going to take me in that desert chaparral I hoped it would be painless.

"Don't worry," he said. "Death is painful only when it happens in one's bed, in sickness. In a fight for your life, you feel no pain. If you feel anything, it's exultation."

He said that one of the most dramatic differences between civilized men and sorcerers was the way in which death came to them. Only with sorcerer-warriors was death kind and sweet. They could be mortally wounded and yet would feel no pain. And what was even more extraordinary was that death held itself in abeyance for as long as the sorcerers needed it to do so.

"The greatest difference between an average man and a sorcerer is that a sorcerer commands his death with his speed," don Juan went on. "If it comes to that, the jaguar will not eat me. He'll eat you, because you don't have the speed to hold back your death."

He then elaborated on the intricacies of the sorcerers' idea of speed and death. He said that in the world of everyday life, our word or our decisions could be reversed very easily. The only irrevocable thing in our world was death. In the sorcerers' world, on the other hand, normal death could be countermanded, but not the sorcerers' word. In the sorcerers' world decisions could not be changed or revised. Once they had been made, they stood forever.

I told don Juan that his statements, impressive as they were, could not convince me that death could be revoked; and he explained once more what he had explained before.

He said that for a seer, human beings were either oblong or spherical luminous masses of countless, static, yet vibrant fields of energy; and that only sorcerers were capable of injecting movement into those spheres of static luminosity.

In a millisecond they could move their assemblage points to any place in their luminous mass. That movement and the speed with which it is performed entailed an instantaneous shift into the perception of another totally different universe.

Or they could move their assemblage points, without stopping, across their entire fields of luminous energy. The force created by such movement was so intense that it instantly consumed their whole luminous mass.

He said that if a rockslide were to come crashing down on us at that precise moment, he would be able to cancel the normal effect of an accidental death. By using the speed with which his assemblage point would move, he could make himself change universes or make himself burn from within in a fraction of a second. I, on the other hand, would die a normal death, crushed by the rocks, because my assemblage point lacked the speed to pull me out.

I said it seemed to me that the sorcerers had just found an alternative way of dying, which was not the same as a cancellation of death. And he replied that all he had said was that sorcerers commanded their deaths. They died only when they had to.

Although I did not doubt what he was saying, I kept asking questions, almost as a game. But while he was talking, thoughts and unanchored memories about other perceivable universes were forming in my mind, as if on a screen.

I told don Juan I was thinking strange thoughts. He laughed and recommended I stick to the jaguar, because he was so real that he could only be a true manifestation of the spirit.

The idea of how real the animal was made me shudder.

"Wouldn't it be better if we changed direction instead of heading straight for the hills?" I asked.

I thought that we could create a certain confusion in the jaguar with an unexpected change.

"It's too late to change direction," don Juan said. "The jaguar already knows that there is no place for us to go but the hills."

"That can't be true, don Juan!" I exclaimed.

"Why not?" he asked.

I told him that although I could attest to the animal's ability to be one jump ahead of us, I could not quite accept that the jaguar had the foresight to figure out where we wanted to go.

"Your error is to think of the jaguar's power in terms of his capacity to figure things out," he said. "He can't think. He only knows."

Don Juan said that our dust-raising maneuver was to confuse the jaguar by giving him sensory input on something for which we had no use. We could not develop a real feeling for raising dust though our lives depended on it.

"I truly don't understand what you are saying," I whined.

Tension was taking its toll on me. I was having a hard time concentrating.

Don Juan explained that human feelings were like hot or cold currents of air and could easily be detected by a beast. We were the senders, the jaguar was the receiver. Whatever feelings we had would find their way to the jaguar. Or rather, the jaguar could read any feelings that had a history of use for us. In the case of the dust-raising maneuver, the feeling we had about it was so out of the ordinary that it could only create a vacuum in the receiver.

"Another maneuver silent knowledge might dictate would be to kick up dirt," don Juan said.

He looked at me for an instant as if he were waiting for my reactions.

"We are going to walk very calmly now," he said. "And you are going to kick up dirt as if you were a ten-foot giant."

I must have had a stupid expression on my face. Don Juan's body shook with laughter.

"Raise a cloud of dust with your feet," he ordered me. "Feel huge and heavy."

I tried it and immediately had a sense of massiveness. In a joking tone, I commented that his power of suggestion was incredible. I actually felt gigantic and ferocious. He assured me that my feeling of size was not in any way the product of his suggestion, but the product of a shift of my assemblage point.

He said that men of antiquity became legendary because they knew by silent knowledge about the power to be obtained by moving the assemblage point. On a reduced scale, sorcerers had recaptured that old power. With a movement of their assemblage points, they could manipulate their feelings and change things. I was changing things by feeling big and ferocious. Feelings processed in that fashion were called intent.

"Your assemblage point has already moved quite a bit," he went on. "Now you are in the position of either losing your gain, or making your assemblage point move beyond the place where it is now."

He said that possibly every human being under normal living conditions had had at one time or another the opportunity to break away from the bindings of convention. He stressed that he did not mean social convention, but the conventions binding our perception.

A moment of elation would suffice to move our assemblage points and break our conventions. So, too, a moment of fright, ill health, anger, or grief. But ordinarily, whenever we had the chance to move our assemblage points we became frightened. Our religious, academic, and social backgrounds would come into play. They would assure our safe return to the flock; the return of our assemblage points to the prescribed position of normal living.

He told me that all the mystics and spiritual teachers I knew of had done just that: Their assemblage points moved, either through discipline or accident, to a certain point; and then they returned to normalcy carrying a memory that lasted them a lifetime.

"You can be a very pious, good boy," he went on, "and forget about the initial movement of your assemblage point. Or you can push beyond your reasonable limits. You are still within those limits."

I knew what he was talking about, yet there was a strange hesitation in me making me vacillate.

Don Juan pushed his argument further. He said that the average man, incapable of finding the energy to perceive beyond his daily limits, called the realm of extraordinary perception sorcery, witchcraft, or the work of the devil, and shied away from it without examining it further.

"But you can't do that anymore," don Juan went on. "You are not religious and you are much too curious to discard anything so easily. The only thing that could stop you now is cowardice.

"Turn everything into what it really is: the abstract, the spirit, the nagual. There is no witchcraft, no evil, no devil. There is only perception."

I understood him. But I could not tell exactly what he wanted me to do.

I looked at don Juan, trying to find the most appropriate words. I seemed to have entered into an extremely functional frame of mind and did not want to waste a single word.

"Be gigantic!" he ordered me, smiling. "Do away with reason."

Then I knew exactly what he meant. In fact, I knew that I could increase the intensity of my feelings of size and ferociousness until I actually could be a giant, hovering over the shrubs, seeing all around us.

I tried to voice my thoughts but quickly gave up. I became aware that don Juan knew all I was thinking, and obviously much, much more.

And then something extraordinary happened to me. My reasoning faculties ceased to function. Literally I felt as though a dark blanket had covered me and obscured my thoughts. I let go of my reason with the abandon of one who doesn't have a worry in the world. I was convinced that if I wanted to dispel the obscuring blanket, all I had to do was feel myself breaking through it.

In that state, I felt I was being propelled; set in motion. Something was making me move physically from one place to another. I did not experience any fatigue. The speed and ease with which I could move elated me.

I did not feel I was walking; I was not flying either. Rather I was being transported with extreme facility. My movements became jerky and ungraceful only when I tried to think about them. When I enjoyed them without thought, I entered into a unique state of physical elation for which I had no precedent.

If I had had instances of that kind of physical happiness in my life, they must have been so short-lived that they had left no memory. Yet when I experienced that ecstasy I felt a vague recognition, as if I had once known it but had forgotten.

The exhilaration of moving through the chaparral was so intense that everything else ceased. The only things that existed for me were those periods of exhilaration and the moments when I would stop moving and find myself facing the chaparral.

But even more inexplicable was the total bodily sensation of looming over the bushes which I had had since the instant I started to move.

At one moment, I clearly saw the figure of the jaguar up ahead of me. He was running away as fast as he could. I felt that he was trying to avoid the spines of the cactuses. He was being extremely careful about where he stepped.

I had the overwhelming urge to run after the jaguar and scare him into losing his caution. I knew that he would get pricked by the spines. A thought then erupted in my silent mind- I thought that the jaguar would be a more dangerous animal if he was hurt by the spines. That thought produced the same effect as someone waking me from a dream.

When I became aware that my thinking processes were functioning again, I found that I was at the base of a low range of rocky hills. I looked around. Don Juan was a few feet away. He seemed exhausted. He was pale and breathing very hard.

"What happened, don Juan?" I asked, after clearing my raspy throat.

"You tell me what happened," he gasped between breaths.

I told him what I had felt. Then I realized that I could barely see the top of the mountain directly in my line of vision. There was very little daylight left, which meant I had been running, or walking, for more than two hours.

I asked don Juan to explain the time discrepancy. He said that my assemblage point had moved beyond the place of no pity into the place of silent knowledge, but that I still lacked the energy to manipulate it myself. To manipulate it myself meant I would have to have enough energy to move between reason and silent knowledge at will. He added that if a sorcerer had enough energy- or even if he did not have sufficient energy but needed to shift because it was a matter of life and death- he could fluctuate between reason and silent knowledge.

His conclusions about me were that because of the seriousness of our situation, I had let the spirit move my assemblage point. The result had been my entering into silent knowledge. Naturally, the scope of my perception had increased, which gave me the feeling of height, of looming over the bushes.

At that time, because of my academic training, I was passionately interested in validation by consensus. I asked him my standard question of those days.

"If someone from UCLA's Anthropology Department had been watching me, would he have seen me as a giant thrashing through the chaparral?"

"I really don't know," don Juan said. "The way to find out would be to move your assemblage point when you are in the Department of Anthropology."

"I have tried," I said. "But nothing ever happens. I must need to have you around for anything to take place."

"It was not a matter of life and death for you then," he said. "If it had been, you would have moved your assemblage point all by yourself."

"But would people see what I see when my assemblage point moves?" I insisted.

"No, because their assemblage points won't be in the same place as yours," he replied.

"Then, don Juan, did I dream the jaguar?" I asked. "Did all of it happen only in my mind?"

"Not quite," he said. "That big cat is real. You have moved miles and you are not even tired. If you are in doubt, look at your shoes. They are full of cactus spines. So you did move, looming over the shrubs. And at the same time you didn't. It depends on whether one's assemblage point is on the place of reason or on the place of silent knowledge."

I understood everything he was saying while he said it, but could not repeat any part of it at will. Nor could I determine what it was I knew, or why he was making so much sense to me.

The growl of the jaguar brought me back to the reality of the immediate danger. I caught sight of the jaguar's dark mass as he swiftly moved uphill about thirty yards to our right.

"What are we going to do, don Juan?" I asked, knowing that he had also seen the animal moving ahead of us.

"Keep climbing to the very top and seek shelter there," he said calmly.

Then he added, as if he had not a single worry in the world, that I had wasted valuable time indulging in my pleasure at looming over the bushes. Instead of heading for the safety of the hills he had pointed out, I had taken off toward the easterly higher mountains.

"We must reach that scarp before the jaguar or we don't have a chance," he said, pointing to the nearly vertical face at the very top of the mountain.

I turned right and saw the jaguar leaping from rock to rock. He was definitely working his way over to cut us off.

"Let's go, don Juan!" I yelled out of nervousness.

Don Juan smiled. He seemed to be enjoying my fear and impatience. We moved as fast as we could and climbed steadily. I tried not to pay attention to the dark form of the jaguar as it appeared from time to time a bit ahead of us and always to our right.

The three of us reached the base of the escarpment at the same time. The jaguar was about twenty yards to our right. He jumped and tried to climb the face of the cliff, but failed. The rock wall was too steep.

Don Juan yelled that I should not waste time watching the jaguar, because he would charge as soon as he gave up trying to climb. No sooner had don Juan spoken than the animal charged.

There was no time for further urging. I scrambled up the rock wall followed by don Juan. The shrill scream of the frustrated beast sounded right by the heel of my right foot. The propelling force of fear sent me up the slick scarp as if I were a fly.

I reached the top before don Juan, who had stopped to laugh.

Safe at the top of the cliff, I had more time to think about what had happened. Don Juan did not want to discuss anything. He argued that at this stage in my development, any movement of my assemblage point would still be a mystery. My challenge at the beginning of my apprenticeship was, he said, maintaining my gains, rather than reasoning them out- and that at some point everything would make sense to me.

I told him everything made sense to me at that moment. But he was adamant that I had to be able to explain knowledge to myself before I could claim that it made sense to me. He insisted that for a movement of my assemblage point to make sense, I would need to have energy to fluctuate from the place of reason to the place of silent knowledge.

He stayed quiet for a while, sweeping my entire body with his stare. Then he seemed to make up his mind and smiled and began to speak again.

"Today you reached the place of silent knowledge," he said with finality.

He explained that that afternoon, my assemblage point had moved by itself, without his intervention. I had intended the movement by manipulating my feeling of being gigantic, and in so doing my assemblage point had reached the position of silent knowledge.

I was very curious to hear how don Juan interpreted my experience. He said that one way to talk about the perception attained in the place of silent knowledge was to call it "here and here." He explained that when I had told him I had felt myself looming over the desert chaparral, I should have added that I was seeing the desert floor and the top of the shrubs at the same time. Or that I had been at the place where I stood and at the same time at the place where the jaguar was. Thus I had been able to notice how carefully he stepped to avoid the cactus spines. In other words, instead of perceiving the normal here and there, I had perceived "here and here."

His comments frightened me. He was right. I had not mentioned that to him, nor had I admitted even to myself that I had been in two places at once. I would not have dared to think in those terms had it not been for his comments.

He repeated that I needed more time and more energy to make sense of everything. I was too new; I still required a great deal of supervision. For instance, while I was looming over the shrubs, he had to make his assemblage point fluctuate rapidly between the places of reason and silent knowledge to take care of me. And that had exhausted him.

"Tell me one thing," I said, testing his reasonableness. "That jaguar was stranger than you want to admit, wasn't it? Jaguars are not part of the fauna of this area. Pumas, yes, but not jaguars. How do you explain that?"

Before answering, he puckered his face. He was suddenly very serious.

"I think that this particular jaguar confirms your anthropological theories," he said in a solemn tone. "Obviously, the jaguar was following this famous trade route connecting Chihuahua with Central America."

Don Juan laughed so hard that the sound of his laughter echoed in the mountains. That echo disturbed me as much as the jaguar had. Yet it was not the echo itself which disturbed me, but the fact that I had never heard an echo at night. Echoes were, in my mind, associated only with the daytime.


It had taken me several hours to recall all the details of my experience with the jaguar. During that time, don Juan had not talked to me. He had simply propped himself against a rock and gone to sleep in a sitting position. After a while I no longer noticed that he was there, and finally I fell asleep.

I was awakened by a pain in my jaw. I had been sleeping with the side of my face pressed against a rock. The moment I opened my eyes, I tried to slide down off the boulder on which I had been lying, but lost my balance and fell noisily on my seat. Don Juan appeared from behind some bushes just in time to laugh.

It was getting late and I wondered aloud if we had enough time to get to the valley before nightfall. Don Juan shrugged his shoulders and did not seem concerned. He sat down beside me.

I asked him if he wanted to hear the details of my recollection. He indicated that it was fine with him, yet he did not ask me any questions. I thought he was leaving it up to me to start, so I told him there were three points I remembered which were of great importance to me.

One was that he had talked about silent knowledge; another was that I had moved my assemblage point using intent; and the final point was that I had entered into heightened awareness without requiring a blow between my shoulder blades.

Don Juan said, "Intending the movement of your assemblage point was your greatest accomplishment. But accomplishment is something personal. Accomplishment is necessary, but it's not the important part. Accomplishment is not the residue sorcerers look forward to."

I thought I knew what he wanted. I told him that I hadn't totally forgotten the event. What had remained with me in my normal state of awareness was that a mountain lion- since I could not accept the idea of a jaguar- had chased us up a mountain; and that don Juan had asked me if I had felt offended by the big cat's onslaught. I had assured him that it was absurd that I could feel offended, and he had told me I should feel the same way about the onslaughts of my fellow men. I should protect myself, or get out of their way, but without feeling morally wronged.

"That is not the residue I am talking about," he said, laughing. "The idea of the abstract, the spirit, is the only residue that is important. The idea of the personal self has no value whatsoever. You still put yourself and your own feelings first. Every time I've had the chance, I have made you aware of the need to abstract. You have always believed that I meant to think abstractly. No. To abstract means to make yourself available to the spirit by being aware of it."

He said that one of the most dramatic things about the human condition was the macabre connection between stupidity and self-reflection.

It is stupidity that forces us to discard anything that does not conform with our self-reflective expectations. For example, as average men we are blind to the most crucial piece of knowledge available to a human being: the existence of the assemblage point and the fact that it could move.

"For a rational man," he went on, "it's unthinkable that there is an invisible point where perception is assembled. And yet more unthinkable that such a point is not in the brain, as he might vaguely expect it to be; if he were given to entertaining the thought of its existence."

He added that for the rational man to hold steadfastly to his self-image insured his abysmal ignorance.

The average man ignored, for instance, the fact that sorcery was not incantations and hocus-pocus, but the freedom to perceive not only the world taken for granted, but every thing else that was humanly possible.

Don Juan continued, "Here is where the average man's stupidity is most dangerous. He is afraid of sorcery. He trembles at the possibility of freedom. And freedom is at his fingertips. It's called the third point. And it can be reached as easily as the assemblage point can be made to move."

I protested saying, "But you yourself told me that moving the assemblage point is so difficult that it is a true accomplishment."

"It is," he assured me. "This is another of the sorcerers' contradictions: Moving it is very difficult and yet it's the simplest thing in the world. I've told you already that a high fever could move the assemblage point. Hunger or fear or love or hate could do it; mysticism too.

"Unbending intent can also move the assemblage point, and is the preferred method of sorcerers."

I asked him to explain again what unbending intent was.

He said that it was a sort of single-mindedness human beings exhibit; an extremely well-defined purpose not countermanded by any conflicting interests or desires.

Unbending intent was also the force engendered when the assemblage point was maintained fixed in a position which was not the usual one.

Don Juan then made a meaningful distinction which had eluded me all these years between a movement and a shift of the assemblage point.

He said a movement was a profound change of position so extreme that the assemblage point might even reach other bands of energy within our total luminous mass of energy fields: Each band of energy represented a completely different universe to be perceived.

A shift, however, was a small movement within the band of energy fields we perceived as the world of everyday life.

He went on to say that sorcerers saw unbending intent as the catalyst to trigger their unchangeable decisions: Or as the converse, their unchangeable decisions were the catalyst that propelled their assemblage points to new positions which in turn generated unbending intent.

I must have looked dumbfounded. Don Juan laughed and said that trying to reason out the sorcerers' metaphorical descriptions was as useless as trying to reason out silent knowledge. He added that the problem with words was that any attempt to clarify the sorcerers' description only made them more confusing.

I urged him to try to clarify this in any way he could. I argued that anything he could say, for instance, about the third point could only clarify it, for although I knew everything about it, it was still very confusing.

"The world of daily life consists of two points of reference," he said. "We have for example, here and there, in and out, up and down, good and evil, and so on and so forth. So, properly speaking, our perception of our lives is two-dimensional. None of what we perceive ourselves doing has 'depth'."

I protested that he was mixing levels. I told him that I could accept his definition of perception as the capacity of living beings to apprehend with their senses fields of energy selected by their assemblage points- a very farfetched definition by my academic standards, but one that, at the moment, seemed cogent.

However, I could not imagine what the 'depth' of what we do might be. I argued that it was possible he was talking about interpretations- elaborations of our basic perceptions.

"A sorcerer perceives his actions with depth," he said. "His actions are tri-dimensional for him. They have a third point of reference."

"How could a third point of reference exist?" I asked with a tinge of annoyance.

He said, "Our points of reference are obtained primarily from our sense perception. Our senses perceive and differentiate what is immediate to us from what is not. Using that basic distinction we derive the rest.

"In order to reach the third point of reference one must perceive two places at once."

My recollecting had put me in a strange mood- it was as if I had lived the experience just a few minutes earlier. I was suddenly aware of something I had completely missed before. Under don Juan's supervision, I had twice before experienced that divided perception, but this was the first time I had accomplished it all by myself.

Thinking about my recollection, I also realized that my sensory experience was more complex than I had at first thought. During the time I had loomed over the bushes, I had been aware- without words or even thoughts- that being in two places, or being 'here and here' as don Juan had called it, rendered my perception immediate and complete at both places. But I had also been aware that my double perception lacked the total clarity of normal perception.

Don Juan explained that normal perception had an axis. 'Here and there' were the perimeters of that axis, and we were partial to the clarity of 'here'. He said that in normal perception, only 'here' was perceived completely, instantaneously, and directly. Its twin referent, 'there', lacked immediacy. It was inferred, deduced, expected, even assumed, but it was not apprehended directly with all the senses.

When we perceived two places at once, total clarity was lost, but the immediate perception of 'there' was gained.

"But then, don Juan, I was right in describing my perception as the important part of my experience," I said.

"No, you were not," he said. "What you experienced was vital to you because it opened the road to silent knowledge, but the important thing was the jaguar. That jaguar was indeed a manifestation of the spirit.

"That big cat came unnoticed out of nowhere. And he could have finished us off as surely as I am talking to you. That jaguar was an expression of magic. Without him you would have had no elation, no lesson, no realizations."

"But was he a real jaguar?" I asked.

"You bet he was real!"

Don Juan observed that for an average man that big cat would have been a frightening oddity. An average man would have been hard put to explain in reasonable terms what that jaguar was doing in Chihuahua so far from a tropical jungle. But a sorcerer, because he had a connecting link with intent, saw that jaguar as a vehicle to perceiving- not an oddity, but a source of awe.

There were a lot of questions I wanted to ask, and yet I knew the answers before I could articulate the questions. I followed the course of my own questions and answers for a while, until finally I realized it did not matter that I silently knew the answers; answers had to be verbalized to be of any value.

I voiced the first question that came to mind. I asked don Juan to explain what seemed to be a contradiction. He had asserted that only the spirit could move the assemblage point. But then he had said that my feelings, processed into intent, had moved my assemblage point.

"Only sorcerers can turn their feelings into intent," he said. "Intent is the spirit, so it is the spirit which moves their assemblage points.

"The misleading part of all this," he went on, "is that I am saying only sorcerers know about the spirit and that intent is the exclusive domain of sorcerers. This is not true at all, but it is the situation in the realm of practicality.

"The real condition is that sorcerers are more aware of their connection with the spirit than the average man and strive to manipulate it. That's all.

"I've already told you, the connecting link with intent is the universal feature shared by everything there is."

Two or three times, don Juan seemed about to start to add something. He vacillated, apparently trying to choose his words. Finally he said that being in two places at once was a milestone sorcerers used to mark the moment the assemblage point reached the place of silent knowledge. Split perception, if accomplished by one's own means, was called the free movement of the assemblage point.

He assured me that every nagual consistently did everything within his power to encourage the free movement of his apprentices' assemblage points. This all-out effort was cryptically called 'reaching out for the third point'.

"The most difficult aspect of the nagual's knowledge," don Juan went on, "and certainly the most crucial part of his task is that of reaching out for the third point- the nagual intends that free movement, and the spirit channels to the nagual the means to accomplish it. I had never intended anything of that sort until you came along. Therefore, I had never fully appreciated my benefactor's gigantic effort to intend it for me.

"Difficult as it is for a nagual to intend that free movement for his disciples," don Juan went on, "it's nothing compared with the difficulty his disciples have in understanding what the nagual is doing. Look at the way you yourself struggle! The same thing happened to me. Most of the time, I ended up believing the trickery of the spirit was simply the trickery of the nagual Julian.

"Later on, I realized I owed him my life and well-being," don Juan continued. "Now I know I owe him infinitely more. Since I can't begin to describe what I really owe him, I prefer to say he cajoled me into having a third point of reference.

"The third point of reference is freedom of perception; it is intent; it is the spirit; the somersault of thought into the miraculous; the act of reaching beyond our boundaries and touching the inconceivable."






The Power Of Silence: Part 6: Chapter 14 - The Two One-Way Bridges.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 6: Chapter 14 - The Two One-Way Bridges.

Don Juan and I were sitting at the table in his kitchen. It was early morning. We had just returned from the mountains where we had spent the night after I had recalled my experience with the jaguar. Recollecting my split perception had put me in a state of euphoria which don Juan had employed, as usual, to plunge me into more sensory experiences that I was now unable to recall. My euphoria, however, had not waned.

"To discover the possibility of being in two places at once is very exciting to the mind," he said. "Since our minds are our rationality, and our rationality is our self-reflection, anything beyond our self-reflection either appalls us or attracts us, depending on what kind of persons we are."

He looked at me fixedly and then smiled as if he had just found out something new.

"Or it appalls and attracts us in the same measure," he said, "which seems to be the case with both of us."

I told him that with me it was not a matter of being appalled or attracted by my experience, but a matter of being frightened by the immensity of the possibility of split perception.

"I can't say that I don't believe I was in two places at once," I said. "I can't deny my experience, and yet I think I am so frightened by it that my mind refuses to accept it as a fact."

"You and I are the type of people who become obsessed by things like that, and then forget all about them," he remarked and laughed. "You and I are very much alike."

It was my turn to laugh. I knew he was making fun of me. Yet he projected such sincerity that I wanted to believe he was being truthful.

I told him that among his apprentices, I was the only one who had learned not to take his statements of equality with us too seriously. I said that I had seen him in action, hearing him tell each of his apprentices, in the most sincere tone, "You and I are such fools. We are so alike!" And I had been horrified, time and time again, to realize that they believed him.

"You are not like any one of us, don Juan," I said. "You are a mirror that doesn't reflect our images. You are already beyond our reach."

"What you're witnessing is the result of a lifelong struggle," he said. "What you see is a sorcerer who has finally learned to follow the designs of the spirit, but that's all.

"I have described to you, in many ways, the different stages a warrior passes through along the path of knowledge," he went on. "In terms of his connection with intent, a warrior goes through four stages. The first is when he has a rusty, untrustworthy link with intent. The second is when he succeeds in cleaning it. The third is when he learns to manipulate it. And the fourth is when he learns to accept the designs of the abstract."

Don Juan maintained that his attainment did not make him intrinsically different. It only made him more resourceful; thus he was not being facetious when he said to me or to his other apprentices that he was just like us.

"I understand exactly what you are going through," he continued. "When I laugh at you, I really laugh at the memory of myself in your shoes. I, too, held on to the world of everyday life. I held on to it by my fingernails. Everything told me to let go, but I couldn't. Just like you, I trusted my mind implicitly, and I had no reason to do so. I was no longer an average man.

"My problem then is your problem today. The momentum of the daily world carried me, and I kept acting like an average man. I held on desperately to my flimsy rational Structures. Don't you do the same."

"I don't hold onto any structures; they hold onto me," I said, and that made him laugh.

I told him I understood him to perfection, but that no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to carry on as a sorcerer should.

He said my disadvantage in the sorcerers' world was my lack of familiarity with it. In that world I had to relate myself to everything in a new way; which was infinitely more difficult, because it had very little to do with my everyday life continuity.

He described the specific problem of sorcerers as twofold.

One is the impossibility of restoring a shattered continuity.

The other is the impossibility of using the continuity dictated by the new position of their assemblage points. That new continuity is always too tenuous, too unstable, and does not offer sorcerers the assuredness they need to function as if they were in the world of everyday life.

"How do sorcerers resolve this problem?" I asked.

"None of us resolves anything," he replied. "The spirit either resolves it for us or it doesn't. If it does, a sorcerer finds himself acting in the sorcerers' world, but without knowing how. This is the reason why I have insisted from the day I found you that impeccability is all that counts. A sorcerer lives an impeccable life, and that seems to beckon the solution. Why? No one knows."

Don Juan remained quiet for a moment. And then, as if I had voiced it, he commented on a thought I was having. I was thinking that impeccability always made me think of religious morality.

"Impeccability, as I have told you so many times, is not morality," he said. "It only resembles morality. Impeccability is simply the best use of our energy level. Naturally, it calls for frugality, thoughtfulness, simplicity, innocence; and above all, it calls for lack of self-reflection. All this makes it sound like a manual for monastic life, but it isn't.

"Sorcerers say that in order to command the spirit, and by that they mean to command the movement of the assemblage point, one needs energy. The only thing that stores energy for us is our impeccability."

Don Juan remarked that we do not have to be students of sorcery to move our assemblage point. Sometimes, due to natural although dramatic circumstances- such as war, deprivation, stress, fatigue, sorrow, or helplessness- men's assemblage points undergo profound movements. If the men who found themselves in such circumstances were able to adopt a sorcerer's ideology, don Juan said, they would be able to maximize that natural movement with no trouble. And they would seek and find extraordinary things instead of doing what men do in such circumstances: craving the return to normalcy.

"When a movement of the assemblage point is maximized," he went on, "both the average man or the apprentice in sorcery becomes a sorcerer, because by maximizing that movement, continuity is shattered beyond repair."

"How do you maximize that movement?" I asked.

"By curtailing self-reflection," he replied. "Moving the assemblage point or breaking one's continuity is not the real difficulty. The real difficulty is having energy. If one has energy, once the assemblage point moves, inconceivable things are there for the asking."

Don Juan explained that man's predicament is that he intuits his hidden resources, but he does not dare use them. This is why sorcerers say that man's plight is the counterpoint between his stupidity and his ignorance.

He said that man needs now, more so than ever, to be taught new ideas that have to do exclusively with his inner world- sorcerers' ideas, not social ideas, ideas pertaining to man facing the unknown, facing his personal death. Now, more than anything else, he needs to be taught the secrets of the assemblage point.

With no preliminaries, and without stopping to think, don Juan then began to tell me a sorcery story.


He said that for an entire year he had been the only young person in the nagual Julian's house. Don Juan was so completely self-centered he had not even noticed when at the beginning of the second year his benefactor brought three young men and four young women to live in the house. As far as don Juan was concerned, those seven persons who arrived one at a time over two or three months were simply servants and of no importance. One of the young men was even made his assistant.

Don Juan was convinced the nagual Julian had lured and cajoled them into coming to work for him without wages. And don Juan would have felt sorry for them had it not been for their blind trust in the nagual Julian and their sickening attachment to everyone and everything in the household.

Don Juan's feeling was that they were born slaves and that he had nothing to say to them. Yet he was obliged to make friends with them and give them advice, not because he wanted to, but because the nagual demanded it as part of his work. As they sought his counseling, he was horrified by the poignancy and drama of their life stories.

He secretly congratulated himself for being better off than they. He sincerely felt he was smarter than all of them put together.

He boasted to them that he could see through the nagual's maneuvers, although don Juan could not claim to understand them. And he laughed at their ridiculous attempts to be helpful. He considered them servile and told them to their faces that they were being mercilessly exploited by a professional tyrant.

But what enraged don Juan was that the four young women had crushes on the nagual Julian and would do anything to please him. Don Juan sought solace in his work and plunged into it to forget his anger, or for hours on end he would read the books that the nagual Julian had in the house. Reading became his passion.

When he was reading, everyone knew not to bother him, except the nagual Julian, who took pleasure in never leaving him in peace. He was always after don Juan to be friends with the young men and women. He told him repeatedly that all of them, don Juan included, were his sorcery apprentices. Don Juan was convinced the nagual Julian knew nothing about sorcery, but he humored him, listening to him without ever believing.

The nagual Julian was unfazed by don Juan's lack of trust. He simply proceeded as if don Juan believed him, and gathered all the apprentices together to give them instruction. Periodically he took all of them on all-night excursions into the local mountains. On most of these excursions the nagual would leave them by themselves, stranded in those rugged mountains, with don Juan in charge.

The rationale given for the trips was that in solitude, in the wilderness, they would discover the spirit. But they never did. At least, not in any way don Juan could understand. However, the nagual Julian insisted so strongly on the importance of knowing the spirit that don Juan became obsessed with knowing what the spirit was.

During one of those nighttime excursions, the nagual Julian urged don Juan to go after the spirit, even if he didn't understand it.

"Of course, he meant the only thing a nagual could mean: the movement of the assemblage point," don Juan said. "But he worded it in a way he believed would make sense to me: go after the spirit.

"I thought he was talking nonsense. At that time I had already formed my own opinions and beliefs, and was convinced that the spirit was what is known as character, volition, guts, strength. And I believed I didn't have to go after them. I had them all.

"The nagual Julian insisted that the spirit was indefinable, that one could not even feel it, much less talk about it. One could only beckon it, he said, by acknowledging its existence. My retort was very much the same as yours: one cannot beckon something that does not exist."

Don Juan told me he had argued so much with the nagual that the nagual finally promised him, in front of his entire household, that in one single stroke he was going to show him not only what the spirit was, but how to define it. He also promised to throw an enormous party, even inviting the neighbors, to celebrate don Juan's lesson.

Don Juan remarked that in those days, before the Mexican Revolution, the nagual Julian and the seven women of his group passed themselves off as the wealthy owners of a large hacienda. Nobody ever doubted their image, especially the nagual Julian's, a rich and handsome landholder who had set aside his earnest desire to pursue an ecclesiastical career in order to care for his seven unmarried sisters.

One day, during the rainy season, the nagual Julian announced that as soon as the rains stopped, he would hold the enormous party he had promised don Juan. And one Sunday afternoon he took his entire household to the banks of the river, which was in flood because of the heavy rains. The nagual Julian rode his horse while don Juan trotted respectfully behind, as was their custom in case they met any of their neighbors; as far as the neighbors knew, don Juan was the landlord's personal servant.

The nagual chose for their picnic a site on high ground by the edge of the river. The women had prepared food and drink. The nagual had even brought a group of musicians from the town. It was a big party which included the peons of the hacienda, neighbors, and even passing strangers that had meandered over to join the fun.

Everybody ate and drank to his heart's content. The nagual danced with all the women, sang, and recited poetry. He told jokes and, with the help of some of the women, staged skits to the delight of all.

At a given moment, the nagual Julian asked if any of those present, especially the apprentices, wanted to share don Juan's lesson. They all declined. All of them were keenly aware of the nagual's hard tactics. Then he asked don Juan if he was sure he wanted to find out what the spirit was.

Don Juan could not say no. He simply could not back out. He announced that he was as ready as he could ever be. The nagual guided him to the edge of the raging river and made him kneel. The nagual began a long incantation in which he invoked the power of the wind and the mountains and asked the power of the river to advise don Juan.

His incantation, meaningful as it might have been, was worded so irreverently that everyone had to laugh. When he finished, he asked don Juan to stand up with his eyes closed. Then he took the apprentice in his arms, as he would a child, and threw him into the rushing waters, shouting, "Don't hate the river, for heaven's sake!"

Relating this incident sent don Juan into fits of laughter. Perhaps under other circumstances I, too, might have found it hilarious. This time, however, the story upset me tremendously.

"You should have seen those people's faces," don Juan continued. "I caught a glimpse of their dismay as I flew through the air on my way to the river. No one had anticipated that that devilish nagual would do a thing like that."

Don Juan said he had thought it was the end of his life. He was not a good swimmer, and as he sank to the bottom of the river he cursed himself for allowing this to happen to him. He was so angry he did not have time to panic. All he could think about was his resolve that he was not going to die in that frigging river, at the hands of that frigging man.

His feet touched bottom and he propelled himself up. It was not a deep river, but the flood waters had widened it a great deal. The current was swift, and it pulled him along as he dog-paddled, trying not to let the rushing waters tumble him around.

The current dragged him a long distance. And while he was being dragged and trying his best not to succumb, he entered into a strange frame of mind. He knew his flaw. He was a very angry man and his pent-up anger made him hate and fight with everyone around. But he could not hate or fight the river, or be impatient with it, or fret, which were the ways he normally behaved with everything and everybody in his life. All he could do with the river was follow its flow.

Don Juan contended that that simple realization and the acquiescence it engendered tipped the scales, so to speak, and he experienced a free movement of his assemblage point. Suddenly, without being in any way aware of what was happening, instead of being pulled by the rushing water, don Juan felt himself running along the riverbank. He was running so fast that he had no time to think. A tremendous force was pulling him, making him race over boulders and fallen trees, as if they were not there.

After he had run in that desperate fashion for quite a while, don Juan braved a quick look at the reddish, rushing water. And he saw himself being roughly tumbled by the current. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for such a moment. He knew then, without involving his thought processes, that he was in two places at once. And in one of them, in the rushing river, he was helpless.

All his energy went into trying to save himself.

Without thinking about it, he began angling away from the riverbank. It took all his strength and determination to edge an inch at a time. He felt as if he were dragging a tree. He moved so slowly that it took him an eternity to gain a few yards.

The strain was too much for him. Suddenly he was no longer running; he was falling down a deep well. When he hit the water, the coldness of it made him scream. And then he was back in the river, being dragged by the current. His fright upon finding himself back in the rushing water was so intense that all he could do was to wish with all his might to be safe and sound on the riverbank. And immediately he was there again, running at breakneck speed parallel to, but a distance from, the river.

As he ran, he looked at the rushing water and saw himself struggling to stay afloat. He wanted to yell a command; he wanted to order himself to swim at an angle, but he had no voice. His anguish for the part of him that was in the water was overwhelming. It served as a bridge between the two Juan Matuses. He was instantly back in the water, swimming at an angle toward the bank.

The incredible sensation of alternating between two places was enough to eradicate his fear. He no longer cared about his fate. He alternated freely between swimming in the river and racing on the bank. But whichever he was doing, he consistently moved toward his left, racing away from the river or paddling to the left shore.

He came out on the left side of the river about five miles downstream. He had to wait there, sheltering in the shrubs, for over a week. He was waiting for the waters to subside so he could wade across, but he was also waiting until his fright wore off and he was whole again.

Don Juan said that what had happened was that the strong, sustained emotion of fighting for his life had caused his assemblage point to move squarely to the place of silent knowledge. Because he had never paid any attention to what the nagual Julian told him about the assemblage point, he had no idea what was happening to him. He was frightened at the thought that he might never be normal again.

But as he explored his split perception, he discovered its practical side and found he liked it. He was double for days. He could be thoroughly one or the other. Or he could be both at the same time. When he was both, things became fuzzy and neither being was effective, so he abandoned that alternative. But being one or the other opened up inconceivable possibilities for him.

While he recuperated in the bushes, he established that one of his beings was more flexible than the other and could cover distances in the blink of an eye and find food or the best place to hide. It was this being that once went to the nagual's house to see if they were worrying about him.

He heard the young people crying for him, and that was certainly a surprise. He would have gone on watching them indefinitely, since he adored the idea of finding out what they thought of him, but the nagual Julian caught him and put an end to it.

That was the only time he had been truly afraid of the nagual. Don Juan heard the nagual telling him to stop his nonsense. He appeared suddenly, a jet black, bell-shaped object of immense weight and strength. He grabbed don Juan. Don Juan did not know how the nagual was grabbing him, but it hurt in a most unsettling way. It was a sharp nervous pain he felt in his stomach and groin.

"I was instantly back on the riverbank," don Juan said, laughing. "I got up, waded the recently subsided river, and started to walk home."


Don Juan paused, then asked me what I thought of his story. And I told him that it had appalled me.

"You could have drowned in that river," I said, almost shouting. "What a brutal thing to do to you. The nagual Julian must have been crazy!"

"Wait a minute," don Juan protested. "The nagual Julian was devilish, but not crazy. He did what he had to do in his role as nagual and teacher. It's true that I could have died. But that's a risk we all have to take. You yourself could have been easily eaten by the jaguar, or could have died from any of the things I have made you do. The nagual Julian was bold and commanding and tackled everything directly. No beating around the bush with him, no mincing words."

I insisted that valuable as the lesson might have been, it still appeared to me that the nagual Julian's methods were bizarre and excessive. I admitted to don Juan that everything I had heard about the nagual Julian had bothered me I so much I had formed a most negative picture of him.

"I think you're afraid that one of these days I'm going to throw you into the river or make you wear women's clothes," he said and began to laugh. "That's why you don't approve of the nagual Julian."

I admitted that he was right, and he assured me that he had no intentions of imitating his benefactor's methods, because they did not work for him. He was, he said, as ruthless but not as practical as the nagual Julian.

"At that time," don Juan continued, "I didn't appreciate his art, and I certainly didn't like what he did to me, but now, whenever I think about it, I admire him all the more for his superb and direct way of placing me in the position of silent knowledge."


Don Juan said that because of the enormity of his experience, he had totally forgotten the monstrous man. He walked unescorted almost to the door of the nagual Julian's house, then changed his mind and went instead to the nagual Elias's place, seeking solace. And the nagual Elias explained to him the deep consistency of the nagual Julian's actions.

The nagual Elias could hardly contain his excitement when he heard don Juan's story. In a fervent tone he explained to don Juan that his benefactor the nagual Julian was a supreme stalker; always after practicalities. His endless quest was for pragmatic views and solutions. His behavior that day at the river had been a masterpiece of stalking. He had manipulated and affected everyone. Even the river seemed to be at his command.

The nagual Elias maintained that while don Juan was being carried by the current, fighting for his life, the river helped him understand what the spirit was. And thanks to that understanding, don Juan had the opportunity to enter directly into silent knowledge.

Don Juan said that because he was a callow youth he listened to the nagual Elias without understanding a word, but was moved with sincere admiration for the nagual's intensity.

First, the nagual Elias explained to don Juan that sound and the meaning of words were of supreme importance to stalkers. Words were used by them as keys to open anything that was closed. Stalkers, therefore, had to state their aim before attempting to achieve it. But they could not reveal their true aim at the outset, so they had to word things carefully to conceal the main thrust.

The nagual Elias called this act waking up intent. He explained to don Juan that the nagual Julian woke up intent by affirming emphatically in front of his entire household that he was going to show don Juan, in one stroke, what the spirit was and how to define it. This was completely nonsensical because the nagual Julian knew there was no way to define the spirit. What he was really trying to do was, of course, to place don Juan in the position of silent knowledge.

After making the statement which concealed his true aim, the nagual Julian gathered as many people as he could, thus making them both his witting and unwitting accomplices. All of them knew about his stated goal, but not a single one knew what he really had in mind.

The old nagual Elias's belief that his explanation would shake don Juan out of his impossible stand of total rebelliousness and indifference was completely wrong. Yet the nagual patiently continued to explain to him that while he had been fighting the current in the river he had reached the third point.

The old nagual explained that the position of silent knowledge was called the third point because in order to get to it one had to pass the second point; the place of no pity.

He said that don Juan's assemblage point had acquired sufficient fluidity for him to be double, which had allowed him to be in both the place of reason and in the place of silent knowledge, either alternately or at the same time.

The nagual Elias told don Juan that his accomplishment was magnificent. He even hugged don Juan as if he were a child. And he could not stop talking about how don Juan, in spite of not knowing anything- or maybe because of not knowing anything- had transferred his total energy from one place to the other. Which meant to the nagual that don Juan's assemblage point had a most propitious, natural fluidity.

He said to don Juan that every human being had a capacity for that fluidity. For most of us, however, it was stored away and we never used it; except on rare occasions which were brought about by sorcerers, such as the experience he had just had; or by dramatic natural circumstances, such as a life-or-death struggle.

Don Juan listened, mesmerized by the sound of the old nagual's voice. When he paid attention, he could follow anything the man said, which was something he had never been able to do with the nagual Julian.

The old nagual went on to explain that humanity was on the first point, reason, but that not every human being's assemblage point was squarely on the position of reason. Those who were on the spot itself were the true leaders of mankind. Most of the time they were unknown people whose genius was the exercising of their reason.

The nagual said there had been another time, when mankind had been on the 'third point', which, of course, had been the first point then. But after that, mankind moved to the place of reason.

When silent knowledge was the first point the same condition prevailed. Not every human being's assemblage point was squarely on that position either. This meant that the true leaders of mankind had always been the few human beings whose assemblage points happened to be either on the exact point of reason or of silent knowledge.

The rest of humanity, the old nagual told don Juan, was merely the audience. In our day, they were the lovers of reason. In the past, they had been the lovers of silent knowledge. They were the ones who had admired and sung odes to the heroes of either position.

The nagual stated that mankind had spent the longer part of its history in the position of silent knowledge, and that this explained our great longing for it.

Don Juan asked the old nagual what exactly the nagual Julian was doing to him. His question sounded more mature and intelligent than what he really meant. The nagual Elias answered it in terms totally unintelligible to don Juan at that time.

He said that the nagual Julian was coaching don Juan; enticing his assemblage point to the position of reason so he could be a thinker rather than merely part of an unsophisticated but emotionally charged audience that loved the orderly works of reason.

At the same time, the nagual was coaching don Juan to be a true abstract sorcerer instead of merely part of a morbid and ignorant audience of lovers of the unknown.

The nagual Elias assured don Juan that only a human being who was a paragon of reason could move his assemblage point easily and be a paragon of silent knowledge.

He said that only those who were squarely in either position could see the other position clearly, and that that had been the way the age of reason came to being. The position of reason was clearly seen from the position of silent knowledge.

The old nagual told don Juan that the one-way bridge from silent knowledge to reason was called 'concern'. That is, the concern that true men of silent knowledge had about the source of what they knew.

And the other one-way bridge, from reason to silent knowledge, was called 'pure understanding'. That is, the recognition that told the man of reason that reason was only one island in an endless sea of islands.

The nagual added that a human being who had both oneway bridges working was a sorcerer in direct contact with the spirit- the vital force that made both positions possible. He pointed out to don Juan that everything the nagual Julian had done that day at the river had been a show, not for a human audience, but for the spirit- the force that was watching him. He pranced and frolicked with abandon and entertained everybody, especially the power he was addressing.

Don Juan said that the nagual Elias assured him that the spirit only listened when the speaker speaks in gestures. And gestures do not mean signs or body movements, but acts of true abandon, acts of largesse, or of humor. As a gesture for the spirit, sorcerers bring out the best of themselves and silently offer it to the abstract.






The Power Of Silence: Part 6: Chapter 15 - Intending Appearances.

Version 2006.05.15


The Power Of Silence. ©1987 by Carlos Castaneda:

Part 6: Chapter 15 - Intending Appearances.

Don Juan wanted us to make one more trip to the mountains before I went home, but we never made it. Instead, he asked me to drive him to the city. He needed to see some people there.

On the way he talked about every subject but intent. It was a welcome respite.

In the afternoon, after he had taken care of his business, we sat on his favorite bench in the plaza. The place was deserted. I was very tired and sleepy. But then, quite unexpectedly, I perked up. My mind became crystal clear.

Don Juan immediately noticed the change and laughed at my gesture of surprise. He picked a thought right out of my mind; or perhaps it was I who picked that thought out of his.

"If you think about life in terms of hours instead of years, our lives are immensely long," he said. "Even if you think in terms of days, life is still interminable."

That was exactly what I had been thinking.

He told me that sorcerers counted their lives in hours, and that in one hour it was possible for a sorcerer to live the equivalent in intensity of a normal life. This intensity is an advantage when it comes to storing information in the movement of the assemblage point.

I demanded that he explain this to me in more detail. A long time before, because it was so cumbersome to take notes on conversations, he had recommended that I keep all the information I obtained about the sorcerers' world neatly arranged, not on paper nor in my mind, but in the movement of my assemblage point.

"The assemblage point," don Juan said, "with even the most minute shifting, creates totally isolated islands of perception. Information in the form of experiences in the complexity of awareness can be stored there."

I asked, "But how can information be stored in something so vague?"

"The mind is equally vague, and still you trust it because you are familiar with it," he retorted. "You don't yet have the same familiarity with the movement of the assemblage point, but it is just about the same."

"What I mean is, how is information stored?" I insisted.

"The information is stored in the experience itself," he explained. "Later, when a sorcerer moves his assemblage point to the exact spot where it had been, he relives the total experience. This sorcerers' recollection is the way to get back all the information stored in the movement of die assemblage point.

"Intensity is an automatic result of the movement of the assemblage point," he continued. "For instance, you are living these moments more intensely than you ordinarily would, so, properly speaking, you are storing intensity. Some day you'll relive this moment by making your assemblage point return to the precise spot where it is now. That is the way sorcerers store information."

I told don Juan that the intense recollections I had had in the past few days had just happened to me without any special mental process I was aware of.

"How can one deliberately manage to recollect?" I asked.

"Intensity, being an aspect of intent, is connected naturally to the shine of the sorcerers' eyes," he explained. "In order to recall those isolated islands of perception, sorcerers need only intend the particular shine of their eyes associated with whichever spot they want to return to. But I have already explained that."

I must have looked perplexed. Don Juan regarded me with a serious expression. I opened my mouth two or three times to ask him questions, but I could not formulate my thoughts.

"Because his intensity rate is greater than normal," don Juan said, "in a few hours a sorcerer can live the equivalent of a normal lifetime. His assemblage point, by shifting to an unfamiliar position, takes in more energy than usual. That extra flow of energy is called intensity."

I understood what he was saying with perfect clarity, and my rationality staggered under the impact of the tremendous implication.

Don Juan fixed me with his stare and then warned me to beware of a reaction which typically afflicted sorcerers- a frustrating desire to explain the sorcery experience in cogent, well reasoned terms.

"The sorcerers' experience is so outlandish," don Juan went on, "that sorcerers consider it an intellectual exercise, and use it to stalk themselves with. Their trump card as stalkers, though, is that they remain keenly aware that we are perceivers and that perception has more possibilities than the mind can conceive."

As my only comment, I voiced my apprehension about the outlandish possibilities of human awareness.

"In order to protect themselves from that immensity," don Juan said, "sorcerers learn to maintain a perfect blend of ruthlessness, cunning, patience, and sweetness. These four bases are inextricably bound together. Sorcerers cultivate these bases by intending them. They are, naturally, positions of the assemblage point."

He went on to say that every act performed by any sorcerer was by definition governed by these four principles. So, properly speaking, every sorcerer's every action is deliberate in thought and realization, and has the specific blend of the four foundations of stalking.

"Sorcerers use the four moods of stalking as guides," he continued. "These are four different frames of mind; four different brands of intensity that sorcerers can use to induce their assemblage points to move to specific positions."

He seemed suddenly annoyed. I asked if it was my insistence on speculating that was bothering him.

"I am just considering how our rationality puts us between a rock and a hard place," he said. "Our tendency is to ponder, to question, to find out. And there is no way to do that from within the discipline of sorcery. Sorcery is the act of reaching the place of silent knowledge, and silent knowledge can't be reasoned out. It can only be experienced."

He smiled, his eyes shining like two spots of light. He said that sorcerers, in an effort to protect themselves from the overwhelming effect of silent knowledge, developed the art of stalking. Stalking moves the assemblage point minutely but steadily, thus giving sorcerers time and therefore the possibility of buttressing themselves.

"Within the art of stalking," don Juan continued, "there is a technique which sorcerers use a great deal: controlled folly. Sorcerers claim that controlled folly is the only way they have of dealing with themselves- in their state of expanded awareness and perception- and with everybody and everything in the world of daily affairs."

Don Juan had explained controlled folly as the art of controlled deception or the art of pretending to be thoroughly immersed in the action at hand- pretending so well no one could tell it from the real thing. Controlled folly is not an outright deception, he had told me, but a sophisticated, artistic way of being separated from everything while remaining an integral part of everything.

"Controlled folly is an art," don Juan continued. "A very bothersome art, and a difficult one to learn. Many sorcerers don't have the stomach for it, not because there is anything inherently wrong with the art, but because it takes a lot of energy to exercise it."

Don Juan admitted that he practiced it conscientiously, although he was not particularly fond of doing so; perhaps because his benefactor had been so adept at it. Or, perhaps it was because his personality- which he said was basically devious and petty- simply did not have the agility needed to practice controlled folly.

I looked at him with surprise. He stopped talking and fixed me with his mischievous eyes.

"By the time we come to sorcery, our personality is already formed," he said, and shrugged his shoulders to signify resignation, "and all we can do is practice controlled folly and laugh at ourselves."

I had a surge of empathy and assured him that to me he was not in any way petty or devious.

"But that's my basic personality," he insisted.

And I insisted that it was not.

"Stalkers who practice controlled folly believe that, in matters of personality, the entire human race falls into three categories," he said, and smiled the way he always did when he was setting me up.

"That's absurd," I protested. "Human behavior is too complex to be categorized so simply."

"Stalkers say that we are not so complex as we think we are," he said, "and that we all belong to one of three categories."

I laughed out of nervousness. Ordinarily I would have taken such a statement as a joke, but this time, because my mind was extremely clear and my thoughts were poignant, I felt he was indeed serious.

"Are you serious?" I asked, as politely as I could.

"Completely serious," he replied, and began to laugh.

His laughter relaxed me a little. And he continued explaining the stalkers' system of classification.

He said that people in the first class are the perfect secretaries, assistants, companions. They have a very fluid personality, but their fluidity is not nourishing. They are, however, serviceable, concerned, totally domestic, resourceful within limits, humorous, well-mannered, sweet, delicate. In other words, they are the nicest people one could find, but they have one huge flaw: they can't function alone. They are always in need of someone to direct them. With direction, no matter how strained or antagonistic that direction might be, they are stupendous. By themselves, they perish.

People in the second class are not nice at all. They are petty, vindictive, envious, jealous, self-centered. They talk exclusively about themselves and usually demand that people conform to their standards. They always take the initiative even though they are not comfortable with it. They are thoroughly ill at ease in every situation and never relax. They are insecure and are never pleased. The more insecure they become, the nastier they are. Their fatal flaw is that they would kill to be leaders.

In the third category are people who are neither nice nor nasty. They serve no one, nor do they impose themselves on anyone. Rather they are indifferent. They have an exalted idea about themselves derived solely from daydreams and wishful thinking. If they are extraordinary at anything, it is at waiting for things to happen. They are waiting to be discovered and conquered and have a marvelous facility for creating the illusion that they have great things in abeyance, which they always promise to deliver but never do because, in fact, they do not have such resources.

Don Juan said that he himself definitely belonged to the second class. He then asked me to classify myself and I became rattled. Don Juan was practically on the ground, bent over with laughter.

He urged me again to classify myself, and reluctantly I suggested I might be a combination of the three.

"Don't give me that combination nonsense," he said, still laughing. "We are simple beings, each of us is one of the three types. And as far as I am concerned, you belong to the second class. Stalkers call them farts."

I began to protest that his scheme of classification was demeaning. But I stopped myself just as I was about to go into a long tirade. Instead I commented that if it were true that there are only three types of personalities, all of us are trapped in one of those three categories for life with no hope of change or redemption.

He agreed that that was exactly the case. Except that one avenue for redemption remained. Sorcerers had long ago learned that only our personal self-reflection fell into one of the categories.

"The trouble with us is that we take ourselves seriously," he said. "Whichever category our self-image falls into only matters because of our self-importance. If we weren't self-important, it wouldn't matter at all which category we fell into.

"I'll always be a fart," he continued, his body shaking with laughter. "And so will you. But now I am a fart who doesn't take himself seriously, while you still do."

I was indignant. I wanted to argue with him, but could not muster the energy for it.

In the empty plaza, the reverberation of his laughter was eerie.

He changed the subject then, and reeled off the basic cores he had discussed with me: the manifestations of the spirit, the knock of the spirit, the trickery of the spirit, the descent of the spirit, the requirement of intent, and handling intent. He repeated them as if he were giving my memory a chance to retain them fully. And then, he succinctly highlighted everything he had told me about them. It was as if he were deliberately making me store all that information in the intensity of that moment.

I remarked that the basic cores were still a mystery to me. I felt very apprehensive about my ability to understand them. He was giving me the impression that he was about to dismiss the topic, and I had not grasped its meaning at all.

I insisted that I had to ask him more questions about the abstract cores.

He seemed to assess what I was saying, then he quietly nodded his head.

"This topic was also very difficult for me," he said. "And I, too, asked many questions. I was perhaps a tinge more self-centered than you. And very nasty. Nagging was the only way I knew of asking questions. You yourself are rather a belligerent inquisitor. At the end, of course, you and I are equally annoying, but for different reasons."

There was only one more thing don Juan added to our discussion of the basic cores before he changed the subject; that they revealed themselves extremely slowly, erratically advancing and retreating.

"I can't repeat often enough that every man whose assemblage point moves can move it further," he began. "And the only reason we need a teacher is to spur us on mercilessly. Otherwise our natural reaction is to stop to congratulate ourselves for having covered so much ground."

He said that we were both good examples of our odious tendency to go easy on ourselves. His benefactor, fortunately, being the stupendous stalker he was, had not spared him.

Don Juan said that in the course of their nighttime journeys in the wilderness, the nagual Julian had lectured him extensively on the nature of self-importance and the movement of the assemblage point.

For the nagual Julian, self-importance was a monster that had three thousand heads. And one could face up to it and destroy it in any of three ways. The first way was to sever each head one at a time; the second was to reach that mysterious state of being called the place of no pity, which destroyed self-importance by slowly starving it; and the third was to pay for the instantaneous annihilation of the three-thousand headed monster with one's symbolic death.

The nagual Julian recommended the third alternative. But he told don Juan that he could consider himself fortunate if he got the chance to choose; because it was the spirit that usually determined which way the sorcerer was to go, and it was the duty of the sorcerer to follow.

Don Juan said that he had guided me as his benefactor had guided him; to cut off the three thousand heads of self-importance, one by one, but that the results had been quite different. While I had responded very well, he had not responded at all.

"Mine was a peculiar condition," he went on. "From the moment my benefactor saw me lying on the road with a bullet hole in my chest, he knew I was the new nagual. He acted accordingly and moved my assemblage point as soon as my health permitted it. And I saw with great ease a field of energy in the form of that monstrous man. But this accomplishment, instead of helping as it was supposed to, hindered any further movement of my assemblage point. And while the assemblage points of the other apprentices moved steadily, mine remained fixed at the level of being able to see the monster."

"But didn't your benefactor tell you what was going on?" I asked, truly baffled by the unnecessary complication.

"My benefactor didn't believe in handing down knowledge," don Juan said. "He thought that knowledge imparted that way lacked effectiveness. It was never there when one needed it. On the other hand, if knowledge was only insinuated, the person who was interested would devise ways to claim that knowledge."

Don Juan said that the difference between his method of teaching and his benefactor's was that he himself believed one should have the freedom to choose. His benefactor did not.

"Didn't your benefactor's teacher, the nagual Elias, tell you what was happening?" I insisted.

"He tried," don Juan said, and sighed, "but I was truly impossible. I knew everything. I just let the two men talk my ear off and never listened to a thing they were saying."

In order to deal with that impasse, the nagual Julian decided to force don Juan to accomplish once again, but in a different way, a free movement of his assemblage point.

I interrupted him to ask whether this had happened before or after his experience at the river. Don Juan's stories did not have the chronological order I would have liked.

"This happened several months afterward," he replied. "And don't you think for an instant that because I experienced that split perception I was really changed; or that I was wiser or more sober. Nothing of the sort.

"Consider what happens to you," he went on. "I have not only broken your continuity time and time again, I have ripped it to shreds; and look at you. You still act as if you were intact. That is a supreme accomplishment of magic; of intending.

"I was the same. For a while, I would reel under the impact of what I was experiencing and then I would forget and tie up the severed ends as if nothing had happened. That was why my benefactor believed that we can only really change if we die."


Returning to his story, don Juan said that the nagual used Tulio, the unsociable member of his household, to deliver a new shattering blow to his psychological continuity.

Don Juan said that all the apprentices, including himself, had never been in total agreement about anything except that Tulio was a contemptibly arrogant little man. They hated Tulio because he either avoided them or snubbed them. He treated them all with such disdain that they felt like dirt. They were all convinced that Tulio never spoke to them because he had nothing to say; and that his most salient feature, his arrogant aloofness, was a cover for his timidity.

Yet in spite of his unpleasant personality, to the chagrin of all the apprentices, Tulio had undue influence on the household- especially on the nagual Julian, who seemed to dote on him.

One morning the nagual Julian sent all the apprentices on a day long errand to the city. The only person left in the house, besides the older members of the household, was don Juan.

Around midday the nagual Julian headed for his study to do his daily bookkeeping. As he was going in, he casually asked don Juan to help him with the accounts.

Don Juan began to look through the receipts and soon realized that to continue he needed some information that Tulio, the overseer of the property, had; and had forgotten to note down.

The nagual Julian was definitely angry at Tulio's oversight, which pleased don Juan. The nagual impatiently ordered don Juan to find Tulio, who was out in the fields supervising the workers, and ask him to come to the study.

Don Juan, gloating at the idea of annoying Tulio, ran half a mile to the fields, accompanied, of course, by a field hand to protect him from the monstrous man. He found Tulio supervising the workers from a distance, as always. Don Juan had noticed that Tulio hated to come into direct contact with people and always watched them from afar.

In a harsh voice and with an exaggeratedly imperious manner, don Juan demanded that Tulio accompany him to the house because the nagual required his services. Tulio, his voice barely audible, replied that he was too busy at the moment, but that in about an hour he would be free to come.

Don Juan insisted, knowing that Tulio would not bother to argue with him and would simply dismiss him with a turn of his head. He was shocked when Tulio began to yell obscenities at him. The scene was so out of character for Tulio that even the farm workers stopped their labor, and looked at one another questioningly. Don Juan was sure they had never heard Tulio raise his voice, much less yell improprieties.

Don juan's own surprise was so great that he laughed nervously, which made Tulio extremely angry. He even hurled a rock at the frightened don Juan, who fled.

Don Juan and his bodyguard immediately ran back to the house. At the front door they found Tulio. He was quietly talking and laughing with some of the women. As was his custom, he turned his head away, ignoring don Juan. Don Juan began angrily to chastise him for socializing there when the nagual wanted him in his study. Tulio and the women looked at don Juan as if he had gone mad.

But Tulio was not his usual self that day. Instantly he yelled at don Juan to shut his damned mouth and mind his own damned business. He blatantly accused don Juan of trying to put him in a bad light with the nagual Julian.

The women showed their dismay by gasping loudly and looking disapprovingly at don Juan. They tried to calm Tulio. Don Juan ordered Tulio to go to the nagual's study and explain the accounts. Tulio told him to go to hell.

Don Juan was shaking with anger. The simple task of asking for the accounts had turned into a nightmare. He controlled his temper. The women were watching him intently, which angered him all over again. In a silent rage he ran to the nagual's study. Tulio and the women went back to talking and laughing quietly as though they were celebrating a private joke.

Don Juan's surprise was total when he entered the study and found Tulio sitting at the nagual's desk absorbed in his bookkeeping. Don Juan made a supreme effort and controlled his anger. He smiled at Tulio. He no longer had the need to confront Tulio. He had suddenly understood that the nagual Julian was using Tulio to test him, to see if he would lose his temper. He would not give him that satisfaction.

Without looking up from his accounts, Tulio said that if don Juan was looking for the nagual, he would probably find him at the other end of the house.

Don Juan raced to the other end of the house to find the nagual Julian walking slowly around the patio with Tulio at his side. The nagual appeared to be engrossed in his conversation with Tulio. Tulio gently nudged the nagual's sleeve and said in a low voice that his assistant was there.

The nagual matter-of-factly explained to don Juan everything about the account they had been working on. It was a long, detailed, and thorough explanation. He said then that all don Juan had to do was to bring the account book from the study so that they could make the entry and have Tulio sign it.

Don Juan could not understand what was happening. The detailed explanation and the nagual's matter-of-fact tone had brought everything into the realm of mundane affairs. Tulio impatiently ordered don Juan to hurry up and fetch the book, because he was busy. He was needed somewhere else.

By now don Juan had resigned himself to being a clown. He knew that the nagual was up to something. The nagual Julian had that strange look in his eyes which don Juan always associated with his beastly jokes. Besides, Tulio had talked more that day than he had in the entire two years don Juan had been in the house.

Without uttering a word, don Juan went back to the study. And as he had expected, Tulio had gotten there first. He was sitting on the corner of the desk, waiting for don Juan, impatiently tapping the floor with the hard heel of his boot. He held out the ledger don Juan was after, gave it to him, and told him to be on his way.

Despite being prepared, don Juan was astonished. He stared at the man, who became angry and abusive. Don Juan had to struggle not to explode. He kept saying to himself that all this was merely a test of his attitude. He had visions of being thrown out of the house if he failed the test.

In the midst of his turmoil, he was still able to wonder about the speed with which Tulio managed always to be one jump ahead of him.

Don Juan certainly anticipated that Tulio would be waiting with the nagual. Still, when he saw him there, although he was not surprised, he was incredulous. He had raced through the house, following the shortest route. There was no way that Tulio could run faster than he. Furthermore, if Tulio had run, he would have had to run right alongside don Juan.

The nagual Julian took the account book from don Juan with an air of indifference. He made the entry and Tulio signed it. Then they continued talking about the account, disregarding don Juan, whose eyes were fixed on Tulio. Don Juan wanted to figure out what kind of test they were putting him through. It had to be a test of his attitude, he thought. After all, in that house, his attitude had always been the issue.

The nagual dismissed don Juan, saying he wanted to be alone with Tulio to discuss business. Don Juan immediately went looking for the women to find out what they would say about this strange situation. He had only gone ten feet when he encountered two of the women and Tulio. The three of them were caught up in a most animated conversation. He saw them before they had seen him, so he ran back to the nagual. Tulio was there, talking with the nagual.

An incredible suspicion entered don Juan's mind. He ran to the study. Tulio was immersed in his bookkeeping and did not even acknowledge don Juan. Don Juan asked him what was going on. Tulio was his usual self this time: He did not answer or look at don Juan.

Don Juan had at that moment another inconceivable thought. He ran to the stable, saddled two horses and asked his morning bodyguard to accompany him again. They galloped to the place where they had seen Tulio earlier. He was exactly where they had left him. He did not speak to don Juan. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his head when don Juan questioned him.

Don Juan and his companion galloped back to the house. He left the man to care for the horses and rushed into the house. Tulio was lunching with the women. And Tulio was also talking to the nagual. And Tulio was also working on the books.

Don Juan sat down and felt the cold sweat of fear. He knew that the nagual Julian was testing him with one of his horrible jokes. He reasoned that he had three courses of action. He could behave as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, he could figure out the test himself, or, since the nagual had engraved in his mind that he was there to explain anything don Juan wanted, he could confront the nagual and ask for clarification.

He decided to ask. He went to the nagual and asked him to explain what was being done to him. The nagual was alone then, still working on his accounts. He put the ledger aside and smiled at don Juan. He said that the twenty-one not-doings he had taught don Juan to perform were the tools that could sever the three thousand heads of self-importance, but that those tools had not been effective with don Juan at all. Thus, he was trying the second method for destroying self-importance which meant putting don Juan into the state of being called the place of no pity.

Don Juan was convinced then that the nagual Julian was utterly mad. Hearing him talk about not-doings or about monsters with three thousand heads or about places of no pity, don Juan felt almost sorry for him.

The nagual Julian very calmly asked don Juan to go to the storage shed in the back of the house and ask Tulio to come out.

Don Juan sighed and did his best not to burst out laughing. The nagual's methods were too obvious. Don Juan knew that the nagual wanted to continue the test using Tulio.


Don Juan stopped his narration and asked me what I thought about Tulio's behavior. I said that, guided by what I knew about the sorcerers' world, I would say that Tulio was a sorcerer and somehow he was moving his own assemblage point in a very sophisticated manner to give don Juan the impression that he was in four places at the same time.

"So what do you think I found in the shed?" don Juan asked with a big grin.

"I would say either you found Tulio or you didn't find anybody," I replied.

"But if either of these had happened, there would have been no shock to my continuity," don Juan said.

I tried to imagine bizarre things and I proposed that perhaps he found Tulio's dreaming body. I reminded don Juan that he himself had done something similar to me with one of the members of his party of sorcerers.

"No," don Juan retorted. "What I found was a joke that has no equivalent in reality. And yet it was not bizarre: It was not out of this world. What do you think it was?"

I told don Juan I hated riddles. I said that with all the bizarre things he had made me experience, the only things I could conceive would be more bizarreness, and since that was ruled out, I gave up guessing.


"When I went into that shed I was prepared to find that Tulio was hiding," don Juan said. "I was sure that the next part of the test was going to be an infuriating game of hide-and-seek. Tulio was going to drive me crazy hiding inside that shed.

"But nothing I had prepared myself for happened. I walked into that shed and found four Tulios."

"What do you mean, four Tulios?" I asked.

"There were four men in that shed," don Juan replied. "And all of them were Tulio. Can you imagine my surprise? All of them were sitting in the same position with their legs crossed, and pressed tightly together. They were waiting for me. I looked at them and ran away screaming.

"My benefactor held me down on the ground outside the door. And then, truly horrified, I saw how the four Tulios came out of the shed and advanced toward me. I screamed and screamed while the Tulios pecked me with their hard fingers, like huge birds attacking.

I screamed until I felt something give in me and I entered a state of superb indifference. Never in all my life had I felt something so extraordinary. I brushed off the Tulios and got up. They had just been tickling me. I went directly to the nagual and asked him to explain the four men to me."

What the nagual Julian explained to don Juan was that those four men were the paragons of stalking. Their names had been invented by their teacher, the nagual Elias, who, as an exercise in controlled folly, had taken the Spanish numerals uno, dos, tres, cuatro, and added them to the name of Tulio. He obtained in that manner the names Tuliuno, Tuliodo, Tulitre, and Tulicuatro.

The nagual Julian introduced each in turn to don Juan. The four men were standing in a row. Don Juan faced each of them and nodded, and each nodded to him. The nagual said the four men were stalkers of such extraordinary talent, as don Juan had just corroborated, that praise was meaningless.

The Tulios were the nagual Elias's triumph. They were the essence of unobtrusiveness. They were such magnificent stalkers that, for all practical purposes, only one of them existed. Although people saw and dealt with them daily, nobody outside the members of the household knew that there were four Tulios.

Don Juan understood with perfect clarity everything the nagual Julian was saying about the men. Because of his unusual clarity, he knew he had reached the place of no pity. And he understood, all by himself, that the place of no pity was a position of the assemblage point; a position which rendered self-pity inoperative. But don Juan also knew that his insight and wisdom were extremely transitory. Unavoidably, his assemblage point would return to its point of departure.

When the nagual asked don Juan if he had any questions, he realized that he would be better off paying close attention to the nagual's explanation than speculating about his own foresightedness.

Don Juan wanted to know how the Tulios created the impression that there was only one person. He was extremely curious because observing them together he realized they were not really that alike. They wore the same clothes. They were about the same size, age, and configuration. But that was the extent of their similarity. And yet, even as he watched them he could have sworn that there was only one Tulio.

The nagual Julian explained that the human eye was trained to focus only on the most salient features of anything, and that those salient features were known beforehand. Thus, the stalkers' art was to create an impression by presenting the features they chose, features they knew the eyes of the onlooker were bound to notice. By artfully reinforcing certain impressions, stalkers were able to create on the part of the onlooker an unchallengeable conviction as to what their eyes had perceived.

The nagual Julian said that when don Juan first arrived dressed in his woman's clothes, the women of his party were delighted and laughed openly. But the man with them, who happened to be Tulitre, immediately provided don Juan with the first Tulio impression. He half turned away to hide his face, shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, as if all of it was boring to him, and walked away- to laugh his head off in private- while the women helped to consolidate that first impression by acting apprehensive, almost annoyed, at the unsociability of the man.

From that moment on, any Tulio who was around don Juan reinforced that impression and further perfected it until don Juan's eye could not catch anything except what was being fed to him.

Tuliuno spoke then and said that it had taken them about three months of very careful and consistent actions to have don Juan blind to anything except what he was guided to expect. After three months, his blindness was so pronounced that the Tulios were no longer even careful. They acted normal in the house. They even ceased wearing identical clothes, and don Juan did not notice the difference.

When other apprentices were brought into the house, however, the Tulios had to start all over again. This time the challenge was hard, because there were many apprentices and they were sharp.

Don Juan asked Tuliuno about Tulio's appearance. Tuliuno answered that the nagual Elfas maintained appearance was the essence of controlled folly, and stalkers created appearance by intending them rather than by producing them with the aid of props. Props created artificial appearances that looked false to the eye. In this respect, intending appearances was exclusively an exercise for stalkers.

Tulitre spoke next. He said appearances were solicited from the spirit. Appearances were asked; were forcefully called on. They were never invented rationally. Tulio's appearance had to be called from the spirit. And to facilitate that, the nagual Elias put all four of them together into a very small, out-of-the-way storage room, and there the spirit spoke to them. The spirit told them that first they had to intend their homogeneity. After four weeks of total isolation, homogeneity came to them.

The nagual Elias said that intent had fused them together, and that they had acquired the certainty that their individuality would go undetected. Now they had to call up the appearance that would be perceived by the onlooker. And they got busy, calling intent for the Tulios' appearance don Juan had seen. They had to work very hard to perfect it. They focused, under the direction of their teacher, on all the details that would make it perfect.

The four Tulios gave don Juan a demonstration of Tulio's most salient features. These were: very forceful gestures of disdain and arrogance; abrupt turns of the face to the right as if in anger; twists of their upper bodies as if to hide part of the face with the left shoulder; angry sweeps of a hand over the eyes as if to brush hair off the forehead; and the gait of an agile but impatient person who is too nervous to decide which way to go.

Don Juan said that those details of behavior and dozens of others had made Tulio an unforgettable character. In fact, he was so unforgettable that in order to project Tulio on don Juan and the other apprentices as if on a screen, any of the four men needed only to insinuate a feature, and don Juan and the apprentices would automatically supply the rest.

Don Juan said that because of the tremendous consistency of the input, Tulio was for him and the others the essence of a disgusting man. But at the same time, if they searched deep inside themselves, they would have acknowledged that Tulio was haunting. He was nimble, mysterious, and gave, wittingly or unwittingly, the impression of being a shadow.

Don Juan asked Tuliuno how they had called intent. Tuliuno explained that stalkers called intent loudly. Usually intent was called from within a small, dark, isolated room. A candle was placed on a black table with the flame just a few inches before the eyes; then the word intent was voiced slowly, enunciated clearly and deliberately as many times as one felt was needed. The pitch of the voice rose or fell without any thought.

Tuliuno stressed that the indispensable part of the act of calling intent was a total concentration on what was intended. In their case, the concentration was on their homogeneity and on Tulio's appearance. After they had been fused by intent, it still took them a couple of years to build up the certainty that their homogeneity and Tulio's appearance would be realities to the onlookers.


I asked don Juan what he thought of their way of calling intent. And he said that his benefactor, like the nagual Elias, was a bit more given to ritual than he himself was, therefore, they preferred paraphernalia such as candles, dark closets, and black tables.

I casually remarked that I was terribly attracted to ritual behavior, myself. Ritual seemed to me essential in focusing one's attention. Don Juan took my remark seriously. He said he had seen that my body, as an energy field, had a feature which he knew all the sorcerers of ancient times had had and avidly sought in others: a bright area in the lower right side of the luminous cocoon. That brightness was associated with resourcefulness and a bent toward morbidity. The dark sorcerers of those times took pleasure in harnessing that coveted feature and attaching it to man's dark side.

"Then there is an evil side to man," I said jubilantly. "You always deny it. You always say that evil doesn't exist, that only power exists."

I surprised myself with this outburst. In one instant, all my Catholic background was brought to bear on me and the Prince of Darkness loomed larger than life.

Don Juan laughed until he was coughing.

"Of course, there is a dark side to us," he said. "We kill wantonly, don't we? We burn people in the name of God. We destroy ourselves; we obliterate life on this planet; we destroy the earth. And then we dress in robes and the Lord speaks directly to us. And what does the Lord tell us? He says that we should be good boys or he is going to punish us. The Lord has been threatening us for centuries and it doesn't make any difference. Not because we are evil, but because we are dumb. Man has a dark side, yes, and it's called stupidity."

I did not say anything else, but silently I applauded and thought with pleasure that don Juan was a masterful debater. Once again he was turning my words back on me.

After a moment's pause, don Juan explained that in the same measure that ritual forced the average man to construct huge churches that were monuments to self-importance, ritual also forced sorcerers to construct edifices of morbidity and obsession. As a result, it was the duty of every nagual to guide awareness so it would fly toward the abstract free of liens and mortgages.

"What do you mean, don Juan, by liens and mortgages?" I asked.

"Ritual can trap our attention better than anything I can think of," he said, "but it also demands a very high price. That high price is morbidity; and morbidity could have the heaviest liens and mortgages on our awareness."

Don Juan said that human awareness was like an immense haunted house. The awareness of everyday life was like being sealed in one room of that immense house for life. We entered the room through a magical opening: birth. And we exited through another such magical opening: death.

Sorcerers, however, were capable of finding still another opening and could leave that sealed room while still alive. A superb attainment. But their astounding accomplishment was that when they escaped from that sealed room they chose freedom. They chose to leave that immense, haunted house entirely instead of getting lost in other parts of it.

Morbidity was the antithesis of the surge of energy awareness needed to reach freedom. Morbidity made sorcerers lose their way and become trapped in the intricate, dark byways of the unknown.

I asked don Juan if there was any morbidity in the Tulios.

"Strangeness is not morbidity" he replied. "The Tulios were performers who were being coached by the spirit itself."

"What was the nagual Elias's reason for training the Tulios as he did?" I asked.

Don Juan peered at me and laughed loudly. At that instant the lights of the plaza were turned on. He got up from his favorite bench and rubbed it with the palm of his hand, as if it were a pet.

"Freedom," he said. "He wanted their freedom from perceptual convention. And he taught them to be artists. Stalking is an art. For a sorcerer, since he's not a patron or a seller of art, the only thing of importance about a work of art is that it can be accomplished."

We stood by the bench, watching the evening strollers milling around. The story of the four Tulios had left me with a sense of foreboding. Don Juan suggested that I return home. The long drive to L.A., he said, would give my assemblage point a respite from all the moving it had done in the past few days.

"The nagual's company is very tiring," he went on. "It produces a strange fatigue. It could even be injurious."

I assured him that I was not tired at all, and that his company was anything but injurious to me. In fact, his company affected me like a narcotic- I couldn't do without it. This sounded as if I were flattering him, but I really meant what I said.

We strolled around the plaza three or four times in complete silence.

"Go home and think about the basic cores of the sorcery stories," don Juan said with a note of finality in his voice. "Or rather, don't think about them, but make your assemblage point move toward the place of silent knowledge. Moving the assemblage point is everything, but it means nothing if it's not a sober, controlled movement. So, close the door of self-reflection. Be impeccable and you'll have the energy to reach the place of silent knowledge."




### "The Power Of Silence" - Copyright 1987 by Carlos Castaneda - The End ###






The Witch's Dream. ©1985 by Florinda Donner-Grau.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream Book Cover

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

A Healer's Way of Knowledge.


FRONT FLAP


$16.95


"The work of Florinda
Donner has a most special
significance for me...
In solitude and against
terrifying odds [she] has
remained faithful to the
warriors' path, and has
followed don Juan's
teachings to the letter."

  - Carlos Castaneda




Not since the publication of
Carlos Castaneda's Teachings of
Don Juan
has there been a book
as extraordinary as this- a
young woman's initiation into
the world of healers who succeed
by ancient lore in curing the
diseases that in our world are
treated, often less successfully, by
drugs, surgery, or psychoanalysis.

Florinda Donner immersed
herself in the world of sorcery,
witchcraft, and healing as the
apprentice of a famous healer,
Mercedes Peralta, in a small town
in northeastern Venezuela. Just
as Carlos Castaneda became the
Boswell of don Juan, Florinda


(continued on back flap)


BACK FLAP


(continued from front flap)



Donner has succeeded in taking
us into the mind and heart of a
spiritual healer and illuminating
the process, not as an outsider,
but as a participant and an
initiate.

She writes with both remark-
able precision and a brilliant flair
for the poetry and supernatural
complexity of a world in which
the healer and the patient relate
to one another in the language
of sorcery and dreams.

The Witches Dream is a land-
mark piece of work, a revelation
of the power of the human mind
over the human body.




About the Author:

FLORINDA DONNER lives in
Paris and Sonora, Mexico. She is
also the author of Shabono.




Jacket design & painting by Bob Guisti
Printed in U.S.A. Copyright © 1985 Simon & Schuster, Inc.


ARKANA

The Witch's Dream

Florinda Donner-Grau is an anthropologist and the author of Shabono ©1982, Witch's Dream ©1985, and Being in Dreaming ©1991.

She lives in Los Angeles, California, USA, and Sonora, Mexico.

The
Witch's
Dream

A Healer's Way of Knowledge

___________________


FLORINDA DONNER-GRAU

With a Foreword by
CARLOS CASTANEDA

Copyright © 1985 by Florinda Donner
All rights reserved
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form
Published by Simon and Schuster
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Simon & Schuster Building
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10020

SIMON AND SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of
Simon 6' Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Levavi &' Levavi
Manufactured in the United States of America

13579 10 8642
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Donner, Florinda.
The Witch's Dream.

1. Matus, Florinda. 2. Donner, Florinda.
3. Mediums-Venezuela-Biography. 4. Healers-
Venezuela-Biography. 5. Witchcraft-Venezuela-
Miranda (State)-History-20th century. 6. Miranda
(Venezuela : State)-Social life and customs.
7. Miranda (Venezuela : State)-Religious life and customs. I. Title.
BF1281.D66 1985 133.4'3'098735 85-3620

ISBN 0-671-55198-1 (hc.)
ISBN 0 14 01.9531 9 (pbk.)
***


TO ALL THOSE
WHOM I CANNOT
MENTION BY NAME

Contents.


  • Part 0 - Foreword And Author's Note.
    • Foreword.
    • Author's Note.

  • Part 1.
    • Chapter 01.
    • Chapter 02.
    • Chapter 03.
    • Chapter 04.
    • Chapter 05.
    • Chapter 06.
    • Chapter 07.

  • Part 2.
    • Chapter 08.
    • Chapter 09.
    • Chapter 10.

  • Part 3.
    • Chapter 11.
    • Chapter 12.
    • Chapter 13.

  • Part 4.
    • Chapter 14.
    • Chapter 15.
    • Chapter 16.
    • Chapter 17.
    • Chapter 18.

  • Part 5.
    • Chapter 19.
    • Chapter 20.

  • Part 6.
    • Chapter 21.
    • Chapter 22.
    • Chapter 23.

  • Part 7.
    • Chapter 24.
    • Chapter 25.
    • Chapter 26.

  • Part 8.
    • Chapter 27.
    • Chapter 28.

  • Epilogue - Chapter 29.





The Witch's Dream: Part 0.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 0 - Foreword And Author's Note.

  • Foreword.
  • Author's Note.


The Witch's Dream: Part 0 - Author's Note.

Version 2007.02.24


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 0 - Author's Note.

The state of Miranda, in northeastern Venezuela, was populated by Carib and Ciparicoto Indians during prehispanic times. During colonial times, two other racial and cultural groups became prominent there: the Spanish colonizers; and the African slaves that the Spaniards brought to work their plantations and mines.

The descendants of those Indians, Spaniards, and Africans make up the mixed population that presently inhabits the small hamlets, villages, and towns scattered over the inland and coastal areas.

Some of the towns in the state of Miranda are famous for their healers; many of whom are also spiritualists, mediums, and sorcerers.

In the midseventies, I made a trip to Miranda. Being at that time an anthropology student interested in healing practices, I worked with a woman healer. To honor her request for anonymity, I have given her the name Mercedes Peralta, and I have called her town Curmina.

As faithfully and accurately as I could, and with the healer's permission, I recorded in a field diary everything about my relation with her, from the moment I came to her house. I also recorded separately what some of her patients told me about themselves.

The present work consists of portions of my field diary, and the stories of those patients who were selected by Mercedes Peralta herself.

The parts taken from my field diary are written in the first person. I have, however, rendered the patient's stories into the third person. This is the only liberty I have taken with the material, other than changing the names and the personal data of the characters of the stories.






The Witch's Dream: Part 0 - Foreword By Carlos Castaneda.

Version 2007.02.24


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 0 - Foreword By Carlos Castaneda.

The work of Florinda Donner has a most special significance for me. It is, in fact, in agreement with my own work, and at the same time it deviates from it. Florinda Donner is my co-worker. We are both involved in the same pursuit; both of us belong to the world of don Juan Matus. The difference stems from her being female. In don Juan's world, males and females go in the same direction, on the same warrior's path, but on opposite sides of the road. Therefore, the views of the same phenomena obtained from those two positions have to be different in detail but not in flavor.

This proximity to Florinda Donner under any other circumstance would unavoidably engender a sense of loyalty rather than one of ruthless examination. But under the premises of the warrior's path, which we both follow, loyalty is expressed only in terms of demanding the best of ourselves. That best, for us, entails total examination of whatever we do.

Following don Juan's teachings, I have applied the warrior's premise of ruthless examination to Florinda Donner's work. I find that for me there are three different levels, three distinct spheres, of appreciation in it.

The first is the rich detail of her descriptions and narrative. To me, that detail is ethnography. The minutiae of daily life, which is commonplace in the cultural setting of the characters she describes, is something thoroughly unknown to many of us readers.

The second has to do with art. I would dare say that an ethnographer should also be a writer. In order to place us vicariously in the ethnographic horizon he or she describes, an ethnographer would have to be more than a social scientist: An ethnographer would have to be an artist.

The third is the honesty, simplicity, and directness of the work. It is here, without doubt, where I am most exigent. Florinda Donner and I have been molded by the same forces; therefore, her work must conform to a general pattern of striving for excellence. Don Juan has taught us that our work has to be a complete reflection of our lives.

I can not help having a warrior's sense of admiration and respect for Florinda Donner, who in solitude and against terrifying odds has maintained her equanimity, has remained faithful to the warrior's path, and has followed don Juan's teachings to the letter.

- by Carlos Castaneda.






The Witch's Dream: Part 1.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1.

  • Chapter 01.
  • Chapter 02.
  • Chapter 03.
  • Chapter 04.
  • Chapter 05.
  • Chapter 06.
  • Chapter 07.



The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 01.

Version 2007.02.24


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 01.

It began for me with a transcendental event; an event that shaped the course of my life. I met a nagual. He was an Indian from northern Mexico.

The dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy defines nagual as the Spanish adaptation of a word that means sorcerer or wizard in the Nahuati language of southern Mexico.

Traditional stories of naguals- men of ancient times who possessed extraordinary powers and performed acts that defied the imagination- do exist in modern Mexico.

But in an urban or even rural setting today, actual naguals are purely legendary. They seem to live only in folktales, through hearsay, or in the world of fantasy.

The nagual I met, however, was real. There was nothing illusory about him.

When I asked him out of well-meant curiosity what made him a nagual, he presented a seemingly simple, and yet utterly complex idea as an explanation for what he did and what he was.

He told me that nagualism begins with two certainties: the certainty that human beings are extraordinary beings living in an extraordinary world; and the certainty that neither men nor the world should ever be taken for granted under any circumstances.

From those sweet, simple premises, he said, grows a simple conclusion: Nagualism is at once taking off one mask and wearing another.

Naguals take off the mask that makes us see ourselves and the world we live in as ordinary, lusterless, predictable, and repetitious; and put on the second mask, the one that helps us see ourselves- and our surroundings- for what we really are; breathtaking events that bloom into transitory existence once, and are never to be repeated again.

After meeting that unforgettable nagual, I had a moment's hesitation due solely to the fear I felt on examining such an imposing paradigm.

I wanted to run away from that nagual and his quest, but I could not do it. Some time later, I took a drastic step and joined him and his party.

But this is not a story about that nagual, although his ideas and his influence bear heavily in everything I do. It is not my task to write about him or even to name him. There are others in his group who do that.

When I joined him, he took me to Mexico to meet a strange, striking woman- without telling me that she was perhaps the most knowledgeable and influential woman of his group.

Her name was Florinda Matus. In spite of her worn, drab clothes, she had the innate elegance of most tall, thin women.

Her pale complexioned face, gaunt and severe, was crowned by braided white hair and highlighted by large, luminous eyes.

Her husky voice and her joyful, youthful laughter eased my irrational fear of her.

The nagual left me in her charge.

The first thing I asked Florinda was whether she was a nagual herself.

Smiling rather enigmatically, she further refined the definition of the word. She said, "To be a sorcerer or a wizard or a witch doesn't mean to be a nagual. But any of them can be one if he or she is responsible for and leads a group of men and women involved in a specific quest of knowledge."

When I asked her what that quest was, she responded that for those men and women it was to find the second mask; the one that helps us see ourselves and the world for what we really are- breathtaking events.

But this is not the story of Florinda either, despite the fact that she is the woman who guides me in every act I perform. This is, rather, the story of one of the many things she made me do.



"For women the quest of knowledge is indeed a very curious affair," Florinda told me once. "We have to go through strange maneuvers."

"Why is that so, Florinda?"

"Because women really don't care."

"I care."

"You say you care. You really don't."

"I'm here with you. Doesn't that speak for my caring?"

"No. What happened is that you like the nagual. His personality overwhelms you. I am the same myself. I was overwhelmed by the preceding nagual; the most irresistible sorcerer there was."

"I admit you are right but only partially. I do care about the nagual's quest."

"I don't doubt it. But that's not enough. Women need some specific maneuvers, in order to get at the core of themselves."

"What maneuvers? What core of ourselves are you talking about, Florinda?"

"If there is something inside us that we don't know about- such as hidden resources, unsuspected guts and cunning, or nobility of the spirit in the face of sorrow and pain- it will come out if we are confronted by the unknown while we are alone; without friends, without familiar boundaries, without support.

"If nothing comes out of us under those circumstances, it's because we have nothing.

"And before you say you really care for the nagual's quest, you must first find out for yourself whether there is something inside you. I demand that you do that."

"I don't think I am any good at being tested, Florinda."

"My question is: Can you live without knowing whether or not you have something hidden inside you?"

"But what if I am one of those who have nothing?"

"If that's the case, then I will have to ask you my second question: Can you go on being in the world you have chosen if you have nothing inside you?"

"Why, of course I can continue to be here. I've already joined you."

"No. You only think you have chosen my world. To choose the nagual's world is not just a matter of saying you have. You must prove it."

"How do you think I should go about doing that?"

"I'll give you a suggestion. You don't have to follow it, but if you do, you should go alone to the place where you were born. Nothing could be easier than that. Go there and take your chances, whatever they may be."

"But your suggestion is impractical. I don't have good feelings about that place. I didn't leave in good standing."

"So much the better: The odds will be stacked against you. That's why I picked your country. Women don't like to be bothered too much: If they have to bother with things, they go to pieces. Prove to me that you are not that way."

"What would you suggest I do in that place?"

"Be yourself. Do your work. You said that you want to be an anthropologist. Be one. What could be simpler?"






The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 02.

Version 2007.02.24


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 02.

Years later, following Florinda's suggestions, I finally went to Venezuela, the country of my birth.

On the surface, I went to gather anthropological data on healing practices. Actually, I was there to carry out, under Florinda's guidance, the maneuvers necessary to discover whether I possessed hidden resources, without which I could not remain in the nagual's world.

The agreement that my journey must be a solitary one was nearly drawn out of me by force. With strong words and decisive gestures, Florinda served notice that under no circumstances should I seek counsel from anyone around me during the trip.

Knowing that I was in college, she strongly advised me not to use the trappings of academic life while in the field. I should not ask for a grant, have academic supervisors, or even ask my family and friends for help.

I should let circumstances dictate the path to follow; once I had taken it, I must plunge into it with the fierceness of women on the warrior's path.

I arranged to go to Venezuela on an informal visit. I would see my relatives, I thought, and gather information on any possibility for a future study in cultural anthropology.

Florinda praised me for my speed and thoroughness.

I thought she was humoring me. There was nothing to praise me for.

I mentioned to her that what worried me was her lack of instructions. Again and again I asked her for more details about my role in Venezuela.

As the date of my departure approached, I became increasingly anxious about the outcome of it all. I insisted, in no uncertain terms, that I needed more specific instructions.

Florinda and I were sitting in wicker chairs, comfortably padded by soft cushions, under the shade of one of the many fruit trees growing in her huge court patio.

In her long unbleached muslin dress, her wide-brimmed hat, fanning herself with a lace fan, Florinda looked like someone from another time.

"Forget about specific information," she said impatiently. "It won't do you any good."

"It certainly will do me a lot of good," I insisted. "I really don't understand why you're doing this to me, Florinda."

"Blame it on the fact that I am in the nagual's world; on the fact that I am a woman and that I belong to a different mood."

"Mood? What do you mean by a different mood?"

She gazed at me with remote, disinterested eyes. "I wish you could hear yourself talking. What mood?" she mocked me. Her face expressed tolerant contempt. "I don't go for seemingly orderly arrangements of thought and deed. For me, order is different from arranging things neatly. I don't give a damn about stupidity and I have no patience. That's the mood."

"That sounds dreadful, Florinda. I was led to believe that in the nagual's world, people are above pettiness and don't behave impatiently."

"Being in the nagual's world has nothing to do with my impatience," she said, making a humorous, hopeless gesture. "You see, I'm impeccably impatient."

"I really would like to know what it means to be impeccably impatient."

"It means that I am, for instance, perfectly conscious that you are boring me now with your stupid insistence on having detailed instructions. My impatience tells me that I should stop you. But it is my impeccability that will make you shut up at once.

"All this boils down to the following: If you persist in asking for details guided only by your bad habit of having everything spelled out, in spite of my telling you to stop, I'll hit you. But I'll never be angry at you, or hold it against you."

In spite of her serious tone I had to laugh. "Would you really hit me, Florinda? Well, hit me if you have to," I added, seeing her determined face. "But I've got to know what I am going to do in Venezuela. I'm going crazy with worry."

"All right! If you insist on knowing the details I consider important, I'll tell you.

"I hope you understand we're separated by an abyss, and this abyss can't be bridged by talk.

Males can build bridges with their words: Women can't. You're imitating males now.

"Women have to make the bridge with their acts. We give birth, you know. We make people.

"I want you to go away so that in aloneness you'll find out what your strengths or weaknesses are."

"I understand what you say, Florinda, but consider my position."

Florinda relented, dismissing the retort that arose to her lips.

"All right, all right," she said wearily, motioning me to move my chair next to hers.

"I'm going to give you the details I consider important for your trip.

Fortunately for you, they are not the detailed instructions you are after.

What you want is for me to tell you exactly what to do in a future situation, and when to do it. That's something quite stupid to ask. How can I give you instructions about something that doesn't yet exist?

I'll give you, instead, instructions on how to arrange your thoughts, feelings, and reactions. With that in hand, you'll take care of any eventuality that might arise."

"Are you really serious, Florinda?" I asked in disbelief.

"I'm deadly serious," she assured me.

Leaning forward in her chair, she went on speaking with a half smile about to break into a laugh.

"The first detailed item to consider is taking stock of yourself. You see, in the nagual's world, we must be responsible for our actions."

She reminded me that I knew the warrior's path. In the time I had been with her, she said, I had received extensive training in the laborious practical philosophy of the nagual's world.

Therefore, any detailed instructions she might give me now would have to be, actually, a detailed reminder of the warrior's path.

"In the warrior's path, women don't feel important," she went on, in the tone of someone reciting from memory, "because importance waters down fierceness.

"In the warrior's path women are fierce. They remain fiercely impassive under any conditions.

"They don't demand anything, yet they are willing to give anything of themselves.

"They fiercely seek a signal from the spirit of things in the form of a kind word, an appropriate gesture; and when they get it, they express their thanks by redoubling their fierceness.

"In the warrior's path, women don't judge. They fiercely reduce themselves to nothing in order to listen, to watch; so that they can conquer and be humbled by their conquest; or be defeated and be enhanced by their defeat.

"In the warrior's path, women don't surrender. They may be defeated a thousand times, but they never surrender.

And above all, in the warrior's path, women are free."

Unable to interrupt her, I had kept gazing at Florinda, fascinated though not quite grasping what she was saying.

I felt acute despair when she stopped as though she had nothing more to tell me. Without quite wanting to, I began crying uncontrollably. I knew that what she had just told me could not help me to resolve my problems.

She let me cry for a long time and then she laughed. "You really are weeping!" she said in disbelief.

"You are the most heartless, unfeeling person I've ever met," I said between sobs. "You're ready to send me God knows where, and you don't even tell me what I should do."

"But I just did," she said still laughing.

"What you just said has no value in a real-life situation," I retorted angrily. "You sounded like a dictator spouting slogans."

Florinda regarded me cheerfully. "You'll be surprised how much use you can get out of those stupid slogans," she said.

"But now, let us come to an understanding. Fm not sending you any place. You're a woman in the warrior's path, you're free to do what you wish, you know that.

"You haven't yet grasped what the nagual's world is all about. I'm not your teacher; I'm not your mentor; I'm not responsible for you. No one but yourself is.

"The hardest thing to grasp about the nagual's world is that it offers total freedom. But freedom is not free.

"I took you under my wing because you have a natural ability to see things as they are; to remove yourself from a situation and see the wonder of it all.

"That's a gift: You were born like that. It takes years for average persons in the nagual's world to remove themselves from their involvement with themselves and be capable of seeing the wonder of it all."

Regardless of her praise, I was nearly beyond myself with anxiety.

She finally calmed me down by promising that just before my plane left she would give me the specific detailed information I wanted.



I waited in the departure lobby of the airline, but Florinda didn't show up at all.

Despondent and filled with self-pity, I gave free rein to my despair and disappointment. With no concern for the curious glances around me, I sat down and wept.

I felt lonelier than I had ever felt before.

All I could think of was that no one had come to see me off: No one had come to help me with my suitcase. I was used to having relatives and friends see me off.

Florinda had warned me that anyone who chose the nagual's world had to be prepared for fierce aloneness.

She had made it clear that to her, aloneness did not mean loneliness but a physical state of solitude.






The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 03.

Version 2007.02.24


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 03.

Never had I realized how sheltered my life had been.

In a hotel room in Caracas, alone and without any idea of what to do next, I came to experience first hand the solitariness Florinda had talked about.

My parents were not in Venezuela at the time, and I was unable to contact my brothers by telephone.

All I felt like doing was sitting on the hotel bed and watching TV. I didn't want to touch my suitcase. I even thought of taking the plane back to Los Angeles.

Only after tremendous effort did I begin to unpack.

Neatly tucked inside a pair of folded slacks I found a piece of paper with Florinda's handwriting. I read it avidly.


Don't worry about details. Details tend to adjust themselves to serve the circumstances if one has conviction. Your plans should be as follows. Pick anything and call that the beginning. Then go and face the beginning. Once you are face to face with the beginning, let it take you wherever it may. I trust that your convictions won't let you pick a capricious beginning. Be realistic and frugal, so as to select wisely. Do it now!!

P.S. Anything would do for a start.


Possessed by Florinda's decisiveness, I picked up the phone, and dialed the number of an old friend of mine: I was not sure she would still be in Caracas.

The polite lady who answered the phone gave me other possible numbers to call because my friend was no longer at that address.

I called all of them, for I could no longer stop. The beginning was taking hold of me.

Finally I located a married couple I knew from childhood; my parents' friends.

They wanted to see me immediately, but they were going to a wedding in an hour, so they insisted on taking me along. They assured me it was all right.

At the wedding I met an ex-Jesuit priest, who was an amateur anthropologist.

We talked for hours on end. I told him of my interest in anthropological studies.

As if he had been waiting for me to say a magical word, he began to expound on the controversial value of folk healers, and the social role they play in their societies.

I had not mentioned healers or healing in general as a possible topic for my study, although it was foremost in my mind.

Instead of feeling happy that he seemed to be addressing himself to my inner thoughts, I was filled with an apprehension that verged on fear.

When he told me that I should not go to the town of Sortes, even though it was purported to be the center of spiritualism in western Venezuela, I felt genuinely annoyed with him.

He seemed to be anticipating me at every turn. It was precisely to that small town that I had planned to go if nothing else happened.

I was just about to excuse myself and leave the party, when he said in quite a loud tone that I should seriously consider going to the town of Curmina, in northern Venezuela, where I could have phenomenal success because the town was a new, true center of spiritualism and healing.

"I don't know how I know it, but I know you're dying to be with the witches of Curmina," he said in a dry, matter-of-fact tone.

He took a piece of paper, and drew a map of the region.

He gave me exact distances in kilometers from Caracas to the various points in the area where he said spiritualists, sorcerers, witches, and healers lived.

He placed special emphasis on one name: Mercedes Peralta. He underlined it and, totally unaware of it, first encircled it, then drew a heavy square around it and boxed it in.

"She's a spiritualist, a witch, and a healer," he said smiling at me. "Be sure you go and see her, will you?"

I knew what he was talking about. Under Florinda's guidance, I had met and worked with spiritualists, sorcerers, witches, and healers in northern Mexico and among the Latino population of southern California.

From the very beginning Florinda classified them.

Spiritualists are practitioners who entreat the spirits of saints or devils to intercede for them, with a higher order, on behalf of their patients.

Their function is to get in touch with spirits and interpret their advice. The advice is obtained in meetings during which spirits are called.

Sorcerers and witches are practitioners who affect their patients directly.

Through their knowledge of occult arts, they bring unknown and unpredictable elements to bear on the two kinds of people who come to see them: patients in search of help; and clients in search of their witchcraft services.

Healers are practitioners who strive exclusively to restore health and well-being.

Florinda made sure she added to her classification the possible combinations of all three.

In a joking way, but in all seriousness, she claimed that in matters of restoring health, I was predisposed to believe that non-Western healing practices were more holistic than Western medicine.

She made it clear that I was wrong.

Healing, Florinda said, depended on the practitioner and not on a body of knowledge.

Florinda maintained that there was no such thing as non-Western healing practices.

Healing, unlike medicine, was not a formalized discipline.

She used to tease that in my own way, I was as prejudiced as those who believe that if a patient is cured by means of medicinal plants, massages, or incantations, either the disease was psychosomatic or the cure was the result of a lucky accident that the practitioner did not understand.

Florinda was convinced that a person who successfully restored health, whether a doctor or a folk healer, was someone who could alter the body's fundamental feelings about itself and the body's link with the world- that is, someone who offered the body, as well as the mind, new possibilities so that the habitual mold to which body and mind had learned to conform could be systematically broken down.

Other dimensions of awareness would then become accessible, and the commonsense expectations of disease and health could become transformed as new bodily meanings became crystalized.

Florinda had laughed when I expressed genuine surprise upon hearing such thoughts which were revolutionary to me at the time.

She told me that everything she said stemmed from the knowledge she shared with her companions in the nagual's world.



Having followed the instructions in Florinda's note, I let the situation guide me: I let it develop with minimal interference on my part.

I felt I had to go to Curmina, and look up the woman that the ex-Jesuit priest had talked about.



When I first arrived at Mercedes Peralta's house, I did not have to wait long in the shadowy corridor before a voice called me from behind the curtain directly in front of me that served as a door.

I climbed the two steps leading to a large, dimly lit room that smelled of cigar smoke and ammonia.

Several candles, burning on a massive altar that stood against the far wall, illuminated the figurines and pictures of saints arranged around the blue-robed Virgin of Coromoto.

It was a finely carved statue with red smiling lips, rouged cheeks, and eyes that seemed to fix me with a benign, forgiving gaze.

I stepped closer.

In the corner, almost hidden between the altar and a high rectangular table, sat Mercedes Peralta.

She appeared to be asleep, with her head resting against the back of her chair; her eyes closed.

She looked extremely old.

I had never seen such a face. Even in its restful immobility, it revealed a frightening strength.

The glow of the candles, rather than softening her sharply chiseled features, only accentuated the determination etched in the network of wrinkles.

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

They were large and almond shaped. The whites of her eyes were slightly discolored.

At first her eyes were almost blank, but then they became alive and stared at me with the unnerving directness of a child.

Seconds passed and gradually under her unwavering gaze, which was neither friendly nor unfriendly, I began to feel uncomfortable.

"Good afternoon, dona Mercedes," I greeted her before I started to lose all my courage and run out of the house.

"My name is Florinda Donner, and I am going to be very direct so as not to waste your valuable time."

She blinked repeatedly, adjusting her eyes to look at me.

"I've come to Venezuela to study healing methods," I went on, gaining confidence. "I study at a university in the United States, but I truly would like to be a healer. I can pay you if you take me as your student. But even if you don't take me as your student, I can pay you for any information you would give me."

The old woman did not say a word.

She motioned me to sit down on a stool, then rose and gazed at a metal instrument on the table. There was a comical expression on her face as she turned to look at me.

"What is that apparatus?" I asked daringly.

"It's a nautical compass," she said casually. "It tells me all kinds of things."

She picked it up and placed it on the topmost shelf of a glass cabinet that stood against the opposite wall.

Apparently struck by a funny thought, she began to laugh. "I'm going to make something clear to you right now," she said.

"Yes, I'll give you all kinds of information about healing, not because you ask me, but because you're lucky: I already know that for sure.

"What I don't know is if you're strong as well."

The old woman was silent, then she spoke again in a forced whisper without looking at me; her attention on something inside the glass cabinet.

"Luck and strength are all that count in everything," she said.

"I knew the night I saw you by the plaza that you are lucky, and that you were looking for me."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," I said.

Mercedes Peralta turned to face me, then laughed in such a discordant manner that I felt certain she was mad. She opened her mouth so wide I could see the few molars she still had left.

She stopped abruptly, sat on her chair, and insisted that she had seen me exactly two weeks ago late at night in the plaza.

She had been with a friend, she explained, who was driving her home from a seance that had taken place in one of the coastal towns.

Although her friend had been baffled to see me alone so late at night, she herself had not been in the least surprised. "You reminded me instantly of someone I once knew," she said. "It was past midnight. You smiled at me."

I did not remember seeing her, or being alone in the plaza at that hour.

But it could have been that she had seen me the night I had arrived from Caracas. After waiting in vain for the week-long rain to stop, I had finally risked the drive from Caracas to Curmina.

I knew full well that there would be landslides: It turned out that instead of the usual two hours, the drive took me four.

By the time I had arrived, the whole town was asleep, and I had trouble finding the hostel near the plaza, which had also been recommended to me by the former priest.

Mystified by her insistence that she knew I was coming to see her, I told her about him and what he had said to me at the wedding in Caracas.

"He was quite insistent that I look you up," I said. "He mentioned that your ancestors were sorcerers and healers- famous during colonial times, and that they were persecuted by the Holy Inquisition."

A flicker of surprise widened her eyes slightly. "Did you know that in those days accused witches were sent to Cartagena in Colombia to be tried?" she asked and immediately went on to say, "Venezuela wasn't important enough to have an Inquisitorial tribunal."

She paused and, looking straight into my eyes, asked, "Where had you originally planned to study healing methods?"

"In the state of Yaracuy," I said vaguely.

"Sortes?" she inquired. "Maria Lionza?"

I nodded.



Sortes is the town where the cult of Maria Lionza is centered.

Maria Lionza is said to have been born of an Indian princess and a Spanish conquistador, and she is purported to have had supernatural powers.

Today, she is revered by thousands in Venezuela as a saintly miraculous woman.



"But I took the ex-priest's advice and came to Curmina instead," I said.

"I've already talked with two women healers. Both agreed that you're the most knowledgeable; the only one who could explain healing matters to me."

I talked about the methods I wanted to follow, making it all up on the spur of the moment: direct observation, and participation in some of the healing sessions while tape recording them- and, most important of all, systematic interviewing of the patients I observed.

The old woman nodded, giggling from time to time.

To my great surprise, she was totally amenable to my proposed methods. She proudly informed me that years ago she had been interviewed by a psychologist from a university in Caracas, who had stayed for a week right there in her house.

"To make it easier for you," she suggested, "you can come and live with us. We have plenty of rooms in the house."

I accepted her invitation, but told her that I had planned to stay for at least six months in the area.

She seemed unperturbed. As far as she was concerned, I could stay for years.

"I'm glad you're here, Musiua," she added softly.

I smiled. Although born and raised in Venezuela, I have been called a musiua (moo-see-yua) all my life.

It is usually a derogatory term, but depending on the tone in which it is said, it can be turned into a rather affectionate expression referring to anyone who is blond and blue-eyed.


The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 04.

Version 2007.02.25


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 04.

Men and women with closed eyes were sitting beside me on old wooden chairs arranged in a circle.

Startled by the faint rustle of a skirt swishing past me, I opened my eyes, and gazed at the candle burning on the altar in the semidarkness of the room.

The flame flickered and sent up a single black thread of smoke.

On the wall appeared a woman's shadow with a stick in its hand. The shadow seemed to impale the heads of the men and women.

I could barely stifle a nervous giggle upon realizing that it was Mercedes Peralta, placing big, hand-rolled cigars in everyone's mouth.

She took the candle from the altar, and lit each cigar with it.

Then she returned to her chair in the middle of the circle.

In a deep monotonous voice she began to chant an unintelligible, repetitious incantation.

Suppressing a fit of coughing, I tried to synchronize my smoking with the rapid puffing of the people around me.

Through teary eyes I watched their solemn, masklike faces becoming momentarily animated with every puff until they seemed to dissolve in the thickening smoke.

Like a disembodied object, Mercedes Peralta's hand materialized out of that vaporous haze. Snapping her fingers, she repeatedly traced the air with the imaginary lines connecting the four cardinal points.

Imitating the others, I began to sway my head to and fro, to the rhythmic sound of her snapping fingers, and her low-voiced incantations.

Ignoring my growing nausea, I forced myself to keep my eyes open so as not to miss a single detail of what was occurring around me.

This was the first time I had been allowed to attend a meeting of spiritualists. Dona Mercedes was going to serve as the medium and contact the spirits.



Dona Mercedes' own definition of spiritualists, witches, and healers was the same as Florinda's; with the exception that she recognized another independent class: Mediums.

Dona Mercedes defined mediums as the interpreting intermediaries who serve as conduits for the spirits to express themselves.

She understood that mediums were so independent that they did not have to belong to any of the three other categories. And they could also be all four categories in one.

"There is a disturbing force in the room." A man's voice interrupted dona Mercedes' incantations.

Smoldering cigars perforated the smoky darkness like accusing eyes as the rest of the group mumbled their agreement.

"I'll see to it," dona Mercedes said, rising from her chair.

She went from person to person, pausing for an instant behind each one.

I yelled out in pain as I felt something sharp piercing my shoulder.

"Come with me," she whispered into my ear. "You aren't in a trance."

Afraid I would resist, she took me firmly by the arm, and led me to the red curtain that served as a door.

"But you yourself asked me to come," I insisted before I was pushed out of the room. "I won't bother anyone if I sit quietly in a corner."

"You'll bother the spirits," she murmured, and noiselessly drew the curtain shut.

I walked to the kitchen at the back of the house, where I usually worked at night transcribing tapes, and organizing my gradually growing field notes.

Swarms of insects clustered around the single bulb dangling from the kitchen ceiling.

Its weak light illuminated the wooden table standing in the middle of the room, but left the room's corners in shadows; where the flea-ridden, mangy dogs slept.

One side of the rectangular kitchen was open to the yard.

Against the other three soot-blackened walls stood a raised adobe cooking pit, a kerosene stove, and a round metal tub filled with water.

I walked into the moonlit yard.

The cement slab where dona Mercedes' companion Candelaria spread out well-soaped clothes to whiten in the sun each day shone like a silvery puddle of water.

The wash hanging on the lines looked like white stains against the darkness of the stucco wall encircling the yard.

Outlined by the moon, fruit trees, medicinal plants, and vegetable patches formed a uniform dark mass humming with insects and the strident call of crickets.

I returned to the kitchen, and checked the pot simmering on the stove.

No matter what time of day or night, there was always something to eat. Usually it was a hearty soup made of meat, chicken, or fish, depending on what was available, and an assortment of vegetables and roots.

I searched for a soup plate among the dishes piled on the wide adobe shelves built into the wall. There were dozens of unmatched china, metal, and plastic plates.

I served myself a large bowl of chicken soup, but before sitting down, I remembered to scoop out some water from the nearby tub and replenish the pot on the stove.

It had not taken me long to familiarize myself with the habits of that eccentric household.

I started to write down what had transpired in the meeting. Trying to recollect every detail of an event or every word of a conversation was always the best exercise to fight off the sense of loneliness that invariably came upon me.

The cold nose of a dog rubbed against my leg. I searched for leftover pieces of bread, fed them to the dog, and then returned to my notes.

I worked until I felt sleepy and my eyes burned, strained by the weak light. I collected my tape recorder and papers, then headed toward my room, situated at the other end of the house.

I paused for an instant in the inside patio.

It was patched with moonlight. A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the gnarled grape vine; its jagged shadows painted lacy patterns on the brick courtyard.

I felt her presence before actually seeing the woman: She was squatting on the ground, almost hidden by the large terra-cotta pots scattered throughout the patio.

A wooly mop of hair crowned her head like a white halo, but her dark face remained indistinct, blending in with the shadows around her.

I had never seen her in the house before.

I recovered from my initial fright by reasoning that she must be one of dona Mercedes' friends, or perhaps one of her patients, or even one of Candelaria's relatives, who was waiting for her to come out of the seance.

"Pardon me," I said. "I'm new here. I work with dona Mercedes."

The woman nodded as I spoke. She gave me the impression she knew what I was talking about; but she did not break her silence.

Possessed by an inexplicable uneasiness, I tried not to succumb to hysterical fright. I kept repeating to myself that I had no reason to panic because an old woman was squatting in the patio.

"Were you at the seance?" I asked in an uncertain voice.

The woman shook her head affirmatively.

"I was there, too," I said, "but dona Mercedes kicked me out."

I felt relieved all of a sudden and wanted to make fun of the situation.

"Are you afraid of me?" the old woman asked abruptly. Her voice had a cutting, raspy, yet youthful sound.

I laughed. I was about to say no with a flippant air, when something held me back. I heard myself saying that I was terrified of her.

"Come with me," the woman ordered me matter-of-factly.

Again my first reaction was to follow her boldly; but instead, I heard myself saying something I had not intended. "I have to finish my work. If you care to talk to me, you can do it here and now."

"I command you to come!" the woman's voice boomed.

All the energy of my body seemed to drain out of me at once.

Yet, I stated, "Why don't you command yourself to stay."

I could not believe I had said that. I was ready to apologize, when a strange reserve of energy flowed into my body, and made me feel almost under control.

"Have it your way," the woman said, and stood up from her squatting position.

Her height was inconceivable. She grew and grew until her knees were at my eye level.

At that point I felt my energy leaving me and I let out a series of wild, piercing screams.

Dona Mercedes' companion Candelaria came rushing to my side. She covered the distance between the room where the meeting of spiritualists was taking place and the patio before I had time to gasp for air, and scream once more.

"Everything is all right now," she repeated in a soothing voice that seemed to come from far away.

Gently, she rubbed my neck and back, but I could not stop from shaking.

And then without wanting to, I began to cry.

"I shouldn't have left you by yourself," she said apologetically. "But who would've thought a musiua would see her?"

Before any of the other participants in the meeting came out to see what was going on, Candelaria took me to the kitchen. She helped me into a chair and gave me a glass of rum.

I drank it and told her what had happened in the patio.

The instant I had finished both the rum and my account, I felt drowsy, distracted, but far from drunk.



Not only did Candelaria put me to bed, she also placed a cot alongside so that she would be there when I awoke.

"Leave us alone, Candelaria," dona Mercedes said, stepping into my room.



After a long silence, dona Mercedes began, "I don't know how to say this, but you're a medium.

"I knew this all along." Her feverish eyes seemed to be suspended in a crystalline substance as she studied my face intently.

"The only reason they did let you sit in the seance was because you're lucky. Mediums are lucky."

In spite of my apprehension I had to laugh.

"Don't laugh about this," she admonished. "It's serious.

In the patio you called a spirit all by yourself, and the most important spirit of them all came to you; the spirit of one of my ancestors. She doesn't come often, but when she does, it's for important reasons."

"Was she a ghost?" I asked stupidly.

"Of course she was a ghost," she said firmly. "We understand things the way we've been taught. There are no deviations from that.

Our beliefs are that you saw a most frightening spirit; and that a live medium can communicate with the spirit of a dead medium."

"Why would that spirit come to me?" I asked.

"I don't know. She came to me once to warn me," she replied, "but I didn't follow her advice."

Dona Mercedes' eyes became gentle, and her voice grew softer as she added, "The first thing I told you when you arrived was that you're lucky.

I was lucky, too, until someone broke my luck.

You remind me of that person. He was as blond as you are.

His name was Federico and he also had luck, but he had no strength whatsoever.

The spirit told me to leave him alone. I didn't, and I am still paying for it."

At a loss as to how to take the sudden turn of events, or the sadness that had come upon her, I placed my hand over hers.

"He had no strength whatsoever," she repeated. "The spirit knew it."

Although Mercedes Peralta was always willing to discuss anything pertaining to her practices, she had quite emphatically discouraged my curiosity regarding her past. Once, and I don't know whether I caught her unaware or whether it was a deliberate move on her part, she revealed that she had suffered a great loss many years ago.

Before I had a chance to decide whether she was actually encouraging me to ask personal questions, she lifted my hand to her face, and held it against her cheek. "Feel these scars," she whispered.

"What happened to you?" I asked, running my fingers over the rough scar tissue on her cheeks and neck.

Until I touched them, the scars had been indistinguishable from the wrinkles. Her dark skin felt so brittle I was afraid it would disintegrate in my hand.

A mysterious vibration emanated from her entire body. I could not shift my gaze from her eyes.

"We won't talk about what you saw in the patio," she said emphatically. "Things like that pertain only to the world of mediums, and you should never discuss that world with anyone. I would certainly advise you not to be afraid of that spirit, but do not beckon her foolishly."

She helped me get out of my bed, and led me outside to the same spot in the patio where I had seen the woman. As I stood there inspecting the darkness around us, I realized that I had no idea whether I had slept a few hours or an entire night and day.

Dona Mercedes seemed to be aware of my confusion. "It's four in the morning," she said. "You've slept almost five hours."

She crouched where the woman had been. I squatted beside her between the shrubs of jasmine hanging down from wooden lattices; like perfumed curtains.

"It never occurred to me that you didn't know how to smoke," she said, and laughed her dry raspy laughter.

She reached inside her skirt pocket, pulled out a cigar, and lit it.

"At a meeting of spiritualists, we smoke hand-rolled cigars. Spiritualists know that the smell of tobacco pleases the spirits."

After a short pause, she put the lit cigar in my mouth. "Try to smoke," she ordered.

I drew on it, inhaling deeply. The heavy smoke made me cough.

"Don't inhale," she said impatiently. "Let me show you how."

She reached for the cigar, and puffed at it repeatedly, breathing in and out in short even spurts.

"You don't want the smoke to go to your lungs, but to your head," she explained.

"That's the way a medium calls the spirits.

From now on, you're going to call the spirits from this spot.

And don't talk about it until you can conduct a spiritualist's meeting all by yourself."

"But I don't want to call the spirits," I laughingly protested. "All I want is to sit in one of the meetings and watch."

She regarded me with a threatening determination. "You are a medium, and no medium goes to a meeting to watch."

"What is the reason for a meeting?" I asked, changing the subject.

"To ask questions of the spirits," she promptly responded. "Some spirits give great advice. Others are malevolent."

She chuckled with a touch of malice. "Which spirit shows up depends on the medium's state of being."

"Are mediums, then, at the mercy of the spirits?" I asked.

She was silent for a long time, looking at me without betraying any feelings in her face.

Then in a defiant tone she said, "They are not if they are strong."

She continued staring at me fiercely, then she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were devoid of all expression.

"Help me to my room," she murmured.

Holding on to my head, she straightened up. Her hand slid down my shoulder, then to my arm, the stiff fingers curling around my wrist like carbonized roots.

Silently, we shuffled down the dark corridor where wooden benches and chairs covered with goat hide stood rigidly against the wall.

She stepped inside her bedroom. Before closing the door she reminded me again that mediums do not talk about their world.

"I knew the instant I saw you in the plaza that you were a medium, and that you would be coming to see me," she affirmed.

A smile, the meaning of which I did not understand, crossed her face. "You have come to bring me something from my past."

"What?"

"I don't quite know myself. Memories, perhaps," she said vaguely. "Or perhaps you are bringing my old luck back."

She brushed my cheek with the back of her hand, and softly closed the door.






The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 05.

Version 2007.02.25


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 05.

Lulled by the soft breeze and the laughter of children playing in the street, I dozed all afternoon in the hammock that hung between two soursop trees in the yard.

I was even oblivious to the scent of powder detergent mingled with the pungent odor of creosol with which Candelaria washed the floors twice each day; regardless of whether they were dirty.

I waited until it was nearly six o'clock.

Then, as Mercedes Peralta had requested, I went and knocked on her bedroom door. There was no answer. Quietly, I stepped inside.

Usually at that time, she was through with the people who came to her to be treated for one malady or another. She never saw more than two a day.

On her bad days, which were quite frequent, she saw no one. On those occasions, I took her for rides in my jeep and for long walks in the surrounding hills.

"Is that you, Musiua?" dona Mercedes asked, stretching in her low-hanging hammock, fastened to metal rings built into the wall.

I greeted her and sat on the double bed by the window.

She never slept in it. She maintained that from a bed, regardless of its size, one could have a fatal fall.

Waiting for her to get up, I looked around the oddly furnished room that never failed to enchant me.

Things had been arranged there with a look of purposeful incongruity.

The two night tables at the head and foot of the bed, cluttered with candles and figurines of saints, served as altars.

A low wooden wardrobe painted blue and pink blocked the door that opened to the street.

I wondered what was inside, for dona Mercedes' clothes- she never wore anything but black- hung everywhere, from hooks on the walls and behind the door, at the head and foot of the iron bedstead, and even from the ropes holding the hammock.

A crystal chandelier, which did not work, dangled precariously from the cane ceiling. It was gray with dust, and spiders had spun their webs around its prisms.

An almanac, the kind one tears a page from each day, hung behind the door.

Combing her fingers through her white mop of hair, Mercedes Peralta heaved a deep sigh, then swung her legs out of the hammock and hunted about with her feet for her cloth sandals.

She sat still for a moment, then moved to the high narrow window facing the street and opened its wooden panels.

She blinked repeatedly until her eyes adjusted to the late-afternoon light beaming into the room.

Intently, she gazed at the sky, as if she were expecting some message from the sunset.

"Are we going for a walk?" I asked.

Slowly, she turned around. "A walk?" she repeated, arching her brows in surprise. "How can we go for a walk when I have a person waiting for me."

I opened my mouth ready to inform her there was no one outside, but the mocking expression in her tired eyes compelled me to silence. She took my hand, and we walked out of her room.

With his chin buried in his chest, a frail-looking old man dozed on the wooden bench outside the room where Mercedes Peralta treated people who came for help.

Sensing our presence, he straightened up. "I don't feel too well," he said in a toneless voice, reaching for his straw hat and the walking stick lying beside him.

"Octavio Cantu," Mercedes Peralta said, addressing herself to me, but shaking his hand.

She led him up the two steps into the room.

I followed close behind.

He turned around with an inquiring expression in his eyes as he gazed at me.

"She's been helping me," she said. "But if you don't want her with us, she'll go outside."

He stood there for a moment nervously shifting his feet.

His mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. "If she has been helping you," he murmured with a touch of helplessness, "I suppose it's all right."

With a swift movement of her head, Mercedes Peralta motioned me to my stool by the altar, then helped the old man into the chair directly in front of the high rectangular table.

She seated herself to his right, facing him.

"Where could it be?" she mumbled repeatedly, searching among the assortment of jars, candles and cigars, dried roots, and scraps of material scattered on the table.

She sighed with relief upon finding her nautical compass, which she placed in front of Octavio Cantu.

Attentively, she studied the round-shaped metal box.

"Look at this!" she cried out, beckoning me to move closer.

It was the same compass I had seen her examine so intently the first day I walked into that room. The needle, barely visible through the opaque, badly scratched glass, moved vigorously to and fro, as if animated by some invisible force emanating from Octavio Cantu.

Mercedes Peralta used the compass as a diagnostic device only if she believed the person to be suffering from a spiritual ailment rather than a natural disease. So far, I had been unable to determine what criteria she used to differentiate between the two kinds of maladies. For her, a spiritual ailment could manifest itself in the form of a bout of bad luck as well as a common cold, which, depending on the circumstances, might also be diagnosed as a natural ailment.

Expecting to find some mechanical contraption that activated the needle, I examined the compass at every opportunity. Since there was none, I accepted her explanation as a bonafide truth: Whenever a person is centered, that is, when body, spirit, and soul are in harmony, the needle does not move at all.

To prove her point, she placed the compass in front of herself, Candelaria, and me. To my great astonishment, the needle moved only when the compass was in front of me.

Octavio Cantu craned his neck to peer at the instrument. "Am I sick?" he asked softly, gazing up at dona Mercedes.

"It's your spirit," she murmured. "Your spirit is in great turmoil."

She returned the compass to the glass cabinet, then positioned herself behind the old man and rested both hands on his head.

She remained that way for a long time; then with quick, sure movements, she ran her fingers down his shoulders and arms.

Swiftly, she stepped in front of him, her hands brushing lightly down his chest, his legs, all the way to his feet.

Reciting a prayer that was part church litany, part incantation- she maintained that every good healer knew that Catholicism and spiritualism complemented each other- she alternately massaged his back and chest for nearly a half hour.

To give momentary relief to her tired hands, she periodically shook them vigorously behind her back. She called it casting off the accumulation of negative energy.

To mark the end of the first part of her treatment, she stamped her right foot three times on the ground.

Octavio Cantu shuddered uncontrollably.

She held his head from behind, pressing her palms to his temples until he began to draw slow, difficult breaths.

Mumbling a prayer, she moved to the altar, lit a candle and then a hand-rolled cigar, which she began to smoke with even, rapid puffs.

"I should be used to it by now," the old man said, breaking the smoky silence.

Startled by his voice, she began to cough until tears rolled down her cheeks. I wondered whether she had accidentally inhaled the smoke.

Octavio Cantu, oblivious to her coughing, continued to talk. "I've told you many, many times that whether I'm sober or drunk, I only dream one dream.

I'm standing in my shack. It's empty. I feel the wind and see shadows moving everywhere. But there are no more dogs to bark at the emptiness and at the shadows.

I awake with a terrible pressure: It feels like someone were sitting on my chest; and as I open my eyes, I see the yellow pupils of a dog. They open wider and wider, until they swallow me..." His voice trailed off.

Gasping for breath, he looked around the room. He no longer seemed to know where he was.

Mercedes Peralta dropped the cigar stub on the floor. Grabbing his chair from behind, she swiftly turned him around, so that he was now facing the altar.

With slow, mesmerizing movements, she massaged him around his eyes.

I must have dozed off, for I found myself alone in the room.

I quickly looked around. The candle on the altar was almost burned down.

Right above me in the corner close to the ceiling sat a moth the size of a small bird. It had enormous black circles on its wings; they stared at me like curious eyes.

A sudden rustle made me turn around.

Mercedes Peralta was sitting in her chair by the altar. I muffled a scream. I could have sworn she had not been there a moment before.

"I didn't know you were there," I said. "Look at that big moth above my head." I searched for the insect, but it was gone.

There was something about the way she looked at me that made me shudder.

"I got too tired and fell asleep," I explained. "I didn't even find out what was wrong with Octavio Cantu."

"He comes to see me from time to time," she said. "He needs me as a spiritualist and a healer. I lighten the burden that weighs on his soul."

She turned to the altar, and lit three candles.

In the flickering light her eyes were the color of the moth's wings.

"You'd better go to sleep," she suggested. "Remember, we're going to go for a walk at dawn."






The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 06.

Version 2007.02.25


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 06.

Certain that I had overslept again, I dressed quickly and headed down the dark corridor. Mindful of the creaking hinges, I carefully opened the door to Mercedes Peralta's room and tiptoed toward the hammock.

"Are you awake?" I whispered, pushing aside the gauzy material of the mosquito netting. "Do you still want to go for a walk?"

Her eyes opened instantly, but she was not really awake yet. She continued to stare quietly ahead.

"I do," she finally said hoarsely, brushing the netting aside completely. She cleared her throat, spat in the bucket on the floor, and then moved over a little to make room for me in the hammock.

"I'm glad you remembered our walk," she mumbled as she crossed herself.

Closing her eyes, she folded her hands and prayed to the Virgin and to a number of saints in heaven. She thanked them individually for their guidance in helping her with the people she treated and then asked for their forgiveness.

"Why their forgiveness?" I inquired as soon as she finished her long prayer.

"Look at the lines on my palms," she said, placing her upturned hands in my lap.

With my index finger I traced the clearly delineated V and M lines that seemed to have been branded; the V on her left palm, and the M on her right.

"V stands for vida, life. M stands for muerte, death," she explained, enunciating the words with deliberate precision. "I was born with the power to heal and harm."

She lifted her hands from my lap, and brushed the air as though she intended to erase the words she had spoken.

She stared around the room, then deliberately maneuvered her thin, fleshless legs out of the hammock and slipped into a pair of cutout shoes through which her toes protruded.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she straightened the black blouse and skirt, which she had slept in.

Holding on to my arm, she led me outside. "Let me show you something before we go for our walk," she said, heading toward the working room.

She turned directly to the massive altar, which was made entirely out of melted wax. It had been started with a single candle, she said, by her great-great-grandmother, who had also been a healer.

Lovingly, she ran her hand over the glossy, almost transparent surface.

"Search for the black wax amid the multi-colored streaks," she urged me. "That's the evidence that witches light a black candle when they use their power to harm."

Countless strands of black wax ran into the colored bands.

"The ones closer to the top are mine," she said. Her eyes shone with an odd fierceness as she added, "A true healer is also a witch."

A glimmer of a smile lingered on her lips for a moment; then she went on to say that not only was she well known throughout the area, but that people came for her treatments from as far as Caracas, Maracaibo, Merida, and Cumana.

People knew about her abroad as well: Trinidad, Cuba, Colombia, Brazil, and Haiti. There were pictures somewhere in the house attesting that among those persons had been ministers of state, ambassadors, and even a bishop.

She regarded me enigmatically, then shrugged her shoulders.

"My luck and my strength were peerless at one time," she said. "I ran out of both, and now I can only heal."

Her grin widened, and her eyes took on a teasing gleam. "And how is your work progressing?" she asked with the innocent curiosity of a child.

Before I had a chance to take in the sudden change of topic, she added, "Regardless of how many healers and patients you interview, you will never learn that way. A real healer must be first a medium and a spiritualist, and then a witch."

A dazzling smile lit up her face. "Don't be too upset when one of these days I burn your writing pads," she said casually. "You're wasting your time with all that nonsense."

I became utterly alarmed. I did not take kindly to the prospect of seeing my work go up in flames.

"Do you know what's of real interest?" she asked, and then answered her own question. "The issues that go beyond the superficial aspects of healing.

"Things that can't be explained, but may be experienced.

"There have been plenty of people who have studied healers. They believe that by watching and asking questions they may understand what mediums, witches, and healers do.

"Since there is no point in arguing with them, it's a lot easier to leave them alone to do whatever they want.

"It cannot be the same in your case," she went on. "I cannot let you go to waste.

"So, instead of acting like you are studying healers, you're going to practice calling the spirit of my ancestor every night in the patio of this house.

"You can't take notes on that because the spirits count time in a different way.

"You'll see. To deal with the spirits is like entering inside the earth."

The memory of the woman I had seen in that patio perturbed me terribly. I wanted to abandon right then all my quest and forget Florinda's plans and run away.

Suddenly dona Mercedes laughed, a clear burst that dispelled my fears.

"Musiua, you should see your face," she said. "You're about to faint. Among other things, you're a coward."

Despite her wry mocking tone, there was sympathy and affection in her smile. "I shouldn't push you. So I'm going to give you something you'll like- something that has more value than your study plans; A glimpse into the life of some personages of my choice.

"I will make them weave tales for you. Tales about fate. Tales about luck. Tales about love."

She brought her face close to mine and in a soft whisper added, "Tales about strength and tales about weakness. That will be my gift to you to keep you appeased."

She took my arm and led me outside. "Let's go for our walk."

Our steps rang lonely through the silent street bordered by high concrete sidewalks.

In a faint murmur, obviously wary of waking the people sleeping inside the houses we passed, Mercedes Peralta remarked that during her days as a young healer, her house- the biggest one on the street- had stood isolated at what was then considered the outskirts of town.

"But now," she said- the sweeping gesture of her arm encompassing everything around us- "it seems I live in the center of town."

We turned onto the main street, and walked all the way to the plaza where we rested on a bench facing the statue of Bolivar on a horse.

The town hall stood at one side of the plaza, the church with its bell tower at the other. Many of the original buildings had been pulled down and replaced by boxlike structures.

Yet, the old houses that still stood, with their wrought-iron grills, their red-tile roofs gray with age, and their wide eaves that permitted the rain water to splash clear of the brightly painted walls, gave the center of town its distinct colonial atmosphere.

"This town has not been the same since the day the clock in the tower of the city hall was fixed," she mused.

She explained that a long time ago, as if resenting the advent of progress, the clock had stopped at twelve o'clock.

The local pharmacist had seen to it that it was fixed, and immediately afterward, as though conjured up by an act of magic, lampposts were put on the streets, and sprinklers were installed in the plaza so that the grass would stay green all year-round. And before anyone knew what was happening, industrial centers mushroomed everywhere.

She paused for an instant to catch her breath, then pointed to the shack-covered hills surrounding the city. "And so did the squatters' shanty towns," she added.

She rose and we walked to the end of the main street to where the hills began.

Huts made of corrugated metal sheets, crates, and cardboard hung precariously on the steep slopes.

The owners of the shacks close to the city streets had boldly tapped electricity from the lampposts. The insulated wires were crudely camouflaged with colored ribbons.

We turned onto a side street, then into an alley, and finally we followed a narrow path winding up the only hill that had not yet been claimed by squatters.

The air, still damp from the night dew, smelled of wild rosemary. We climbed almost to the top of the hill, where a solitary saman tree grew. We sat down on the damp ground carpeted with tiny yellow daisies.

"Can you hear the sea?" Mercedes Peralta asked.

The faint breeze, rustling through the tree's intricately woven crown, scattered a shower of powdery golden blossoms. They alighted on her hair and shoulders like butterflies.

Her face was suffused with an immeasurable calm. Her mouth opened slightly, revealing her few teeth, yellow with tobacco and age.

"Can you hear the sea?" she repeated, turning her dreamy, slightly misted eyes toward me.

I told her that the sea was too far away beyond the mountains.

"I know that the sea is far away," she said softly. "But at this early hour, when the town still sleeps, I always hear the sound of the waves carried by the wind.

"Closing her eyes, she leaned against the tree trunk, as if to sleep.

The morning stillness was shattered by the sound of a truck winding its way through a narrow street below. I wondered whether it was the Portuguese baker delivering his freshly baked rolls, or the police picking up last night's drunks.

"See who it is," she urged me.

I walked a few steps down the path, and watched an old man get out from a green truck parked at the bottom of the hill. His coat hung loosely on his stooped shoulders, and a straw hat covered his head.

Aware of being watched, he looked up, and waved his walking stick by way of greeting.

I waved in return.

"It's the old man you treated last night," I told her.

"How fortunate!" she murmured. "Call him. Tell him to come up here. Tell him I want to see him. My gift to you begins now."

I walked down to where his truck was parked and asked the old man to walk back up the hill with me. He followed me without a word.

"No dogs today," he said to Mercedes Peralta by way of greeting, and sat beside her.

"Let me tell you a secret, Musiua," she said, beckoning me to sit across from her.

"I am a medium, a witch, and a healer. Of the three, I like the second because witches have a particular way of understanding the mysteries of fate.

"Why is it that some people get rich, successful, and happy, while others find only hardship and pain?

"Whatever decides those things is not what you call fate: It's something more mysterious than that. And only witches know about it."

Her features strained for an instant with an expression I could not fathom as she turned to Octavio Cantu.

"Some people say that we're born with our fate. Others claim that we make our fate with our actions.

"Witches say that it's neither and that something else catches us like the dog catcher catches a dog. The secret is to be there if we want to be caught, or not to be there if we don't want to be caught."

Her glance strayed to the eastern sky, where the sun was rising over the distant mountains. After a few moments she faced the old man once more. Her eyes seemed to have absorbed the sun's radiance, for they shone as if smeared with fire.

"Octavio Cantu is coming to the house for his seasonal treatments," she said. "Perhaps little by little he'll weave a tale for you. A tale about how chance joins lives together and how that something that only witches know about fastens them into one bundle."

Octavio Cantu nodded his head in agreement. A tentative smile parted his lips. The scant beard on his chin was as white as the hair sticking out from under his straw hat.

Octavio Cantu came to dona Mercedes' house eight times. Apparently she had been treating him periodically since he was a young man.

Besides being old and run down, he was an alcoholic. Dona Mercedes emphasized, however, that all his maladies were of the spirit. He needed incantations, not medicines.

At first, he hardly talked to me, but then he began to open up, feeling more confident perhaps. We spent long hours talking about his life.

At the beginning of each of our sessions, he invariably seemed to succumb to despair, loneliness, suspicion. He demanded to know why I was interested in his life.

But he always checked himself and regained his aplomb, and for the rest of the session- whether an hour or an entire afternoon- he would talk about himself as if he were some other person.


Octavio pushed the flat piece of cardboard aside, and edged in through the small doorlike opening of the shack.

There was no light inside, and the pungent smoke of the dwindling fire in the stone hearth made his eyes tear. He shut them tight and groped his way in the darkness. He tripped over some tins and banged his shin on a wooden crate.

"Damn stinking place," he swore under his breath.

He sat for a moment on the packed dirt floor, and rubbed his leg.

In the farthest corner of the wretched shack, he saw the old man asleep on a discarded, worn-out backseat of a car. Slowly, avoiding the crates, ropes, rags, and boxes scattered on the ground, he walked bent over to where the old man was lying.

Octavio lit a match. In the dim light the sleeping man looked dead. The rising and falling of his chest was so slight he hardly seemed to breathe. High cheekbones protruded from his black, emaciated face. His torn, dirty khaki pants were rolled up his calves. His long-sleeved khaki shirt was buttoned tightly around his wrinkled neck.

"Victor Julio!" Octavio shouted, shaking him vigorously. "Wake up, old man!"

Victor Julio's trembling, wrinkled eyelids opened for a moment. Only the discolored white of his eyes showed before he shut them again.

"Wake up!" Octavio cried out with exasperation. He reached for the narrow-brimmed straw hat on the ground, and pushed it down hard on the old man's unkempt white hair.

"Who the hell are you?" Victor Julio grumbled. "What do you want?"

"I'm Octavio Cantu. I've been appointed by the mayor as your helper," he explained with an air of importance.

"Helper?" Unsteadily the old man sat up. "I need no helper." He slipped into his worn-out laceless shoes and staggered around the dark room until he found the gasoline lantern. He lit it. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and, blinking repeatedly, regarded the young man carefully.

Octavio Cantu was of medium height, with strong muscles, visible through his unbuttoned, faded blue jacket. His pants, which seemed too large for him, bagged over his new shiny boots. Victor Julio chuckled, wondering if Octavio Cantu had stolen them.

"So you're the new man," he said in a rasping voice, trying to determine the color of Octavio's eyes, shaded by a red baseball cap. They were shifty eyes, the color of moist earth.

Victor Julio decided there was something decidedly suspicious about the young man. "I've never seen you around here," he said. "Where do you come from?"

"Paraguana," Octavio answered curtly. "I've been here for a while. I've seen you several times at the plaza."

"Paraguana," the old man repeated dreamily. "I've seen the sand dunes of Paraguana."

He shook his head and in a harsh voice demanded, "What are you doing in this godforsaken place? Don't you know that there is no future in this town? Haven't you noticed that the young people have migrated to the cities?"

"It's all going to change," Octavio declared, eager to steer the conversation away from himself.

"This town is going to grow. Foreigners are buying up the cacao groves and the sugarcane fields. They are going to build factories. People are going to flock to this town. People are going to get rich."

Victor Julio doubled up with mocking laughter. "Factories aren't for those like us. If you stick around long enough, you'll end up like me."

He put his hand on Octavio's arm. "I know why you're so far away from Paraguana. You're running away from something, aren't you?" he asked, staring hard into the young man's restless eyes.

"What if I am?" Octavio shifted uncomfortably.

Octavio realized that he didn't have to tell him anything. No one knew about him in this town.

Yet, something in the old man's eyes unnerved him. "I had some trouble back home," he muttered evasively.

Victor Julio shuffled over toward the opening of the shack, reached for his burlap sack hanging on a rusty nail, and took out a bottle of cheap rum. His hands, crisscrossed by protruding veins, shook uncontrollably as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle. He gulped repeatedly, heedless of the amber liquid trailing down his scraggly beard.

"There is a lot of work to be done," Octavio said. "We better get going."

"I was young like you when I was appointed by another mayor as a helper to an old man," Victor Julio reminisced.

"I too was strong and eager to work. And look at me now. The rum doesn't even burn my throat any longer."

Squatting on the ground, Victor Julio searched for his walking stick. "This cane belonged to the old man. He gave it to me before he died."

He held up the dark, highly polished stick to Octavio. "It's made of hardwood from the Amazon jungle. It will never break."

Octavio glanced briefly at the cane, and then asked impatiently, "Is the stuff we need here? Or do we still have to get it?"

The old man grinned. "The meat has been soaking since yesterday. It should be ready by now. It's outside behind the shack in a steel drum."

"Are you going to show me how to fix the meat?" Octavio asked.

Victor Julio laughed. All his front teeth were missing. The remaining yellow molars looked like two pillars in his cavernous mouth.

"There is really nothing to show," he said in between giggles.

"I just go to the pharmacist every time I want to prepare the meat. He's the one who mixes the beef tenderizer.

"Actually," he explained, "it's more like a marinade." His mouth spread into a wide grin.

"I always get the meat from the slaughterhouse, compliments of the mayor."

He took another gulp from the bottle. "Rum helps me to prepare myself." He rubbed his chin dry.

"The dogs are going to catch up with me one of these days," he mumbled under his breath and handed the half-empty bottle to Octavio. "You better have some too."

"No thanks," Octavio refused politely. "I can't drink on an empty stomach."

Victor Julio opened his mouth ready to say something. Instead, he picked up his walking stick and his burlap sack, and motioned Octavio to follow him outside.

Absorbed, Victor Julio stood for a moment and watched the sky. It was neither dark nor light but that strange oppressive gray that comes before dawn. In the distance he heard the barking of a dog.

"There's the meat," he said, pointing with his chin to the steel drum standing on a tree stump.

He handed Octavio a bundle of ropes. "It'll be easier to carry the drum if you tie it on your back."

Expertly, Octavio looped the ropes around the steel drum, lifted it on his back, then crossed the ropes over his chest, and tied them securely below his navel. "Is this all we need?" he asked, avoiding the old man's gaze.

"I've some extra rope and a can of kerosene in my sack," Victor Julio explained and took another gulp of rum. Absentmindedly, he stuffed the bottle in his pocket.

In single file they followed the dry gully that cut across the cane break.

All was silent except for the fading buzz of the crickets and the gentle breeze rustling through the bladelike leaves of the cane.

Victor Julio had trouble breathing. His chest hurt. He felt so tired he wanted to lie down on the hard ground.

He turned often to gaze at his shack in the distance. A foreboding feeling crossed his mind. The end was near.

He had known for a long time that he was too old and feeble to do all the work he was supposed to do. It would be only a matter of time before they got a new man.

"Victor Julio, come on," Octavio called impatiently. "It's getting late."

The town was still asleep.

Only a few old women on their way to church were about. With their heads covered by dark veils, they hurried past the two men without returning their greetings.

On the narrow concrete sidewalks, seeking the protection of the silent houses, scrawny, sickly looking dogs lay curled up in front of closed doors.

At Victor Julio's command, Octavio lowered the steel drum on the ground, and opened the tight lid.

Using the long wooden pliers he had retrieved from his burlap sack, the old man picked chunks of meat from the drum.

And as he and Octavio slowly made their way through town, he fed every stray dog they came across. Hungrily, wagging their tails, the animals devoured the fatal meal.

"The dogs will feed on you in hell," a fat woman shouted before disappearing through the large wooden door of the old colonial church at the other side of the plaza.

"No rabies this year," Victor Julio shouted back, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. "I think we got them all well fed for the hereafter."

"I counted seventeen," Octavio complained, stretching his sore back. "That's a lot of dead dogs to pull."

"The biggest one we won't have to carry," Victor Julio said, a sinister smile twisting his face. "There is one dog that won't die in the street."

"What do you mean?" Octavio asked, turning his red baseball cap around on his head, a puzzled look on his face.

Victor Julio's eyes narrowed, his pupils sparkled with an evil glint. His thin old body shivered with anticipation.

"I'm all keyed up. Now, I'm going to kill the Lebanese storekeeper's black German shepherd."

"You can't do that," Octavio protested. "It's not a stray dog. It's not sick. It's well fed. The mayor said only stray sickly dogs."

Victor Julio swore loudly, then looked at his helper with a wicked expression.

He was certain that this was the last time he would have access to the poison. If not Octavio, then someone else would be in charge of disposing of the dogs at the end of the next dry season.

He could understand why the young man didn't want to cause any trouble in town, but that was not any of his concern. He had wanted to kill the Lebanese's dog ever since it had bitten him. This was his last chance.

"That dog is trained to attack," Victor Julio said. "Every time it gets loose it bites someone. It bit me some months ago."

He pulled up his pant leg. "Look at the scar!" he muttered angrily, rubbing the purple, knotty spot on his calf. "The Lebanese didn't even bother to take me to a doctor. For all I knew that dog could have had rabies."

"But it didn't and you can't kill it," Octavio insisted. "The dog isn't in the street. It's got an owner." He looked imploringly at the old man. "You're only asking for trouble."

"Who cares," Victor Julio snapped belligerently. "I hate that animal and I won't have another chance to kill it."

Victor Julio flung his burlap sack over his shoulder. "Come on, let's go."

Unwillingly, Octavio followed the old man through a narrow side street toward the outskirts of town. They stopped in front of a large, green stucco house.

"The dog must be in the back," Victor Julio said. "Let's have a look." They walked along the brick wall encircling the backyard. There was no sign of the dog.

"We better leave," Octavio whispered. "I'm sure the dog sleeps inside the house."

"It'll come out," Victor Julio said, trailing his walking stick along the wall.

Loud barking splintered the morning stillness. Excitedly, the old man jumped up and down on his frail legs, brandishing his walking stick in the air above his head. "Give me the rest of the meat!" he demanded.

Octavio unfastened the ropes from his chest, and reluctantly lowered the steel drum to the ground. The old man picked out the last pieces of meat with the wooden pliers, and flung them over the wall.

"Just listen to that beast gulping down that poisoned meat," Victor Julio said gleefully. "That vicious brute is as hungry as the rest of them."

"Let's get out of here fast," Octavio hissed, lifting the steel drum on his back.

"There's no hurry." Victor Julio laughed. A sensation of elation invaded his body as he looked for something on which to stand.

"Let's go," Octavio insisted. "We're going to get caught."

"We won't," Victor Julio assured him calmly, climbing on the shaky wooden crate he had propped against the wall.

He stood on his toes and looked at the raging dog. Barking furiously, the animal spat foam and blood in an effort to wrench loose whatever had stuck in its throat.

Its legs grew rigid. It toppled over. Powerful spasms wheeled its body around.

Victor Julio shivered. "It's even hard to die," he murmured, stepping down from the crate. He didn't feel any satisfaction in having killed the Lebanese's German shepherd.

In all the years of poisoning dogs, he had always avoided seeing them die. He had never enjoyed killing the town's stray mongrels, but it was the only job that had been available to him.

A vague fear filled Victor Julio's heart. He looked down the empty road.

He curled his left thumb backward and placed the walking stick between it and his wrist. Holding his arm outstretched, he started to move the stick back and forth so rapidly the cane seemed to be suspended in midair.

"What kind of trick is that?" Octavio asked, watching him enthralled.

"It's no trick. It's an art. This is what I do best," Victor Julio explained sadly.

"In the mornings and afternoons I entertain the small children in the plaza with my dancing stick. Some of the children are friendly to me."

He handed the cane to Octavio. "Try it. See if you can do it."

Victor Julio laughed at Octavio's clumsy attempt to hold the stick properly.

"It takes years of practice," the old man said. "You've got to develop your thumb in order to stretch it backward until it touches the wrist. And you have got to move your arm much faster so the stick won't have time to fall on the ground."

Octavio handed him back the cane. "We better get those dogs!" he exclaimed, surprised by the suddenness of the morning glow and the flame-colored blotches appearing on the eastern sky.

"Victor Julio, wait for me," a child called after them.

Barefoot, her black tangled hair tied on top of her head, a six-year-old girl caught up with the two men.

"Look what my aunt brought me to play with," she said, holding up a German shepherd puppy for the old man to see. "I named her Butterfly. She looks like one, doesn't she?"

Victor Julio sat on the curb. The little girl sat next to him and placed the cute, chubby puppy on his lap. Distractedly, he ran his fingers along the black and pale yellow fur.

"Show Butterfly how you make your walking stick dance," the child pleaded.

Victor Julio put the dog on the ground, and retrieved the bottle of rum from his pocket. Without drawing a breath, he emptied its contents, then dropped the bottle into his burlap sack.

There was a desolate expression in his eyes as he gazed into the child's smiling face. Soon she would grow up, he thought. She would no longer sit with him under the trees in the plaza and help him fill the trash cans with leaves, and believe they would turn to gold during the night.

He wondered if she, too, would shout at him, taunt him, like most of the older children did. He closed his eyes tightly.

"Let's see if the stick feels like dancing," he mumbled. Rubbing his creaking knees, he got up.

Mesmerized, both Octavio and the child watched the stick. It seemed to be dancing by itself, animated not only by the swift graceful movement of Victor Julio's arms but also by the rhythmic tapping of his foot and his hoarse, yet melodious, voice, as he sang a nursery rhyme.

Octavio put the drum down, and sat on it to admire the old man's skill.

Victor Julio stopped his song in mid-sentence. His stick fell on the ground. With a look of surprise and horror, he saw the puppy lapping up the juice of the poisoned meat, trickling from the drum.

The girl picked up the cane, caressed the finely carved head, and handed it to Victor Julio. "I've never seen you drop it," she remarked concerned. "Did the stick get tired?"

Victor Julio placed his trembling hand on her head, pulling her ponytail gently. "I'm going to take Butterfly for a walk," he said. "Go back to bed before your mother finds you out here. I'll see you later at the plaza. We'll pick leaves together."

He lifted the chubby puppy in his arms, and motioned Octavio to follow him up the street.

The stray dogs were no longer curled up in front of closed doors, but lay rigid with their legs extended, scattered around the dusty streets, their glassy eyes staring blankly into space.

One by one, Octavio tied them with the ropes Victor Julio had brought in his burlap sack.

Butterfly, her whole body shaking convulsively, sent a stream of blood down the old man's pants. He shook his head with despair. "What am I going to tell the kid?" he mumbled, fastening the poisoned puppy with the others.

They made two trips, and dragged the dead dogs to the outskirts of town, past the Lebanese's house, past the empty fields, down into a dried-up ravine.

Victor Julio covered them with a layer of dry branches, then doused the heap with the can of kerosene he had brought with him and set them afire. The dogs burned slowly, filling the air with the smell of scorched flesh and fur.

Panting, their throats raw with smoke and dust, the two men climbed out of the ravine. They didn't walk far before they collapsed under the shade of a blooming red acacia tree.

Victor Julio stretched out on the hard ground still cool from the night. His hands trembled as he held the walking stick securely over his stomach. He closed his eyes, and tried to still his breathing, hoping it would dispel the pain constricting his chest. He wished he could sleep, lose himself in dreams.

"I've got to get going," Octavio said after a short while. "I've got some other jobs to do."

"Stay with me," the old man begged. "I have to tell the kid about her dog."

He sat up and gazed imploringly at Octavio. "You can help me. Children so soon become afraid of me. She's one of the few who is friendly."

The wretched emptiness in Victor Julio's voice frightened Octavio. He leaned against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the fear and the loss reflected in the old man's face.

"Come with me to the plaza. Let everyone know you're the new man," Victor Julio pleaded.

"I won't stay in this town," Octavio said gruffly. "I don't like this business of killing dogs."

"It's not a matter of liking or disliking it," Victor Julio remarked. "It's a matter of fate."

Victor Julio smiled wistfully and let his gaze wander in the town's direction. "Who knows, you might have to stay here forever," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

The silence was broken by the sound of angry voices. Down the road came a group of boys led by the oldest son of the Lebanese. They stopped a few paces away from the two men.

"You killed my dog," the Lebanese boy hissed, then spat on the ground inches away from Victor Julio's feet.

Propping himself on his cane, the old man rose. "What makes you think it was me?" he asked, trying to gain time.

Victor Julio's hands shook uncontrollably as he searched for the bottle of rum in his sack. He stared at the empty bottle uncomprehendingly. He didn't remember having drunk the last drop.

"You killed the dog," the boys repeated in a chant. "You killed the dog." Cursing and jabbing him, they tried to grab his stick and his burlap sack.

Victor Julio backed away. Brandishing his cane, he swung it blindly at the jeering boys. "Leave me alone!" he screamed through trembling lips.

Momentarily startled by his rage, the boys stood still.

Suddenly, as if they had only just noticed that Victor Julio was not alone, they turned to Octavio.

"And who are you?" one of the boys yelled, looking from one man to the other, perhaps measuring the consequences of having to deal with both. "Are you with the old man? Are you his helper?"

Octavio didn't answer but swung the rope over his head, lashing it out in front of him like a whip.

Laughing and screaming, the boys dodged the well-aimed snaps. But when several of them were stung by the rope, not only on their calves and thighs but also on their shoulders and arms, they backed away.

They ran after Victor Julio, who, in the meantime, had fled toward the ravine, where the dogs were still burning.

Victor Julio turned his head. Terror dilated his pupils as he saw the boys approaching so close behind him.

They no longer seemed human: They reminded him of a pack of barking dogs. He tried to run faster, but the searing pain in his chest slowed him down.

The boys picked up pebbles and threw them at him, just teasing him. But when the Lebanese boy reached for a good-sized stone, the rest of the boys, eager to outdo each other, selected even larger rocks.

One of them hit Victor Julio on the head.

He staggered. His vision blurred. The ground under his feet gave way, and he tumbled down the precipice.

The wind carried the old man's cry out of the ravine.

Panting, their faces streaked with dust and sweat, the boys stood looking at each other. Then, as though someone had given a signal, they scurried in all directions.

Octavio ran down the steep slope, and knelt by Victor Julio's inert body. He shook him vigorously.

The old man opened his eyes. His breath came in spurts. His voice was only a faint muffled sound.

"I knew that the end was near, but I thought it was only the end of my job. It never occurred to me it was going to be this way."

His pupils flickered with an oddly bright gleam as he stared into his helper's eyes. Slowly, the light went out.

Octavio shook him frantically. "Jesus! He's dead!" he muttered, then made the sign of the cross.

He raised his sweaty face toward the sky. A pale moon was clearly visible despite the blinding brightness of the sun.

He wanted to pray but could not think of a single prayer. Only images came to his mind: a legion of dogs chasing the old man over the fields.

Octavio felt his hands grow cold and his body begin to tremble. He could run away again to another town, he thought. But then they might suspect him of having killed Victor Julio. He had better stay for a while, he decided, until things cleared up.

For a long time Octavio just kept staring at the dead man.

Then, on an impulse, he picked up Victor Julio's cane lying nearby. He caressed it and rubbed the finely carved head against his left cheek. He felt that it had always belonged to him. He wondered if he would ever be able to make the stick dance.






The Witch's Dream: Part 1: Chapter 07.

Version 2007.02.26


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 1: Chapter 07.

Octavio Cantu had had his last treatment of the season. He put on his hat and rose from the chair.

I noticed how the years had caved in his chest, and wasted the muscles of his arms. His faded coat and pants were several sizes too big. Bulging sharply on the right-side pocket was a large bottle of rum.

"It always happens when she finishes my treatments, I put her to sleep," he whispered to me, fixing his sunken and discolored eyes on Mercedes Peralta. "I've talked to you too much today. Anyway, I can't figure out why you're interested in me."

A wide smile creased his face as he held his walking stick between his thumb and wrist. He moved his arm back and forth so skillfully the cane appeared to be suspended in midair. Without saying another word he walked out of the room.

"Dona Mercedes," I called softly, turning to her. "Are you awake?"

Mercedes Peralta nodded. "I'm awake. I'm always awake even when I'm asleep," she said softly. "That's the way I try to stay a jump ahead of myself."

I told her that since I had begun talking to Octavio Cantu I had been plagued by deep, nagging questions. Could Octavio Cantu have avoided stepping into Victor Julio's shoes? And why did he repeat Victor Julio's life so completely?

"Those are unanswerable questions," dona Mercedes replied. "But let's go to the kitchen and ask Candelaria. She's got more sense than the two of us together. I'm too old to have sense, and you're too educated."

With a beaming smile on her face, she took my arm and we walked to the kitchen.

Candelaria, engrossed in scrubbing the copper-plated bottoms of her precious stainless-steel pots and pans, did not hear or see us approach. She let out a piercing, startled scream when dona Mercedes nudged her arm.

Candelaria was tall, with sloping shoulders and wide hips. I couldn't tell her age. She looked as much thirty as she looked fifty. Her brown face was covered with tiny freckles, so evenly spaced they seemed to have been painted on. She dyed her dark curly hair a carrot red and wore dresses made from bold-colored printed cottons.

"Well? What are you doing in my kitchen?" she asked with feigned annoyance.

"The musiua is obsessed with Octavio Cantu," dona Mercedes explained.

"My God!" Candelaria exclaimed. Her face expressed genuine shock as she looked up at me. "Why him?" she asked.

Baffled by her accusing tone, I voiced the questions I had just asked dona Mercedes.

Candelaria began to laugh. "For a minute I was worried," she said to dona Mercedes. "Musius are weird.

"I remember that musiu from Finland who used to drink a glass of urine after his dinner to keep his weight down.

"And the woman who came all the way from Norway to fish in the Caribbean sea. To my knowledge, she never caught anything. But she had the boat owners fighting among themselves to take her out to sea."

Laughing uproariously, the two women sat down.

Candelaria went on, saying, "One never knows what goes on in the minds of musius." They are capable of anything."

She laughed in spurts, each louder than the preceding one. Then she went back to scrubbing her pots.

"It looks like Candelaria thinks very little of your questions," dona Mercedes said.

"I personally think that Octavio Cantu couldn't avoid stepping into Victor Julio's shoes.

"He had very little strength: That's why he was caught by that mysterious something I talked to you about; that something more mysterious than fate. Witches call it a witch's shadow."

"Octavio Cantu was very young and strong," Candelaria said all of a sudden, "but he sat too long under Victor Julio's shadow."

"What is she talking about?" I asked dona Mercedes.

"When people are fading away, especially at the moment they die, they create with that mysterious something a link with other persons, a sort of continuity," dona Mercedes explained.

"That's why children turn out just like their parents. Or those who take care of old people follow into the steps of their wards."

Candelaria spoke again. "Octavio Cantu sat too long in Victor Julio's shadow. And the shadow sapped him. Victor Julio was weak, but upon dying the way he did, his shadow became very strong."

"Would you call the shadow the soul?" I asked Candelaria.

"No, the shadow is something all human beings have, something stronger than their soul," she replied seemingly annoyed.

"There you are, Musiua," dona Mercedes said. "Octavio Cantu sat too long on a link- a point where fate links lives together.

"He didn't have the strength to walk away from it. And, like Candelaria says, Victor Julio's shadow sapped him.

"Because all of us have a shadow, a strong or a weak one, we can give that shadow to someone we love, to someone we hate, or to someone who is simply available.

"If we don't give it to anyone, it floats around for a while after we die before it vanishes away."

I must have stared at her uncomprehendingly. She laughed and said, "I've told you that I like witches. I like the way they explain events, even though it's hard to understand them.

"Octavio needs me to ease his burden. I do that through my incantations. He feels that unless I intervene he will repeat Victor Julio's life detail by detail."

"It's advisable," Candelaria blurted out, "not to sit too long under anybody's shadow unless you want to follow in his or her footsteps."






The Witch's Dream: Part 2.



The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 2.

  • Chapter 08.
  • Chapter 09.
  • Chapter 10.





The Witch's Dream: Part 2 - Chapter 08.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 2 - Chapter 08.

I was anticipating the loud sounds that usually reverberated through the house every Thursday morning as Candelaria rearranged the heavy furniture in the living room.

Wondering whether I had actually slept through the commotion, I walked down the silent corridor to the living room.

Shafts of sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wooden panels that covered the two windows facing the street. The dining table with its six chairs, the dark sofa, the stuffed armchairs, the glass coffee table, and the framed prints of pastoral landscapes and bullfighting scenes on the walls were exactly as Candelaria had arranged them the previous Thursday.

I walked out into the yard, where I found Candelaria, half-hidden behind a hibiscus bush. Her frizzy, red-dyed hair had been brushed out of her face and was held in place by bejeweled combs. Twinkling gold loops dangled from her earlobes. Her lips and nails were a glossy red and matched the colors of her brightly printed cotton dress. Her large eyes under lids that never opened all the way betrayed a dreaminess that was at odds with her sharp angular features and her crisp, almost brusque manner.

"What made you get up so early, Musiua?" Candelaria asked. Rising, she tidied her wide skirt and the low-cut bodice of her dress that revealed a generous amount of her ample bosom.

"I didn't hear you move the furniture this morning," I said. "Are you going out?"

Without answering she hurried into the kitchen, her loose sandals slapping on her heels as she ran. "I'm behind with everything today," she declared, stopping momentarily to get her foot back into the sandal that had slipped off.

"I'm sure you'll catch up," I said. "I'll help you." I lit the wood in the cooking pit, and set the table with the mismatched pieces of china.

"It's just seven-thirty," I remarked. "You're only half an hour late."

As opposed to dona Mercedes, who was totally indifferent to schedules, Candelaria divided her day into precisely timed tasks.

Although no one ever sat down for a meal at the same time, Candelaria fixed breakfast at exactly seven. By eight o'clock she was mopping the floors and dusting the furniture. She was tall enough that she had to stretch only her arms to reach the spider webs in the corners and the dust on the lintels.

And by eleven o'clock the daily pot of soup was simmering on the stove.

As soon as that was accomplished, she tended to her flowers. Watering can in hand, she first walked up and down the patio, then the yard, sprinkling her plants with loving care.

At two o'clock sharp she did the laundry, even if she only had one towel to wash. After the ironing was done, she read illustrated romances.

In the evenings, she cut out magazine pictures and pasted them in photo albums.

"Elio's godfather was here last night," she whispered. "Dona Mercedes and I talked with him till dawn."

She reached for the mortared corn cooked the evening before, and began to knead the white dough for the comcakes we ate for breakfast.

"He must be over eighty years old. And he still hasn't gotten over Elio's death. Lucas Nunez blames himself for the boy's death."

"Who is Elio?" I asked.

"Dona Mercedes' son," Candelaria murmured, shaping the dough into round patties. "He was only eighteen when he died tragically. It was a long time ago."

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then added, "You'd better not mention to her that I told you she had a son."

She placed the corncakes on the grill spanning the cooking pit, then faced me, a devilish grin on her lips. "You don't believe me, do you?" she asked, but stopped me from responding by holding up one hand.

"I have to concentrate now on the coffee. You know how fussy dona Mercedes gets if it isn't strong or sweet enough."

I regarded Candelaria suspiciously. She was in the habit of telling me the most outlandish stories about the healer, such as the time when dona Mercedes was apprehended by a group of Nazis during the Second World War and held captive in a submarine.

"She's a liar," dona Mercedes had once confided. "And even if she's telling the truth she exaggerates it so much that it might as well be a lie."

Candelaria, thoroughly unconcerned about my suspicions, wiped her face on the apron she had tied around her neck, then with a swift, abrupt movement, she turned around and hurried out of the kitchen. "Watch over the corncakes," she cried out from the corridor. "I'm behind with everything today."

Around midday, Mercedes Peralta finally woke up after sleeping through Candelaria's Thursday commotion, which was noisier than usual because of the hurry.

Undecidedly, dona Mercedes stood at the door of her room, squinting her eyes to adjust to the brightness. She rested against the door frame for a moment before venturing out into the corridor.

I rushed to her side, and taking her arm, I led her to the kitchen. Her eyes were red. She had a frown and a sad look around her mouth.

I wondered if she, too, had spent the night awake. There was always the possibility that Candelaria had indeed been telling the truth.

Seemingly preoccupied, she studied the plateful of corncakes, but instead of taking one, she broke off two bananas from the bunch hanging on one of the rafters. She peeled them, cut them into slivers, then daintily ate the bananas, one sliver at a time.

"Candelaria wants you to meet her parents," she said, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth. "They live in the hills, close to the dam."

Before I had a chance to say that I would be delighted, Candelaria came sauntering into the kitchen. "You'll love my mother," she affirmed. "She's small and skinny like you, and she also eats the whole day long."

I voiced the idea that, somehow, I had never thought of Candelaria as having a mother.

With a rapt smile the two women listened attentively as I tried to make them understand what I meant by that. I assured them that categorizing certain people as the motherless type had nothing to do with age or looks but with some elusive, remote quality that I couldn't quite explain.

What seemed to delight Mercedes Peralta the most about my elucidation was that it failed to make any sense. She sipped her coffee pensively, then looked at me askance.

"Do you think I had a mother myself?" she asked. She closed her eyes, and puckering up her mouth, she moved her lips as if she were sucking from a breast. "Or do you believe I was hatched from an egg?"

She glanced up at Candelaria and in a serious tone pronounced, "The musiua is quite right. What she wants to say is that witches have very little attachment to parents or children. Yet, they love them with all their might but only when they are facing them, never when they turn their backs."

I wondered if Candelaria was afraid I would mention Elio, for she stepped behind dona Mercedes, gesticulating wildly for me to remain silent.

Dona Mercedes seemed to be determined to read our thoughts: She first looked at me, then at Candelaria, with fixed unblinking eyes.

Sighing, Dona Mercedes wrapped her hands around her mug and sipped the rest of her coffee. "Elio was only a few days old when his mother, my sister, died," she said, looking at me.

"He was my delight. I loved him as though he were my own child." She smiled faintly, and after a short pause, she continued talking about Elio.

She said that no one would have called him handsome. He had a wide sensuous mouth, a flat nose with sprawling nostrils, and wild kinky hair. But what made Elio irresistible to young and old alike were his big, black, and lustrous eyes, which shone with happiness and sheer well-being.

At great length dona Mercedes talked about Elio's eccentricities. Although he was to become a healer like herself, he rarely spent any time thinking about healing. He was too busy falling in and out of love.

During the day, he chatted the hours away with the young women and girls who came to see her.

In the evenings, guitar in hand, he went to serenade his conquests. He hardly ever returned before dawn except when he was unsuccessful in his amatory ventures. Then, he was back early and entertained her with his witty, but never vulgar, renditions of his failures and successes.

With morbid curiosity I awaited for her to talk about his tragic death.

I felt disappointed when she glanced up at Candelaria. "Go and get me my jacket," she murmured. "It gets windy in those hills where your parents live."

She rose and, leaning against my arm, shuffled out into the yard.

"Today, Candelaria will surprise you," she confided. "There are all kinds of delightful quirks about her. If you were to know only half of them, you would probably faint with shock."

Dona Mercedes chuckled softly like a child trying hard not to give away a secret.






The Witch's Dream: Part 2 - Chapter 09.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 2 - Chapter 09.

Laughter, excited voices, and the blaring sound of jukebox music spilled from the small restaurants and bars that lined the street leading out of Curmina.

Beyond the gas station, before the street joined the road, large trees on either side interlinked their branches to form arches, creating a dream-like stillness.

On the road we passed solitary shacks made out of cane plastered over with mud. They all had a narrow doorway, a few windows, and a thatched roof. Some of the huts were whitewashed, others just mud colored.

Flowers, mostly geraniums growing in discarded cooking pots and tin cans, hung from deep eaves.

Majestic trees aglow with golden and blood-red blossoms shaded meticulously swept yards, where women were doing their wash in plastic tubs, or were spreading clothes to dry on bushes. Some greeted us with a slow smile; others with a nearly imperceptible nod of their heads.

Twice we stopped at a roadside stall where children sold fruit and vegetables picked from their gardens.

Candelaria, sitting in the backseat of my jeep, gave me directions. We passed a cluster of huts in the outskirts of a small town, and within moments a blanket of fog enveloped us; a fog so thick I could barely see beyond the hood of the jeep.

"Oh Lord Jesus Christ," Candelaria began to pray. "Come down and help us get through this devilish fog. Please, Holy Mary, Mother of God, come here to protect us. Blessed Saint Anthony, Merciful Saint Theresa, Divine Holy Ghost, gather around to help us."

"You'd better stop it, Candelaria," dona Mercedes cut in. "What if the saints are indeed listening to you and answer your prayers? How are we going to get them all into the car?"

Candelaria laughed, then burst into song. Over and over she repeated the first few lines of an aria from an Italian opera.

"Do you like it?" she asked me, catching my glance in the rearview mirror. "My father taught it to me. My father is Italian. He likes opera and taught me arias by Verdi, Puccini, and others."

I glanced at dona Mercedes for confirmation, but she had fallen asleep.

"It's true," Candelaria insisted, then proceeded to sing a few lines from arias of different operas.

"Do you know them, too?" she asked after I had correctly guessed the opera to which some of them belonged. "Is your father Italian, too?"

"No." I laughed. "He's German. I don't really know much about operas," I confessed. "The only thing he taught me about music was that Beethoven was nearly a demigod. Every Sunday, for as long as I lived at home, my father played all of Beethoven's symphonies."

The fog lifted as abruptly as it had descended about us, unveiling chain after chain of bluish mountains. They seemed to extend forever across an emptiness of air and light.

Following Candelaria's directions, I turned into a narrow dirt lane angling sharply from the road: It was barely wide enough for the jeep.

"Here it is," she cried out excitedly, pointing at the two-story house at the end of the lane. The whitewashed walls were yellow with age, and the once red tiles were gray and mossy.

I parked, and we got out of the jeep.

An old man clad in a frayed T-shirt was leaning out of an upstairs window. He waved at us and then disappeared, his loud excited voice ringing through the silence of the house. "Roraima! The witches are here!"

Just as we reached the front door, a small, wrinkled woman stepped out to greet us. Smiling, she embraced Candelaria, then dona Mercedes.

"This is my mother," Candelaria proudly said. "Her name is Roraima."

After a slight hesitation, Roraima also embraced me.

She was barely five feet and very lean. She wore a long black dress. She had thick black hair and the bright eyes of a bird. Her motions, too, were birdlike, dainty and quick as she ushered us inside the dark vestibule where a small light burned under a picture of Saint Joseph.

Beaming with contentment, she told us to follow her along the wide L-shaped gallery bordering the inside patio where a lemon and guava tree shaded the open living-dining room and the spacious kitchen.

Mercedes Peralta whispered something in Roraima's ear, and then continued down the corridor that led to the back of the house.

For a moment I stood undecided, then followed Candelaria and her mother up the stone stairs to the second floor, past a row of bedrooms; all of which opened onto the wide balcony running the length of the patio.

"How many children do you have?" I asked as we passed the fifth door.

"I have only Candelaria." The leathery wrinkles in Roraima's face deepened as she smiled. "But the grandchildren from Caracas come to spend their holidays here."

Aghast, I turned to Candelaria and stared into her dark, guarded eyes in which a glimmer of amusement was just discernible.

"I didn't know you had any children," I said, wondering if this was the surprise dona Mercedes had hinted at that morning. Somehow it was a letdown.

"How can I have any children?" Candelaria retorted indignantly. "I'm a maiden!"

I burst into laughter. Her statement not only implied that she was unmarried but that she was also a virgin. The haughty expression on her face left no doubt that she was very proud of the fact.

Candelaria leaned over the railing, then she turned and looked up. "I've never told you that I have a brother. Actually he's only a half brother. He's much older than I. He was born in Italy. Like my father, he came to Venezuela to make his fortune. He has a construction company. He's rich now."

Roraima nodded her head emphatically. "Her half brother has eight children. They love to spend the summers here with us," she added.

In a sudden change of mood, Candelaria laughed and embraced her mother. "Imagine!" she exclaimed. "The musiua can't conceive that I have a mother." With an impish smile she added, "And what's even worse- she doesn't believe that I have an Italian father!"

At that very instant, one of the bedroom doors opened, and the old man I had seen at the window stepped out onto the balcony.

He was stocky with sharp angular features that strongly resembled Candelaria's. He had dressed in a hurry. His shirt was buttoned up askew, the leather belt holding up his pants had not been fitted into the loops around the waist, and his shoe laces were untied.

He embraced Candelaria.

"Guido Miconi," he introduced himself to me, then apologized for not welcoming us at the door. "As a child, Candelaria was as pretty as Roraima," he said, holding his daughter in a warm embrace. "Only when she grew up did she start to resemble me."

Clearly sharing a private joke, all three burst into laughter.

Roraima, giving a satisfied nod, regarded her husband and her daughter with unabashed admiration. She took my arm and led me downstairs. "Let's join dona Mercedes," she suggested.

The yard, bordered by a stake fence, was enormous. At the farthest end stood an open hut with a thatched roof.

Sitting in a hammock fastened to the crossbeam of the hut was Mercedes Peralta. She was sampling Roraima's homemade cheese. She congratulated Roraima on her success.

Guido Miconi stood irresolute in front of dona Mercedes: He seemed unsure whether to shake her hand or to put his arm around her. She smiled at him and he embraced her.

We all sat around the hammock, except for Roraima who sat in it beside Mercedes Peralta.

Roraima asked her questions about me, which dona Mercedes promptly answered as if I were not there.

For a while I listened to their conversation, but soon the heat, the stillness of the air, and Guido Miconi's and the women's low voices interspersed now and then by faint giggles made me so drowsy I stretched out on the ground.

I must have dozed off, for dona Mercedes had a hard time making me understand that I was to check with Candelaria about lunch. I had not heard Candelaria and her father leave.

I went inside the house. A deep soothing voice murmuring an incantation came from one of the bedrooms.

Afraid that Candelaria was entertaining her father with one of my tapes of a healing session, I rushed upstairs. On a previous occasion she had played a tape and promptly erased it by pushing the wrong button.

I stopped short at the half-opened door. Speechless, I watched Candelaria massage her father's back and shoulders while she softly mumbled an incantation.

There was something about her stance- the concentrated, yet fluid beauty of her moving hands- that reminded me of Mercedes Peralta. I realized then that Candelaria was also a healer.

As soon as she finished massaging her father, she turned to face me; a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Did dona Mercedes ever tell you about me?" Her voice had a curious softness that I had never heard before. "She says that I was born a witch."

There were so many questions running through my mind, I was at a loss where to begin.

Candelaria, aware of my bewilderment, shrugged her shoulders in a sort of helpless gesture.

"Let's fix lunch," Guido Miconi offered, heading for the stairs.

Candelaria and I followed behind him. Suddenly, he turned around and faced me.

"Mercedes Peralta is right," he said, then bent his head and stared fixedly at the lacy shadows of the guava tree on the brick patio.

For a long time he just stood there shaking his head now and then, unsure what to say or do next.

He looked up, smiled faintly, and then began to walk about the patio, his hands lightly touching flowers and leaves, his shiny eyes seeming not quite to take me in when they focused on me.

"It's a strange story," he said to me in an excited voice that made his Italian accent more pronounced. "Candelaria says that dona Mercedes wants me to tell it to you. You know that you're welcome here. I hope you come often, so we can talk."

I was at a loss. I looked at Candelaria, hoping for some kind of explanation.

"I think I know what dona Mercedes wants to do with you," Candelaria said.

Taking my arm, she led me to the kitchen. "She likes you a lot, but she can't give you her shadow because she's got only one and she's giving it to me."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I'm a witch," she replied, "and I'm following in dona Mercedes' footsteps? Only by following in the spiritual footsteps of a healer can you be a healer yourself. That's what's called a junction, a link. Dona Mercedes has already told you that witches call it a shadow.

"Shadows are true for everything," she continued, "and there is only one heir to anyone who has real knowledge.

"Victor Julio had real knowledge about killing dogs and made an unwitting link for Octavio Cantu. I've said to you that Octavio sat too long in Victor Julio's shadow and that dona Mercedes is giving me her shadow.

"By letting certain people tell you their stories, she is trying to put you, for an instant, under the shadow of all those people so that you'll feel how the wheel of chance turns, and how a witch helps that wheel move."

Unsuccessfully, I tried to tell her that her statements were throwing me into deeper confusion. She stared at me with bright, trusting eyes.

"When a witch intervenes, we say it's the witch's shadow that turns the wheel of chance." she said thoughtfully;

Then after pausing for a moment, she added, "My father's story would fit, but I shouldn't be present when he tells his story to you.

"I inhibit him. I always have." She looked back at her father and laughed. Her laughter was like a crystalline explosion: It reverberated through the whole house.


Sleepless, Guido Miconi tossed in the bed, and wondered if the night, made longer by Roraima's peaceful sleep, would ever end. An anxious expression crossed his face as he gazed at her naked body, dark against the white sheet, and at her face, hidden behind a tangled mass of black hair.

Gently, he pushed the hair aside. She smiled. Her eyes opened slightly, shiny between the thick, stubby lashes, but she did not wake up.

Taking care not to disturb her, Guido Miconi rose and looked out the window. It was almost dawn.

In a nearby yard a dog began to bark at a singing drunkard staggering down the street. The man's steps and song died away in the distance. The dog went back to sleep.

Guido Miconi turned away from the window and squatted to reach under the bed for the small suitcase he kept hidden there. With the key he wore on a chain around his neck, along with the medal of the Virgin, he opened the lock and fumbled for the wide leather pouch tucked in between his folded clothes.

An odd feeling, almost a premonition, made him hesitate for a moment. He did not tie the pouch around his waist. He reached inside, retrieved a heavy gold bracelet, placed it on the pillow beside Roraima, and put the pouch back into the suitcase.

He shut his eyes tightly. His mind went back to the day he immigrated to Venezuela- twenty years ago- tempted by the opportunities for work and the good pay.

He had been only twenty-six years old. Certain that his wife and their two children would soon join him, he had remained in Caracas for the first few years. To save money, he had lived in cheap rooming houses conveniently close to the construction sites where he was working. Each month he sent part of his savings home.

After several years, he finally realized that his wife did not want to join him. He moved out of Caracas and accepted work in the interior. Letters from home reached him only sporadically, and then they stopped altogether. He no longer sent money. Instead, as so many of his co-workers did, he began to invest his salary in jewels. He was going to return to Italy a rich man.

"A rich man," Guido Miconi murmured, securing the suitcase with a leather strap. He wondered why the words no longer evoked the familiar excitement.

He glanced at Roraima on the bed. He was already missing her.


His mind went back almost a decade to that day he first saw Roraima in the courtyard of his cheap rooming house, where he was heating his spaghetti on a Primus cooker. She was hollow-eyed and wore a dress that was too large for her thin, slight frame: He thought her to be one of the children in the neighborhood who were always making fun of the foreigners, in particular, the Italian construction workers.

But Roraima had not come to mock the Italians. She had been hired to work at the boarding house. And at night for a few coins, she shared the men's beds.

To the annoyance of his co-workers, she attached herself to Guido so devotedly that she refused to sleep with anyone else, no matter how much money they offered.

One day, however, she disappeared. No one knew where she had come from: No one knew where she had gone.

Five years later he saw her again. For some inexplicable whim, instead of driving out with the crew to the barracks next to the site where a factory and a pharmaceutical laboratory were being built, he took a bus all the way into town. There, sitting in the bus depot, as if waiting for him, was Roraima.

Before he had quite recovered from his surprise, she called to a little girl playing nearby.

"This is Candelaria," she pronounced, grinning up at him disarmingly. "She's four years old and she's your daughter."

There was something so irrepressibly childish in her voice, in her expression, he couldn't help but laugh. As frail and slight as he remembered her, Roraima looked like the sister rather than the mother of the child standing beside her.

Candelaria looked at him in silence. The veiled expression of her dark eyes made him think of someone very old. She was tall for her age. Her face was serious as only a child's could be.

She shifted her gaze to the children she had been playing with. When she looked up at him again there was an impish gleam in her eyes. "Let's go home," she said, taking his hand and pulling him forward.

Unable to resist the firm pressure of her tiny palm, he went with her down the main street to the outskirts of town.

They stopped in front of a small house fenced in by a row of corn stalks waving in the breeze. The cement blocks were unplastered, and the corrugated zinc sheets of the roof were held in place with large stones.

"Candelaria finally brought you here," Roraima stated, reaching for the small suitcase in his hand. "And to think that I almost stopped believing that she was born a witch."

Roraima invited him inside to a small hall that opened into a wide room, empty except for three chairs arranged against the wall.

One step down was a bedroom partitioned off by a curtain. On one side beneath a window stood a double bed on which Roraima dropped his suitcase. On the other side hung a hammock in which the child went to lie down.

He followed Roraima along a short corridor into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table in the middle of the room.

Guido Miconi took Roraima's hands in his and, as though clarifying matters to a child, he told her that what had brought him to town wasn't Candelaria but the dam that was going to be built in the hills.

"No, that's only on the surface. You came because Candelaria brought you here," Roraima stammered. "Now you'll stay here with us. Won't you?"

Seeing that he remained silent, she added, "Candelaria was born a witch." With an encompassing wave of her hand, Roraima took in the room, the house, the yard. "All this belongs to her. Her godmother is a famous healer and gave her all this." Her voice dropped, and she muttered the words, "But that's not what she wanted. She wanted you."

"Me!" he repeated, shaking his head sad and baffled. He had never lied to Roraima about his family in Italy.

"I'm sure her godmother is a good healer. But being born a witch! That's pure nonsense. You know that one day I will return to the family that I left behind."

A strange disturbing smile flittered across Roraima's face as she reached for the pitcher and for the turned-down glass on the table.

She filled it, then held the glass out to him and added, "Miconi, this tamarind water has been bewitched by your daughter Candelaria. If you drink it, you'll stay with us forever."

For a second he hesitated, then burst into laughter. "Witchcraft is nothing but superstition."

He emptied his glass in one long gulp. "That was the best refreshment I have ever had," he remarked, holding out the glass for more.


His daughter's faint coughing broke into his reveries.

He tiptoed to the other side of the partitioned-off room and anxiously bent over Candelaria sleeping in a hammock that hung from two rings cemented into the wall.

A sad smile parted his lips as he peered into her little face, in which so often he had tried to discover a likeness to himself. He saw none.

But oddly enough, there were times the girl made him think of his grandfather. It was not so much a resemblance but rather a mood, a certain gesture made by the child, which never failed to startle him.

She also had that same easy way with animals that the old man had had. She healed every donkey, cow, goat, dog, and cat in the neighborhood. She actually coaxed birds and butterflies to perch on her outstretched arms.

His grandfather had had that same gift: A saint, people had called him in the small town in Calabria.

Whether or not there was anything saintly about Candelaria, he was no longer sure.


One afternoon he had found the child lying on her stomach in the yard, her chin resting on her folded arms, talking to a sickly looking cat curled up a few inches in front of her. The feline seemed to be answering her, not with meowing sounds, but with short grunts that resembled an old man's laughter.

The instant they felt his presence, both Candelaria and the cat leapt up in the air, as if some invisible thread had pulled them. They landed right in front of him, a spooky smile on their faces.

He had stood bewildered, as for a fleeting instant, their features appeared to be superimposed on each other's: He had been unable to decide whose face belonged to whom.


Ever since that day he had kept wondering about what Roraima always said, that Candelaria was not a saint but a witch.

Softly, so as not to wake her, Guido Miconi caressed the child's cheek, and then tiptoed to the small vestibule lit dimly by the dying light of an oil lamp. He reached for his jacket, hat, and shoes laid out the evening before and finished dressing.

He held the lamp up to the mirror and studied his image. At forty-six, his gaunt, weatherworn face was still filled with that indestructible energy that had carried him through years of hard work. His hair, although gray streaked, was still thick; and his light brown eyes shone brightly beneath his bushy brows.

Cautiously, without stepping on the dog whining and twitching its legs in sleep, he let himself out the door.

He leaned against the wall and waited until his eyes adjusted to the shadows.

Sighing, he watched the early workers heading toward work like phantoms in the emptiness of the predawn darkness.

Instead of going to the southern end of town where a truck waited to take the laborers to the construction site of the dam in the hills, Miconi headed toward the plaza where the bus for Caracas was parked.

The faint light inside the bus blurred the shapes of the few passengers dozing in their seats. He moved to the very back.

As he lifted his suitcase to the rack above him, he saw a shadow through the grimy window of the bus. Black and immense, the shadow stood out against the white wall of the church.

He didn't know what made him think of a witch; and although he wasn't religious, he quietly began to pray.

The shadow dissolved into a faint cloud of smoke.

The dimming of the lights in the plaza must have played a trick on his eyes, he thought, and chuckled.


Roraima and Candelaria would have explained it differently.

They would have said that he had seen one of those nocturnal entities that wander about at night; beings that never leave any trace, but use mysterious signals to announce their presence and disappearance.


The ticket collector's voice cut into his musings. Miconi paid his fare, asked about the best way to go to the port of La Guaira, and then closed his eyes.

Rattling and swaying, the bus crossed the valley, then slowly ascended the dusty winding road.

Miconi sat up and looked back for one last time. The retreating rooftops, and the white church with its bell tower kept swimming through his tear-filled eyes.

How he loved the sound of those bells. Now he would never hear them again.


* * *

It had been a month since Guido Miconi left Roraima and Candelaria.

After resting for a moment under the elusive shade of the blooming almond trees in the plaza, he resumed his walk up the steep, narrow street that ended in a flight of crooked steps carved into the hill.

He climbed halfway up, then turned to gaze at the port below him: La Guaira, a city crowded in between the mountains and the sea, with its pink, blue, and buff-colored houses, its twin church towers, and its old customhouse overlooking the harbor like some ancient fort.

His daily excursions to the secluded spot had become a necessity. It was the only place where he felt safe and at peace.

Sometimes he had spent hours up there watching the large ships dropping anchor. He had tried to guess by their flags or the color of their smokestacks to which country they belonged.

His weekly visits to the shipping offices Shipping Office in town had been as essential to his well-being as gazing at the ships.

He was still undecided whether he should return to Italy directly or by way of New York.

Or, as Mr. Hylkema at the shipping office had suggested, perhaps he should see something of the world first by boarding one of those German freighters that sailed to Rio, Buenos Aires, across to Africa, and then into the Mediterranean sea.

But regardless of how enticing the possibilities, Guido Miconi had been unable to bring himself to book his passage back to Italy. He couldn't understand why; and yet, in the depths of him he knew.

Guido Miconi climbed to the top of the steps and turned into a narrow twisting path that led to a clump of palm trees.

He sat on the ground, his back against a trunk, and fanned himself with his hat.

The stillness was absolute. The palm fronds hung motionless. Even the birds seemed to be floating effortlessly, like falling leaves pinned to the cloudless sky.

He heard a faint laughter echoing in the silence. Startled, he looked around.

The tinkling sound reminded him of his daughter's laughter. And suddenly, her face materialized before his eyes; a fleeting image, unsubstantial, floating in some tenuous light; so pale, it seemed her face was surrounded by a halo.

With quick abrupt movements, as though he were trying to erase the vision, Guido Miconi fanned himself with his hat.

Perhaps it was true that Candelaria was born a witch, he mused. Could the child indeed be the cause for his indecision to leave? he asked himself. Was she the reason for his inability to bring to mind the faces of his wife and children in Italy; regardless of how hard he tried?

Guido Miconi rose and scanned the horizon.

For an instant he thought he was dreaming as he saw a large ship emerge like some mirage through the shimmering heat. The vessel came closer, angling toward the harbor.

In spite of the distance, he clearly recognized its green, white, and red smokestack. "An Italian ship!" he exclaimed, throwing his hat up in the air.

He was certain that he had finally broken the spell of Venezuela; and of Roraima and Candelaria- superstitious creatures who read omens in the flight of birds, the movements of shadows, the direction of the wind.

He laughed happily. This ship approaching the harbor, like some miracle, was his liberation.

In his excitement he stumbled several times as he hurried down the crooked steps.

He ran past the old colonial houses. He had no time to stop and listen to the sound of water splashing in the fountains, and the songs of caged birds spilling out of open windows and doors.

He was going to the shipping offices: He was going to book his passage home this very day.

A child's voice calling his full name brought Guido Miconi up short.

Overcome by a sudden dizziness he closed his eyes and leaned against a wall. Someone gripped his arm. He opened his eyes, but all he saw were black spots whirling in front of him.

Again he heard a child's voice call his name.



Slowly, his dizziness subsided. With his eyes still unfocused he glanced into the worried face of Mr. Hylkema, the Dutchman at the shipping office.

"I don't know how I got here, but I want to speak with you," Guido Miconi stammered.

"From the hill I've just seen an Italian ship approach the harbor. I want to book my passage home this very instant."

Mr. Hylkema shook his head in disbelief. "Are you sure you want to go?" he asked.

"I want to book my passage home," Miconi insisted childishly. "Right now!"

Upon catching Mr. Hylkema's eyes on him eloquent with meaning, Guido Miconi added, "I have finally broken the spell!"

"Of course you have." Mr. Hylkema patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, and then steered him toward the cashier's counter.

Looking up, Guido Miconi watched the tall, gaunt Dutchman move behind the counter.

As usual, Mr. Hylkema was dressed in a white linen suit and black cloth sandals. A fringe of gray hair growing on one side of his head had been carefully combed and distributed over his naked skull. His face had been aged by the relentless tropical sun and, no doubt, by rum.

Mr. Hylkema brought out a heavy ledger and placed it noisily on the counter. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to write.

"There are some of us who are meant to stay here," Mr. Hylkema said, then lifted his pen and pointed to Miconi. "And you, my friend, are never going to return to Italy."

Guido Miconi, not quite knowing what to make of his words, bit his lip.

Mr. Hylkema burst into a loud, toneless laughter, which sprang from the depths of his belly, and moved up with a rumbling painful sound.

But when he spoke again, Mr. Hylkema's voice had a curious softness. "I was just joking. I'll take you to the ship myself."

Mr. Hylkema went with him to his hotel, and helped him gather his belongings.

After making sure he had a cabin all to himself, as he had requested and paid for, the Dutchman left him with the ship's purser.

Still dazed, Guido Miconi glanced around, wondering why there was no one on the deck of the Italian ship anchored at pier 9.

He reached for a chair beside a table on the deck, straddled it, and rested his forehead against the wooden back.

He wasn't insane. He was in the Italian ship, he repeated to himself, hoping to dispel the realization that there was no one around.

As soon as he had rested a moment, he thought, he would walk down to another deck, and confirm for himself that the crew and the rest of the passengers were somewhere in the ship. The thought restored his confidence.

Guido Miconi rose from his chair, and leaning over the railing looked down at the pier. He saw Mr. Hylkema waving; looking up at him.

"Miconi!" the Dutchman shouted. "The ship is pulling anchor. Are you sure you want to go?"

Guido Miconi felt a cold sweat. An immeasurable fear took possession of him. He longed for his peaceful life, for Roraima and Candelaria; his family.

"I don't want to go," he shouted back.

"You have no time to get your luggage. The gangplank has been lifted. You must jump now. You'll land in the water. If you don't jump now, you'll never make it!"

Guido Miconi vacillated for an instant. In his suitcase were the jewels he had hoarded over the years, working with almost inhuman strength. Was all that going to be lost? He decided he still had enough strength to start all over again and jumped over the railing.

Everything blurred. He braced himself for the impact with the water. He was not worried: He was a good swimmer. But the impact never came.



He heard Mr. Hylkema's voice saying loudly, "I think this man has fainted. The bus cannot leave until we take him out. Someone get his suitcase."

Guido Miconi opened his eyes. He saw a black shadow against the white wall of the church. He didn't know what made him think of a witch. He felt that he was being lifted and carried away. And then he had a devastating realization.

"I've never left. I've never left. It's been a dream," Guido Miconi kept repeating. He thought of his jewels in his suitcase. He was sure that whoever grabbed his suitcase would steal it, but the jewels no longer mattered to him, he had already lost them in the ship.






The Witch's Dream: Part 2 - Chapter 10.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 2 - Chapter 10.

Mercedes Peralta accompanied me on my last visit to Guido Miconi's house. When we were about to return to town at the end of the day, Roraima took me by the hand, and led me through a patch of canebrake up a narrow trail to a small clearing enclosed by yucca plants whose flowers, straight and white, made me think of rows of candles on an altar.

"Do you like it?" Roraima asked, pointing to a seed bed roofed with a framework of thin, dry branches that were held at the corners by slender, forked poles.

"It looks like a doll's vegetable patch!" I exclaimed, examining the ground covered with feathery carrot shoots, tiny heart-shaped lettuce leaves, and curly, lacy parsley sprigs.

Beaming with delight, Roraima walked up and down the neatly ploughed rows in the adjacent field. Pieces of dry leaves and bits of twigs clung to her long skirt.

Each time she pointed out the spot where she would plant a lettuce, a radish, a cauliflower, she turned toward me, her mouth arched in a faint, ethereal smile, her sharp eyes glinting between lids half-closed against the already low afternoon sun.

"I know that whatever I have is due to a witch's intervention," she suddenly exclaimed. "The only good point that I have is that I know that."

Before I had a chance to take in what she had said, she approached me with her arms wide open in an expansive gesture of affection.

"I hope you don't forget us," she said and led me to my jeep.

Mercedes Peralta, seated in the front seat, her head reclining on the backrest, was sound asleep.

Leaning out from one of the upstairs windows was Guido Miconi, waving farewell in a gesture that was more a beckoning than a good-bye.



Shortly before we reached Curmina, Mercedes Peralta stirred. She yawned loudly, then absentmindedly looked out the window.

"Do you know what really happened to Guido Miconi?" she asked.

"No," I said. "All I know is that both Miconi and Roraima call it a witch's intervention."

Dona Mercedes giggled. "It certainly was a witch's intervention," she said. "Candelaria already told you that when witches intervene it's said that they do it with their shadows.

"Candelaria made a link, a junction for her father: She made him live a dream. Since she is a witch, she moved the wheel of chance.

"Victor Julio also made a link, and he also moved the wheel of chance, but since Victor Julio wasn't a witch, the dream of Octavio Cantu- although it is both as real and unreal as Miconi's dream- is longer and more painful."

"How did Candelaria intervene?"

"Certain children," dona Mercedes explained, "have the strength to wish something with great passion for a long period of time."

She settled back in her seat and closed her eyes. "Candelaria was such a child. She was born that way.

"She wished her father to stay, and she wished it without a single doubt. That dedication, that determination, is what witches call a witch's shadow. It was that shadow that wouldn't let Miconi go."

We drove the rest of the way in silence. I wanted to digest her words. Before we went into her house, I asked her one final question.

"How did Miconi have such a detailed dream?"

"Miconi never wanted to leave, not really," dona Mercedes replied. "So that offered an opening to Candelaria's unwavering wish. The details of the dream itself, well, that part had nothing to do with the witch's intervention: That was Miconi's imagination."






The Witch's Dream: Part 3.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 3.

  • Chapter 11.
  • Chapter 12.
  • Chapter 13.


The Witch's Dream: Part 3 - Chapter 11.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 3 - Chapter 11.

I sat up as something brushed my cheek. Slowly, I raised my eyes toward the ceiling, searching for a gigantic moth. Ever since I had seen that bird-sized moth in the healing room, I had been obsessed with it.

Nightly, the moth appeared in my dreams transforming itself into Mercedes Peralta. When I told her that I somehow believed my dream, she laughed it off as a figment of my imagination.

I settled back onto my lumpy pillow.

As I was drifting back into sleep, I heard the unmistakable shuffle of Mercedes Peralta passing my door. I got up, put on my clothes, and tiptoed down the dark corridor.

A soft laughter came from her working room. The amber glow of candlelight seeped through the opening of the carelessly drawn curtain. Overcome by curiosity I looked inside.

Sitting at the table were Mercedes Peralta and a man, his face shaded by a hat.

"Won't you join us?" dona Mercedes called. "I was just telling our friend here that it wouldn't be long before you came looking for me."

"Leon Chirino!" I exclaimed as he turned toward me and pushed up the brim of his hat by way of greeting.

During my unsuccessful seance participation he had been introduced to me as the man in charge of organizing the spiritual meetings.

He was in his seventies, perhaps even in his eighties, yet his dark face had few wrinkles. He had big black eyes and sparkling white teeth, which ought to have been yellow from smoking cigars. There were white Stubbles on his chin, yet his white, short-cropped hair was immaculately combed. His dark suit, wrinkled and baggy, looked as if he had slept in it.

"He's been working like a madman," dona Mercedes said as if reading my thoughts.

Although I had not been invited again to a seance, Mercedes Peralta had encouraged me to visit Leon Chirino at least once a week. Sometimes she accompanied me; sometimes I went alone.

He was a carpenter by profession, yet his knowledge about the various shamanistic traditions practiced in Venezuela was astounding. He was interested in my research and spent hours going over my notes, tracing sorcerers' procedures to their Indian and African roots.

He knew about all the Venezuelan spiritualists, witches, and healers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He spoke of them with such unaffected familiarity that he gave me the impression he had known them personally.

Mercedes Peralta's voice intruded on my reveries. "Would you like to come with us to fulfill a promise?" she asked me.

Disconcerted by her question, I gazed from one to the other. Their faces revealed nothing.

"We'll be leaving right away," she said to me. "We have a long night and a long day ahead of us." She rose and took my arm. "I've got to prepare you for the trip."

It took her no time to get me ready. She hid my hair under a tight, knitted sailor's cap and darkened my face with a black vegetable paste. And she made me swear that I would not speak to anyone or ask questions.

Ignoring my suggestion that we take my jeep, Mercedes Peralta scrambled into the backseat of Leon Chirino's old Mercury. With its crumpled fenders and battered chassis, the car looked as if it had been salvaged from a junk yard.

Before I had a chance to ask about our destination, she ordered me to hold and take good care of her basket, which was filled to capacity with medicinal plants, candles, and cigars. Sighing loudly, she made the sign of the cross and promptly fell asleep.

I did not dare disturb Leon Chirino with conversation: He seemed to need all his concentration to keep his car rolling. The dim headlights barely illuminated the area right in front of us.

Bent slightly forward, he tensely gripped the wheel, as if he could thus help the car over the dark hills. When it balked on the steep upgrades, he spoke softly to it, urging it forward.

Downhill, he let the car go, taking the curves in almost complete darkness, and at such a reckless speed, I feared for our lives. Dust billowed through the glassless windows and through the gaps in the cardboard that concealed the rusted holes in the floor.

Smiling triumphantly, he finally brought the car to an abrupt halt. He turned off the headlights. Dona Mercedes stirred in the backseat.

"We've arrived," Leon Chirino said softly.

Quietly, we got out of the car. It was a dark, cloudy night. Not a star shone in the sky.

Whatever was out there stretched in front of us like a black void. I staggered clumsily after dona Mercedes, who seemed to have no problem seeing in the darkness.

Leon Chirino took me by the arm and guided me. I heard muffled laughter all around me. There seemed to be other people, but I couldn't see any of them.

Finally, someone lit a kerosene lantern. In the faint, wavering light I was able to make out the silhouette of four men and dona Mercedes crouching in a circle.

Leon Chirino took me a few feet away from the group. I felt totally incapacitated. He helped me to sit down and then propped me against something that looked like a rock protruding from the ground.

He handed me the lantern and instructed me to hold on to it and shine it on whatever I was told to.

Then he gave me two canteens: The largest one was filled with water, the smaller one with rum. I was supposed to hand them to the men whenever they asked for them.

Silently and quite effortlessly, two men began to dig the loose dirt with long shovels. They deposited the dirt in a neat pile next to the hole.

At least a half hour elapsed before they stopped and asked for the canteen with rum. While they drank and rested, Leon Chirino and another man began to dig.

Taking turns, the men worked, drank either rum or water, and rested. Within an hour they had dug a hole deep enough for a man to disappear in it.

The instant one of the men hit something hard with his shovel they stopped working. Leon Chirino asked me to shine the light inside the hole but not to look at it.

"This is it," said one of the men. "Now we can all dig around it." He and his partner joined the others in the hole.

I was dying with curiosity but did not dare break my promise. I wished I could at least talk to dona Mercedes, sitting not too far from me. Immobile, she seemed to be in a deep trance.

The men worked feverishly in the hole. At least half an hour elapsed before I heard Leon Chirino's voice telling dona Mercedes that they were ready to open it.

"Musiua, light a cigar from my basket and hand it to me," she ordered. "And also bring me my basket."

I lit a cigar, and as I rose to bring it to her, Leon Chirino whispered from the bottom of the hole. "Crouch, Musiua! Crouch."

I stooped and handed dona Mercedes the cigar and the basket.

"Don't look into the hole for anything in the world!" she whispered in my ear.

I moved back to where I had been sitting; fighting the nearly invincible desire to shine the lantern into the hole. I knew with absolute certainty that they were digging out a trunk filled with gold coins. I could hear the dull sound of the shovels hitting what seemed to be a large and heavy object.

Fascinated, I watched dona Mercedes retrieve a black candle and a jar with black powder from her basket. She lit the black candle, propped it on the ground next to the hole, and then ordered me to turn off the lantern.

The black candle gave out an eerie light. Dona Mercedes sat on her calves next to the candle.

Obeying some unvoiced command, the men stuck their heads out of the hole one by one right in front of her.

Each time a head appeared, she poured some of the black powder into her cupped hands and then rubbed each head as if it were a ball. As soon as she was done with the heads, she smeared the black powder on the men's hands.

My curiosity reached its peak when I heard the cracking sound of a lid being opened.

"We've got it," Leon Chirino said, popping his head out of the hole.

Dona Mercedes handed him the jar with the black powder, another one filled with a white powder, and then she blew out the black candle.

Once again we were engulfed by total darkness. The groaning and heaving sounds of the men rising from the hole only accentuated the unnatural silence. I huddled against dona Mercedes, but she pushed me away.

"It's done," Leon Chirino whispered in a strained voice.

Dona Mercedes relit the black candle. I could barely make out the shapes of the three men carrying a large bundle. They deposited it behind the mound of dirt.

I was watching them so intently that I almost fell forward into the pit when I heard dona Mercedes' voice telling Leon Chirino, who was still inside the hole, to fasten the nails quickly and climb out.

Leon Chirino emerged right away, and dona Mercedes massaged his hands and face, while the other three men picked up their shovels and filled the hole.

As soon as they were done, dona Mercedes placed the lit candle in the center of the filled-up hole. Leon Chirino threw the last shovel of dirt over it and put out the flame.

Someone relit the kerosene lamp, and immediately the men went to work: They arranged the ground so perfectly that no one could have guessed that a hole had been dug.

I watched them for a while, but I lost interest, all my curiosity was focused on the now visible bundle wrapped in a tarpaulin.

"No one will ever know," one of the men said and chuckled softly. "Now, let's get out of here. It'll be daylight soon."

We all walked over to the bundle. I led the way with the light.

In my eagerness to find out what it was, I tripped over it. The tarpaulin slid a bit, revealing a woman's foot clad in a black shoe.

Unable to restrain myself, I pulled the tarpaulin and shone the light on the exposed bundle. It was the corpse of a woman.

My fright and revulsion were so intense I did not even scream- as I wanted and meant to. All I could manage was a faint croak, and then everything went black.

I came to, lying on dona Mercedes' lap in the backseat of Leon Chirino's car. Pressed firmly against my nose was a handkerchief soaked with a mixture of ammonia and rose water. It was dona Mercedes' favorite remedy. She used to call it a spiritual injection.

"I always knew you were a coward," she commented and began to massage my temples.

Leon Chirino turned around. "You're very daring, Musiua," he said. "But you still don't have the strength to back it up. You will though. Some day, you will."

I was not in the mood for comments. My fright had been too great for comfort. I accused them of malice for not warning me about their doings.

Dona Mercedes said that everything they did was premeditated and that part of that premeditation was my total ignorance. It gave them a sort of protection against the desecration of a tomb. The flaw was my greedy interest to find out what was under the tarpaulin.

"I told you that we were going to fulfill a promise," dona Mercedes said to me. "We have done the first part. We have unearthed a corpse, now we have to bury it again." She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

I scrambled into the front seat.

Humming softly, Leon Chirino turned the car onto a dirt road that led to the coast.

It was already morning when we reached an abandoned coconut grove.

Cued perhaps by the smell of the sea breeze, Mercedes Peralta awoke. She yawned loudly, then sat up. Leaning out the window, she seemed to breathe in the sound of the distant waves.

"This is a good place to park," Leon Chirino stated, stopping at the foot of the straightest and tallest palm tree I had ever seen. Its heavy silvery fronds appeared to be sweeping the clouds from the sky.

"Lorenzo Paz's house isn't far from here," Leon Chirino went on, helping dona Mercedes out of the car. "The walk will do us good." Smiling, he handed me her basket to carry.

We turned away from the sea and set out along a well-trodden path that cut across a thick grove of tall bamboo bordering a stream. It was cool and dark inside the grove, and the air had taken on the green transparency of leaves. Leon Chirino walked way ahead of us, his straw hat down over his ears, so that the wind would not carry it away.

We caught up with him by a short narrow bridge. Leaning over the rustic balustrade made out of freshly cut poles, we rested for a moment and gazed at a group of women washing their clothes, pounding them on flat river stones. A shirt slipped out of someone's hands, and a young girl jumped into the water to catch it. Her thin dress swelled out like a balloon, then molded itself to her breasts, stomach, and the gentle curve of her hips.

The straight dirt road on the other side of the bridge led to a small village, which we did not approach. Instead, we turned onto a side road along a neglected maize field. Hardened corn husks hung forlornly on withered stalks: They rustled like crumpled newspapers in the faint breeze.

We came to a small house: Its walls had been recently painted, and the tile roof had been partially redone. Banana trees, their fronds almost transparent in the sunlight, stood on either side of the front door like so many guards.

The door was ajar. Without knocking or calling out, we walked straight in.

A group of men squatting on the brick floor with their backs against the wall lifted their rum-filled glasses in greeting, then continued their conversation in low, unhurried voices.

Dust bars of sunlight beamed in through a narrow window, adding to the stale heat and intensifying the pungent odor of kerosene and creosol. In the far corner, propped on two crates, stood an open coffin.

One of the men rose and, holding my elbow gently, led me to the coffin.

The man was slight but strongly built. His white hair and wrinkled face indicated age, yet there was something youthful about the graceful slant of his cheek-bones and the mischievous expression in his tawny brown eyes.

"Have a look at her," he whispered, bending toward the dead woman lying in the rough, unpainted coffin. "See how beautiful she still is."

I stifled a scream. It was the same woman we had unearthed last night.

I moved closer and examined her carefully. Despite the gray-greenish tint to her skin that not even the heavy makeup could disguise, there was something alive about her. She seemed to be smiling at her own death.

On her finely chiseled nose rested a pair of wire-rimmed, glassless spectacles. Her garish, red-painted lips were slightly parted, revealing her strong white teeth. A red robe trimmed with white had been wrapped around her long body.

To her left lay a staff, to her right, a red-and-black wooden devil's mask fitted with two menacing, twisted ram's horns.

"She was very beautiful and very, very dear to me," the man said, straightening a fold in the robe.

"It's incredible how beautiful she still is," I agreed with him. Afraid he might stop talking, I held back my questions.

As he continued fussing with the woman's red robe, he gave me a detailed report on how he and his friends had unearthed her from her grave in the cemetery near Curmina and brought her to his house.

Suddenly, he looked up, and realizing that I was a stranger, he examined me with unrestrained curiosity.

"Oh, dear me! What kind of a host am I?" he exclaimed. "Here I'm talking and talking, when I haven't offered you anything to drink or to eat."

He took my hand in his. "I'm Lorenzo Paz," he introduced himself.

Before I had a chance to say that I could not possibly swallow a thing, he ushered me through a narrow doorway that led to the kitchen.

Mercedes Peralta, standing by a kerosene stove that was perched on top of a waist-high stone hearth, was stirring a concoction made from the medicinal plants she had brought with her.

"You'd better bury her soon, Lorenzo," dona Mercedes said. "It's far too hot to keep her above ground any longer."

"She'll be fine," the man assured her. "I'm certain her husband paid for the best embalmment job available in Curmina.

"And to be on the safe side, I sprinkled the coffin with quicklime and wrapped strips of cloth soaked in kerosene and creosol around her body." He looked at the healer beseechingly. "I've got to be sure her spirit has followed us here."

Nodding, dona Mercedes continued stirring her concoction.

Lorenzo Paz half filled two enamel mugs with rum. He handed one to me, the other to dona Mercedes. "We'll bury her as soon as it cools down," he promised and then went back to the other room.

"Who was the dead woman we unearthed last night?" I asked dona Mercedes and then sat down on a bundle of dried palm fronds stacked against the wall.

"For someone who spends most of her time studying people, you're not very observant," she remarked, laughing softly. "I pointed her out to you some time ago. She was the pharmacist's wife."

"The Swedish woman?" I asked aghast. "But why...?" The rest of my words were drowned out by the roaring laughter of the men in the other room.

"I think they've just found out you were the one holding the light last night," dona Mercedes said and went into the other room to laugh with the men.

Unaccustomed to drinking liquor, I fell into a drowsy state not far from actual sleep. The men's voices, their laughter, and moments later, the rhythmic pounding of a hammer reached me as if they were coming from far away.






The Witch's Dream: Part 3 - Chapter 12.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 3 - Chapter 12.

Late in the afternoon after the men had left for the cemetery with the coffin, dona Mercedes and I went to the village.

"I wonder where all the people are?" I asked. Except for a young girl standing in a doorway with a naked baby astride her hip and a few dogs lying in the shade of the houses, the place was deserted.

"At the cemetery," dona Mercedes said, leading me toward the church across the plaza. "It's the day of the dead. People are weeding the graves of their deceased relatives and saying prayers for them."

It was cool and shadowy inside the church. The last threads of sunlight spilling through the tinted-glass windows in the nave illuminated the statues of saints in the niches along the walls.

A life-size crucifix, with its ripped, twisted flesh and its drooping, bleeding head in vivid color, dominated the altar. To the right of the crucifix stood the statue of the blissful-faced Virgin of Coromoto draped in a blue, star-embroidered, velvet cape. To the left was the cross-eyed figurine of Saint John, with his narrow-brimmed hat at a rakish angle and a red flannel cape, torn and dusty, flung casually over his shoulders.

Dona Mercedes blew out the flame of seven candles that were burning on the altar, put them in her basket, and lit seven new ones. She closed her eyes and, folding her hands, recited a long prayer.

The sun was only a glimmer behind the hills when we walked out of the church. The crimson and orange clouds trailing across the sky toward the sea gilded the late afternoon in a golden twilight. By the time we arrived at the cemetery it was dark.

The entire village seemed to have come out to commune with their dead. Men and women praying in soft voices were crouched beside graves ringed with lit candles.

We walked along the low wall encircling the cemetery to a secluded spot where Lorenzo Paz and his friends were resting.

They had already lowered the coffin into the ground and covered it with dirt. Their faces, sculpted into abstract masks by the surrounding candlelight, could have been the ghostly forms of the dead beneath us.

As soon as they spotted Mercedes Peralta, they began to pound the makeshift cross firmly into the ground at the head of the grave. Then, the men disappeared, swiftly and soundlessly, as if they had been swallowed up by the darkness.

"Now we have to lure Birgit Briceno's spirit here," dona Mercedes said, retrieving the seven candles she had taken from the church's altar and the same number of cigars from her basket.

She stuck the candles in the soft ground on top of the grave. As soon as she had them all lit, she put a cigar in her mouth.

"Watch carefully," she mumbled, handing me the rest of the cigars. "The instant I finish smoking this one, you must have the next cigar ready for me, already lit."

Taking deep drags she blew the smoke into the four cardinal directions. She huddled over the grave, and smoking uninterruptedly, she recited an incantation in a low raspy voice.

The tobacco smoke no longer seemed to come out of her mouth but directly from the ground. Like a fine mist, it grew around us, enveloping us like a cloud. Fascinated, I just sat there, handing her cigar after cigar, listening to her melodious, but incomprehensible, chanting.

I edged closer to her as she began to move her left arm over the grave. I thought she was shaking a rattle, but I could see nothing in her hand. I could only hear the clattering sound of seeds or, perhaps, small pebbles moving rapidly in her hand.

Tiny sparks, like fireflies, escaped from in between her closed fingers. She began to whistle a strange tune that soon became indistinguishable from the rattling noise.

Out of the cloud of smoke emerged a tall bearded figure wearing a long robe and a Phrygian cap.

I held my hand over my mouth to muffle my giggles. I believed that either I was still under the influence of the rum I had had earlier or the pallbearers were playing some kind of trick, all part of the day's festivities for the dead.

Totally absorbed, I watched the figure move out of the circle of smoke toward the wall surrounding the cemetery. The vision lingered there, a wistful smile on its face. I heard soft laughter, so quiet, so unearthly, it might have been part of Mercedes Peralta's chanting.

Her voice became louder. The sound seemed to come from the four corners of the grave, each side repeating the words like an echo. The smoke dispersed: It rose toward the palm trees and vanished into the night.

For a long time, dona Mercedes remained huddled over the grave, mumbling softly, her face barely visible in the light of the burned-down candles.

She turned toward me, the trace of a smile on her lips. "I lured Birgit Briceno's spirit here but not to her grave," she said. Holding onto my arm, she stood up.

I wanted to ask her about the strange vision, but something in the empty expression of her eyes compelled me to silence.

Lorenzo Paz, leaning against an enormous boulder, was waiting for us outside the cemetery. Without saying a word he rose and followed us down the narrow path leading to the beach.

A half-moon shone brightly on the bleached-out driftwood scattered about the wide stretch of sand.

Dona Mercedes ordered me to wait by an uprooted tree trunk. She and Lorenzo Paz walked down to the shoreline. He took off his clothes, then waded into the water and vanished amid the rolling phosphorescent whitecaps edged in silver shadows.

He was gone for quite some time until a wave, shimmering with moonlight, washed him up on the beach.

Mercedes Peralta retrieved a jar from her basket and poured its contents over his prostrated form in the sand. Kneeling beside him, she rested her hands on his head and murmured an incantation. Gently, she massaged him, her fingers barely touching his body, until a faint halo appeared around him. Swiftly, she rolled him from side to side, her hand describing oddly circular movements in the air, as if she were gathering shadows and wrapping them around him.

Moments later she came up to where I was sitting. "Birgit Briceno's spirit was clinging to him like a second skin," she said, sitting beside me on the tree trunk.

Shortly, Lorenzo Paz, fully dressed, walked toward us. Dona Mercedes, with a movement of her chin, motioned him to sit in front of her on the sand.

Pursing her lips, she made loud smacking noises, and her rapid, drawn-in breaths became muffled growls in her throat as she recited a long prayer.

"It will be a long time before Birgit Briceno's ghost will forget," she said. "Dying continues long after the body is in the ground. The dead lose their memories ever so slowly."

She turned toward me and ordered me to sit in the sand beside Lorenzo Paz. His clothes smelled of candle smoke and rose water.

"Lorenzo," dona Mercedes addressed him, "I'd like you to tell the musiua the story of how you bewitched Birgit Briceno."

He regarded her with a puzzled air, then turned around and faced the sea: His head slightly cocked, he seemed to be listening to a secret message from the waves. "Why would she like to hear nonsensical stories about old people?" he asked her without looking at me. "The musiua has her own stories. I'm sure of that."

"Let's say that I ask you to tell her," dona Mercedes said. "She's examining the many ways through which the wheel of chance can be made to turn by human means. In your case, an object turned the wheel for you, Lorenzo."

"The wheel of chance!" he said, a wistful tone in his voice. "I remember it all as if it happened only yesterday." Seemingly bemused, he prodded a pebble with the tip of his shoe and stretched out flat on the sand.


From his rocking chair behind the counter of the dim, smoke-filled bar, Lorenzo watched the group of men leaning over the billiard table in the corner.

He shifted his gaze to the old mantel clock on the shelf, marking the time under a glass bell. It was almost dawn.

He was about to rise and remind the men of the late hours, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Petra's shuffling feet from back of the house.

Promptly, he sat down again. A wicked grin spread slowly over his face.

He would let his aunt deal with the men. No one in town escaped her admonitions: They listened to her words regardless of how vile and outrageous they were.

"Those damn clinking billiard balls won't let a soul sleep," she complained in a croaky voice as she stepped into the room. "Don't you have wives waiting for you? Don't you have work to go to in the morning, like any good Christian?"

She gave the men no time to recover from their surprise but continued in the same indignant manner. "I know what's the matter with you. You're already regretting that you brought those pagan Christmas trees into your homes and that you permitted your children to act in a Christmas play."

She crossed herself and faced one of the men. "You are the mayor," she said. "How can you allow such things! Have you all turned Protestant?"

"God forbid, Petra," the mayor said, making the sign of the cross. "Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. What's the harm in a tree and a play? The children like it."

Grumbling something unintelligible, she turned to go, then stopped short.

"Shame on don Serapio! He's more foreign than a true foreigner. And shame on that real foreign wife of his.

"Thanks to them most children in town will not get their presents from the Three Wise Men on the sixth of January, as every good Christian should.".

She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the counter. "Now they will get them on Christmas day," she went on, "from some fellow called Santaclos. It's a disgrace!"

Leaning against the door, she stared at the mayor menacingly, oblivious that the ever present cigarette in her mouth had fallen onto the floor. She reached for the half-empty bottle of rum next to the billiard table and left the room muttering to herself.

Lorenzo, grinning behind the counter, clearly remembered the day when a truck loaded with singularly fragrant trees arrived in town. Don Serapio, the pharmacist, had called them Christmas trees. He had ordered them from Caracas, together with the appropriate decorations and records of European Christmas songs.

Not to be outdone by each other, don Serapio's friends quickly followed his example and paid a great deal of money for the brittle trees so that they could be prominently displayed in their living rooms.

To the great chagrin of the older relatives living in those homes, the trees were placed next to, and in some instances even in place of, the traditional nativity scenes.

With their windows wide open, so every passerby could see in and hear such unknown tunes as "Silent Night" and "0 Tannenbaum," the women decorated the scraggly branches with glass balls, garlands, gold and silver tinsel, and cotton snow.

The rattling of the beaded curtain shattered Lorenzo's reveries.

He waved to the men as they left the bar, then put the bottles back on the shelves. His glance was caught by a mask crammed behind the cheap religious statuary of virgins, saints, and mute-suffering Christs. The figurines had been given to him over the years by his poorer customers to pay for their drinks.

He pulled out the mask. It was a devil's mask with huge ram horns. A man from Caracas had left it behind. He, too, had been unable to pay for the glasses of rum he had consumed.

Upon hearing Petra clanking her pots and pans in the kitchen, he put the mask back on the shelf. Instead of locking up the bar, he took his rocking chair outside on the sidewalk. The wide branches of the ancient samans on the plaza stood outlined against the pale dawn sky.

Leisurely, he rocked himself back and forth. Through half-closed lids he watched the old men who never slept beyond dawn. They sat in front of their doors, talking, recollecting every minute detail of their bygone days in ever increasing vividness.

A melody floated through the stillness. Across the street, Birgit Briceno, the pharmacist's wife, was looking out from her window directly at Lorenzo, her face resting on her folded arms. Her radio was on. He wondered if she had also not slept or if she had simply risen early.

Her face was a perfect oval. And the corners of her small, sensual, beautiful mouth were set in a gesture of defiance and boldness. Her yellow hair was braided around her head, and her cold blue eyes seemed to sparkle as she smiled at him.

He nodded at her in silent greeting. He was always dumbstruck in her presence, for she had been for him, since the day he first saw her, the picture of beauty.

She's the reason I've reached the age of forty and never married, he mused. To him, all women were desirable and irresistible, but Birgit Briceno was more than irresistible, she was indeed unattainable.

"Why don't you come and watch the Christmas play tonight, Lorenzo? Tonight is Christmas Eve," Birgit Briceno shouted from across the street.

The old men, dozing in front of their doors, suddenly perked up and turned their heads toward the bar owner. Grinning expectantly, they waited for his answer.

So far, Lorenzo had consistently declined don Serapio's invitations. He couldn't abide the pharmacist's air of self-importance, nor his insistence in trying to convince every friend and acquaintance that he was the most influential man in town, and that it fell upon him to give an example of what civilized living was all about.

However, regardless of how insufferable he found the man, Lorenzo couldn't resist his wife's summons. In a loud voice, he promised Birgit Briceno that he would come that evening.

He then took his rocking chair inside and went to sleep in his hammock at the back of the house, pleased and full of confidence in himself.

Dressed in a white linen suit, Lorenzo walked around his bedroom, testing his new patent leather shoes. It was a large room crowded with heavy ornate mahogany pieces that had once stood in the parlor, which his father had converted into a bar years ago.

Lorenzo sat on the bed, took off his shoes and socks, and put on his cloth sandals.

"I'm glad you aren't that vain," Petra commented, shuffling into the room. "There's nothing worse than having uncomfortable feet. It makes a person downright insecure."

Her little dark eyes shone with approval as she examined his suit. "You'll never entice Birgit Briceno by ordinary means, though," she pronounced, catching his glance in the mirror. "That foreigner will respond only to witchcraft."

"Really?" Lorenzo mumbled, shrugging his shoulders with studied indifference.

"Isn't that the reason you went to see a witch? To get a love potion for that musiua?" she challenged him, crossing her spindly arms across her flat chest.

Realizing that he wasn't about to answer, she added, "Well then, why don't you follow the witch's advice?"

Lorenzo laughed and regarded his aunt thoughtfully. She had an uncanny way of knowing what was on his mind, and her assessments were always accurate.

Petra had moved into the house upon his father's death. He had been ten years old then. Not only had she taken care of him all these years, but she had also managed the bar until he had been capable of doing so himself.

"Birgit Briceno will respond only to witchcraft," Petra repeated obstinately.

Lorenzo examined himself in the mirror. He was too short and stocky to look dignified. His cheekbones were too pronounced, his mouth too thin, his nose too short to be handsome.

Yet, he loved women unabashedly, and he knew that women loved men who loved them that way. But to have Birgit Briceno, he would need more than that. And he wanted her more than anything in the world.

He had never doubted the power of witchcraft. The witch's recommendation on how to seduce the foreign woman, however, was far too outlandish.

"Love potions are for people who don't have the strength to go directly to the spirit of things," she had said to him. "Anything can grant you your wish, your most earnest wish, if you're strong enough to wish your wish directly into the spirit of a thing. You have a devil's mask; ask the mask to seduce Birgit Briceno."

He decided it was all too vague. He was too practical: He relied only on something that was concrete.

"You know what?" he said, facing his aunt. "Birgit Briceno herself has invited me to her house."

"She probably invited half the town," Petra replied cynically. "And the uninvited half will be there, too."

She rose and, before shuffling back to her room, added, "I didn't say you couldn't get Birgit Briceno. But mark my words. It won't be through ordinary means."

He had discarded the witch's advice because he did not want merely to seduce the Swedish woman: He wanted her to love him, even if only for an instant. In his moments of euphoria he thought he would not be satisfied with less than one hour.

The front door and the windows of the Bricenos' house were wide open. The tall fir tree in the living room, lit by a myriad of colorful lights, could be seen in all its splendor from the plaza.

Lorenzo walked inside the house.

The place looked like a train station. Rows of chairs faced a raised platform that had been set up in the patio. The stuffed leather armchairs, couch, and Moroccan stools from the living room had been moved out into the gallery next to the willow furniture. Boys and girls dashed about barefoot, their mothers in tow, trying to put last minute touches on their costumes.

"Lorenzo!" don Serapio called out the instant he caught sight of him from the wide open living room. Although he was tall and thin, don Serapio had quite a paunch, and whenever he stood, his legs were slightly spread.

Don Serapio adjusted his thick horn-rimmed glasses and patted Lorenzo cordially on the shoulder. "We're about to serve coffee," he said, steering him toward his guests, the elite of the town.

Among them were the doctor, the mayor, the barber, the school principal, and the priest. They all had the same expression on their faces: utter perplexity at seeing Lorenzo in don Serapio's house.

The pharmacist seemed genuinely pleased to have the elusive bar owner among his guests.

Lorenzo greeted everyone, then edged his way to the door, and almost collided with Birgit Briceno as she stepped into the room.

"Well!" she exclaimed, her smile taking them all in. "We have the children ready to start the play. But first, come and join your wives for cookies and coffee." Taking her husband's arm she led the way to the dining room.

Lorenzo could not take his eyes off her. She was tall and strongly built, yet he thought there was something vulnerable, almost frail about her long neck and her delicate hands and feet.

As though aware of his scrutiny, she looked at him. She hesitated for a moment, then poured coffee into two minute, gold-rimmed cups and brought them over to where he stood. "There is also rum," she said, wistfully eyeing the bottle at the far end of the table, "to which only the men help themselves."

"I'll take care of that, right away," Lorenzo said, finishing his coffee in one gulp. He reached for the bottle, filled his cup with the rum, then casually exchanged her empty cup with his.

Grinning, she reached for a cookie, nibbled at it, and sipped her rum daintily. "There are always surprises in store for me," she said, her eyes suddenly sparkling, her cheeks flushed.

Lorenzo was oblivious to everything except her. He had not realized that don Serapio was talking until she made a subtle gesture of annoyance. "I'd better get back to the children," she said.

In a slow pedantic voice, the pharmacist was denouncing the Venezuelan tradition of Christmas revelers, who each night played their drums and sang improvised Christmas carols. Not only was it annoying, he stressed, to hear the incessant beating of drums, but it was downright disgusting to see young men reeling through the streets from all the rum they had been given as a reward for their songs.

An expression of pure mischief spread slowly over Lorenzo's face as he recalled his last visit to the witch. "I don't believe what you're telling me," he had said, "because I don't know who could grant me such a monumental wish."

"Trust me," she had replied. "There is no way to know who grants these wishes. But they do happen. And when you least expect it."

She had insisted that he already possessed the item that would cast a spell on Birgit Briceno: a devil's mask. "All I can add is that you must wear the mask in triumph, and it will grant you your wish."

The witch had told him that it was vital for him to choose his time well, for the mask's magic would work only once.

Certain that more than a coincidence was involved in his spotting the mask that morning, Lorenzo walked casually out into the yard. He made sure no one saw him, then dashed into a side street and slipped into his house through the back door.

He tiptoed to the bar, lit a candle, and reached for the mask on the shelf. Hesitantly, he ran his fingers over its red-and-black-painted surface.

The carver had put something diabolical into his creation, Lorenzo thought. He had the odd feeling that the eye slits, half-hidden behind bushy brows made from sisal fibers, were accusing him for his neglect; and the mouth, with the long fangs of some wild animal at each corner, grinned fiendishly, daring him to dance with the mask on.

He held it over his face. His eyes, nose, and mouth fitted so well into the mask, he almost believed it had been made for him. Only his cheekbones rubbed slightly against the smooth wood inside. He tied the rawhide straps behind his head and covered them with the long sisal fibers, dyed purple, green, and black, hanging down the back.

Lorenzo did not hear Petra shuffling into the room. Startled, he leapt into the air when she spoke.

"You'll have to change your clothes," she declared and handed him a pair of pants and a patched shirt. "Take off your sandals, the devil goes barefoot."

She looked around, afraid someone might overhear, then added, "Remember, the devil commands without uttering a word."

Quietly, the same way he had come in, Lorenzo slipped out the back door.

He deliberated for an instant, wondering which way to turn when he heard a group of revelers playing their drums down the street. Protected by the shadows, Lorenzo kept close to the walls as he approached them.

"The devil!" one of them shouted upon seeing Lorenzo, then excitedly ran up and down the street, announcing that the devil had come to town.

Four young men detached themselves from the group and surrounded the devil, their hands moving loosely and gracefully as they began to beat on their drums. One of them sang an impromptu verse, proclaiming that they were at the devil's command for the night.

Lorenzo felt a shiver run up his spine. It filled him with a restlessness he could not control. Slowly, he lifted his muscular arms, and his feet moved, on their own accord, to the rhythm of the drums.

Windows and doors opened as they cavorted through the streets toward the plaza, followed by an ever increasing crowd.

As if the devil had requested it, the lights in the plaza and in the surrounding houses went out for three or four seconds. The music stopped. Momentarily paralyzed, the crowd watched the devil go into the Bricenos' house.

Lorenzo leapt upon the platform in the patio just as rockets, lit by someone outside, shot up in the air. Red, blue, green, and white lights exploded against the sky, then fell dizzily to earth, a shower of faint golden sparks.

Spellbound, the guests stood transfixed, their eyes on the devil and the drummers that had followed close behind him.

As if hearing some silent music, Lorenzo danced in the middle of a circle of quiet drummers, his body slightly stooped over, his red-and-black mask gleaming, his horns menacingly pointing to heaven.

Then all at once like thunder came the sound of the drums, turning the prolonged silence into a rumble that extended to every corner of the house.

The devil, seeing Birgit Briceno leaning against the dining-room door, jumped down from the platform, grabbed the bottle of rum on the table, and handed it to her.

Laughing, she took the bottle, then proudly tossed her head back and drank.

Confident of his power, the devil danced around her, moving with consummate grace, his back stiff, only a suggestion of movement in his hips.

With hands outstretched, her face rapt, Birgit Briceno responded to the drums as if in a trance.

Don Serapio, his face contorted behind the thick, horn-rimmed glasses, sat huddled in the depths of an armchair that suddenly looked too wide for him.

The guests, mingling with the crowd that had come in from the plaza, began to dance. Slowly, their hips swayed modestly, their movements deliberately restrained.

Lorenzo, surrounded by an ever increasing number of dancing women, who all wanted to hold him, to touch him, to reassure themselves that he was made of flesh and blood, lost sight of Birgit Briceno.

He broke free from the women's eager hands and hid behind a door. Making sure he had not been followed, Lorenzo dashed to the back of the house, peeking into every room he passed.

The sound of joyful laughter brought him to an abrupt halt. Leaning against the arch that separated the laundry area from the backyard stood a tall, corpulent figure clad in black boots, a long red robe trimmed with white, and a red Phrygian cap fastened on top of a curly wig.

Lorenzo moved closer to the oddly attired person. "Birgit Briceno," he mumbled under his breath, gazing up into her clear, bold eyes framed by wire-rimmed spectacles that had no glass in them.

"Santaclos!" she corrected, a wide grin parting her lips, hidden by a shaggy beard and mustache.

She reached for a burlap sack on the ground stuffed with packages and a staff leaning against the wall.

"I was going to wait until tomorrow and surprise the children who took part in the Christmas play with gifts," she explained, "but I can't pass up this opportunity."

Her smile took on a sly, conspiratorial edge. "You are with me, aren't you?" she asked, and her eyes shone with a wicked gleam as she bent down to look into the slits of his mask.

Lorenzo bowed to her, then reached for the burlap sack, flung it over his shoulder, and motioned her to follow him.

He led her out to the backyard onto a side street toward the plaza, where a few old people, several women, and their small children had gathered to watch the party at the Bricenos' house from across the street.

"There goes the devil!" a little girl shrieked. Calling to the other children to follow her, she ran toward the middle of the plaza. They stopped abruptly. Silently, the children stood in front of the two figures, their eyes wide with fear and curiosity.

"That's the devil," the little girl said, pointing to Lorenzo. "And who are you?" she demanded of the tall figure. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"I'm Santaclos and I bring presents," Birgit Briceno said, pulling out a package from her burlap sack. Smiling, she handed it to the child.

"Do you have presents for us, too?" the other children asked, dancing around them.

Laughing, Birgit Briceno placed the packages into their eager little hands. A bewildered little girl held a box tightly against her chest and shouted excitedly, "Santaclos and the devil are going to dance together!"

The children's delighted shrieks attracted a crowd in a matter of moments. Some musicians among them began to play their instruments and beat their drums.

"Let's dance away from your house," Lorenzo whispered into Birgit Briceno's ear. "And when we get to a side street, we'll slip away."

Lorenzo looped a bandanna around her waist and held the ends firmly. Their bodies twisted and trembled in a fiery, rhythmical embrace.

Afraid to loose his grip on the ends of his bandanna, he ignored the other women's explicit invitations to dance with them.

In the eyes of everyone, he was engrossed in his dancing, but the moment he heard another group of musicians coming down the street, he grabbed the startled Birgit Briceno by the hand and pulled her through the multitude.

Before anyone realized what had happened, the devil and Santaclos had vanished.

They ran until they were out of breath. And when they heard the crowd laughing and thumping just around the corner, Lorenzo lifted Birgit Briceno in his arms and walked through the front door into the home of one of his friends and customers.

Lorenzo saw him in the living room amid a small group of people. It did not occur to Lorenzo that he might be intruding upon a family reunion. All he could think of was that he had to convince his friend to lend him his car.



"What a night," Birgit Briceno sighed, a beaming smile parting her lips. "That crowd almost got us." Pulling off the wig, beard, and mustache, she threw them out the window.

She unfastened the cushions from under her robe and flung them on the backseat. "Where are we going?" she asked, searching the darkness outside.

Lorenzo chuckled behind his mask and continued driving toward the small house he owned near the sea.

Giggling, she relaxed in her seat. "I smell the sea breeze," she murmured shortly, breathing in deeply.

"I was born in a Swedish fishing village," she said. "The people I come from have always been buried at sea or by the sea, and the only regret I have in life is that I won't. Serapio already owns a plot in the cemetery in town."

Puzzled by her odd concern, he stopped the car.

"Can the devil's mask grant me my wish to be buried by the sea?" she asked with such a serious, determined expression on her face that he could only nod in agreement.

"A promise like that is sacred," she said. The look in her eyes made it clear that for her their understanding was total.

She leaned back in her seat. She was still, yet a strange, almost mischievous smile played around her mouth. "And I, on my part, promise to love the bearer of the wish-granting mask all this night," she whispered.

He would have settled for an instant of love. Next to an instant, a night was an eternity.






The Witch's Dream: Part 3 - Chapter 13.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Chapter 13.

For days on end, I had pondered the meaning of the stories I had heard. I thought I understood what was meant by a link, or a witch's shadow, or the wheel of chance; but, I still wanted dona Mercedes or Candelaria to clarify things.

I had accepted from the beginning that I was not there to interpret what I was experiencing in terms of my academic training, however, I could not help seeing things in terms of what I had learned in the nagual's world.

Florinda would have explained it all in terms of intent: a universal, abstract force responsible for molding everything in the world we live in.

Being an abstract force, its molding power is ordinarily outside the reach of man, yet under special circumstances it allows itself to be manipulated. And that is what gives us the false impression that people or things grant us wishes.

Compared to Florinda- and I could not avoid making the comparison- dona Mercedes and Candelaria were more simple pragmatists.

They did not have an overall encompassing understanding of their actions. They understood whatever they did, as mediums, witches, and healers, in terms of separate, concrete events loosely connected with one another.

For instance, dona Mercedes was giving me concrete examples of ways of manipulating something nameless. The act of manipulating it, she called a witch's shadow. The result of that manipulation she called a link, a continuity, a turn of the wheel of chance.

"It was certainly the mask that granted Lorenzo's wish," dona Mercedes said with absolute conviction. "I've known other, very similar instances of things granting wishes."

"But tell me, dona Mercedes, which is the important factor, the thing itself or the person who has the wish?"

"The thing itself," she replied. "If Lorenzo hadn't had that mask, he could've spent his life panting over Birgit Briceno; and that would've been all his wish amounted to. A witch would say that the mask, not Lorenzo, made the link."

"Would you still call it a witch's shadow, even if there was no witch involved?"

"A witch's shadow is only a name. All of us have a bit of a witch in us. Lorenzo is definitely not a spiritualist or a healer, yet he has a certain power to bewitch. Not enough, though, to make a link, to move the wheel of chance; but with the aid of the mask, it was a different story."






The Witch's Dream: Part 4.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4.

  • Chapter 14.
  • Chapter 15.
  • Chapter 16.
  • Chapter 17.
  • Chapter 18.





The Witch's Dream: Part 4 - Chapter 14.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4 - Chapter 14.

A faint noise startled me. I tried to move, but my left arm, flung behind my head, was stiff from lack of circulation. I had fallen asleep in Mercedes Peralta's room after becoming thoroughly exhausted from taking an inventory of her dried medicinal plants.

I turned my head upon hearing a voice call my name. "Dona Mercedes?" I whispered. Except for the sound of the knots of the healer's hammock, squeaking as they rubbed over the metal rings, there was no answer. I tiptoed over to the corner. No one was in the hammock. Yet, I had the distinct feeling that she had just been in the room and that somehow her presence still lingered about.

In the grips of inexplicable anxiety, I opened the door, then ran down the dark silent corridor.

I crossed the patio to the kitchen and out into the yard. There in the hammock that hung between two soursop trees lay dona Mercedes enveloped in tobacco smoke, like a shadow.

Slowly, her face emerged from the smoky dimness. It was more like an image in a dream. Her eyes glittered with a peculiar hollow depth.

"I was just thinking about you," she said. "About what you're doing here." She pulled up her legs to get out of the hammock.

I told her that I had fallen asleep in her room, and had been frightened by the sound of her empty hammock.

She listened in silence, a worried expression on her face. "Musiua," she said sternly, "how many times have I told you never to fall asleep in the room of a witch? We're very vulnerable while asleep."

Unexpectedly, she giggled and covered her mouth, as though she had said too much. She signaled me to come closer and to sit on the ground near the edge of her hammock.

She began to massage my head. Her fingers traveled with an undulating movement down to my face.

A soothing numbness spread across my features. My skin, muscles, and bones seemed to dissolve under her deft fingers.

Totally relaxed and at peace, I fell into a drowsiness that was not quite sleep. I was half-conscious of her gentle touch, as she continued to massage me. Finally, I lay faceup on the nearby cement slab.

Silently, dona Mercedes stood over me. "Watch, Musiua," she suddenly cried out, looking up at the full moon racing through the clouds. Hiding, rising, emerging, the moon seemed to tear the clouds in its rush. "Watch," she cried out again, throwing a clump of gold medals fastened to a long gold chain into the air high over her head. "When you see the chain again, you'll have to return to Caracas."

For an instant the dark clump seemed to be suspended against the full moon emerging from behind a cloud. I did not see it fall. I was too preoccupied wondering what had prompted her to mention that I had to go back to Caracas.

I asked her about it: She remarked that it was foolish of me to assume I was going to stay in Curmina forever.






The Witch's Dream: Part 4 - Chapter 15.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4 - Chapter 15.

The persistent sharp call of a cicada on the branch above my head was more like a vibration punctuating the stillness of the hot and humid night.

I turned on my stomach on the mat in the patio and waited for the woman who had been appearing to me at the same spot every night.

Dona Mercedes, dozing in a nearby hammock, had decided to keep me company that night, breaking with her presence the singularity of those appearances.

She had established from the beginning that as long as no one else was with me or watched me, my contacts with the spirit would remain superpersonal events. If, however, someone else was present, the entire matter would become public property, so to speak.

I had acquired by then a certain expertise in smoking cigars. At first, I had expressed to dona Mercedes my concern about the irritating effect of the heat on the delicate tissue inside the mouth. She had laughed my fear away, assuring me that the smoke of ritual cigars was actually cool and soothing.

After practicing for a short while, I had to agree with her: The smoke was indeed cool: The tobacco seemed mentholated.

Dona Mercedes' decision to accompany me that night was triggered by Candelaria's doubts that I was strong enough to hold a full seance by myself. To them, a full seance meant that at one point the medium has absolutely relinquished all voluntary control of her person and the spirit can express itself through the medium's body.

Earlier that day, dona Mercedes had explained to me that my presence in her house was no longer tenable: Not because she or Candelaria were in any way at odds with me or cross with me, but because she had nothing of value to give me.

She assured me that both Candelaria and herself felt nothing but the deepest affection for me. Had she liked me less, she would have been satisfied with letting me watch her treat the sick and pretend that I was her helper. It was her affection for me that forced her to be truthful.

What I needed was a link, and she had none for me. She could only make one for Candelaria. However, since the spirit had chosen me to be an intermediary or, perhaps, even a true medium, she had to honor that choice.

So far, she had helped me do so by indirectly helping me make nightly contacts with the apparition.

"The fact that the spirit of my ancestor has chosen you," she had said, "makes you, Candelaria, and me sort of relatives."

Candelaria had told me then that she had had contact with the same spirit since childhood. But, following a medium's tradition of total secrecy, she could not possibly elaborate on that.

Dona Mercedes stirred in her hammock and crossed her arms behind her head. "Musiua, you better squat and start smoking," she said in a soft, relaxed tone.

I lit a cigar, puffing at it in short even spurts and murmured the incantation she had taught me. The smoke and the sound were definitely the agents that brought the apparition every time.

I heard a soft rustle. Dona Mercedes also heard it, for she turned at the same instant I did. A few feet away, squatting between Candelaria's giant terracotta flower pots, was the woman.

Dona Mercedes crouched beside me and took the cigar from my mouth. She puffed at it, mumbling an incantation; a different one from mine. I felt a tremor in my body; an invisible hand gripped me by the throat.

I heard myself making whizzing, gurgling noises. To my amazement, they sounded like words said by someone else with my own vocal cords. I knew instantly- although I did not understand them- that they were words of yet another incantation. The apparition hovered over my head, and then it disappeared.

Next, I found myself with dona Mercedes and Candelaria inside the house. I was soaked in perspiration and felt physically exhausted. And so were the two women.

However, my exhaustion was not a debilitating one. I felt extraordinarily light and exhilarated.

"How did I get here?" I asked.

Candelaria consulted dona Mercedes with a questioning look and then said, "You had a full seance."

"This changes everything," dona Mercedes said in a faint voice. "The spirit of my ancestor has made a link for you. So, you must stay here until the spirit lets you go."

"But why did the spirit choose me?" I asked. "I'm a foreigner."

"There are no foreigners for the spirits," Candelaria answered. "The spirits only search for mediums."






The Witch's Dream: Part 4 - Chapter 16.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4 - Chapter 16.

Mercedes Peralta sat hunched over the altar, mumbling an incantation.

Faint with hunger and fatigue, I kept glancing at my watch. It was nearly six o'clock in the evening.

I fervently wished that the large woman sitting by the table would be dona Mercedes' last patient for the day.

There had been no explanation for her seeing more than two sick persons a day, but for the last four Saturdays dona Mercedes had seen as many as twelve in one day.

They were mostly women from the nearby hamlets who took advantage of their weekly trip to the market and stopped by to see the healer.

There were always those who sought help for such specific ailments as headaches, colds, and female disorders.

The great majority, however, came to be relieved of their emotional problems. Unrequited love, marital difficulties, strife with in-laws, growing children, and problems at work and in the community were the most frequently discussed topics. Graying hair, loss of hair, the appearance of wrinkles, and bouts of bad luck were among the more frivolous complaints.

Dona Mercedes treated each person, whatever his or her problem, with the same genuine interest and efficiency.

She would first diagnose the ailment with the aid of her nautical compass or by interpreting the pattern of the cigar's ashes on the plate.

If the person's imbalance was caused by psychological turmoil- she called it spiritual- she would recite a prayer-incantation and give a massage.

If the person was suffering from a physical ailment, she would prescribe medicinal plants and a follow-up.

Her artful use of language and her great sensitivity to each person's minute change in mood prompted the most reluctant man or woman to open up and talk candidly about his or her intimate concerns.

Mercedes Peralta's voice startled me. "You really messed up this time," she addressed the large woman sitting in front of the table.

Dona Peralta shood her head in disbelief, and once again examined the cigar's ashes, which she had collected on a metal plate on the altar.

"You're a fool," she declared, holding the plate under the woman's face, expecting the woman to recognize in the soft, gray-greenish powder the nature of her ailment. "You really are in trouble this time."

Rushing with apprehension, the woman looked from side to side, as if she were trying to find a way to escape. She puckered up her lips like a child.

Dona Mercedes rose, moved to where I sat on a stool in my usual corner, and in a formal tone pronounced, "I would like you to write down the treatment my client is to follow."

As usual, I listed first the prescribed herbs, flower essences, and dietary restrictions. Then, I wrote out a detailed account of when and under what circumstances the patient was to take the herbal infusion and the purifying baths.

With dona Mercedes' permission, I never failed to make a carbon copy for myself. And finally at her urging, I read out loud several times what I had written.

I was certain that it was not only to reassure dona Mercedes herself that I had listed everything correctly but mainly to benefit the patient in case she was illiterate.

With the instructions clutched in her hand, the woman rose and faced the altar. She put some bills under the statue of the Virgin, then solemnly promised that she would follow dona Mercedes' instructions.

Dona Mercedes stepped over to the altar, lit a candle, and kneeled to pray to the saints that her judgments would be correct.

I mentioned that I knew doctors who prayed a great deal.

"What good doctors and healers have in common is abiding respect for their patients," she declared. "They trust the great force that is out there to guide them. They can summon that power through prayer, meditation, incantations, tobacco smoke, medicines, and equipment."

She reached for the carbon copies of all the instructions I had written out that day, then counted the pages. "Did I really see that many persons today?" she asked, seemingly uninterested in hearing my answer.

A faint smile parted her lips as she closed her eyes and leaned back in her uncomfortable-looking chair. "Go and bring me all your notebooks on all my clients but not the ones on the persons who are telling you their stories. I want to see how many people I've treated since you got here."

She got up and walked with me to the door. "Bring everything to the patio. I want Candelaria to help me," she added.

It took me almost an hour to gather all my materials. With the exception of my diary, I carried everything to the patio, where dona Mercedes and Candelaria were already waiting for me.

"Is that it?" dona Mercedes asked, eyeing the bundles of paper I had placed on the ground right in front of her.

She did not wait for my answer but ordered Candelaria to stack the papers and index cards by the steel drum at the far end of the patio. As soon as she had done so, Candelaria came to sit beside me on the mat. We both faced dona Mercedes, who was once again lying in her hammock.

"I've already told you that you are here under the auspices of the spirit of my ancestor," dona Mercedes said to me. "Since last night you are a medium chosen by that spirit. And mediums don't keep papers about healing. The very idea is hideous."

She rose from her hammock and walked to where my bundles of notes were. Only then did it dawn on me what she intended to do. She broke the string bindings with a knife and dropped handfuls of paper into the steel drum. Mesmerized, I watched the smoke rise from the drum. I had not noticed before that there was a fire inside it.

Eager to save some of my work, I jumped up. Candelaria's words stopped me from running to the drum.

"If you do that, you must leave right away." She smiled and patted the mat beside her.

In that instant I understood everything. There was nothing I could have done.






The Witch's Dream: Part 4 - Chapter 17.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4 - Chapter 17.

After an entire day's work, dona Mercedes fell soundly asleep in her chair.

I watched her for a while, wishing I could relax that easily, then I quietly put back the various bottles, jars, and boxes in the glass cabinet.

As I tiptoed past her on my way out, she suddenly opened her eyes. She turned her head slowly and listened, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air.

"I almost forgot," she said. "Bring him in, right away."

"There isn't anybody," I replied with absolute certainty.

She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "Just do what I tell you," she said softly.

Certain that she was going to be wrong this time, I stepped outside.

It was nearly dark. No one was there. With a triumphant smile on my face I was about to walk back into the room when I heard a faint cough.

As if he had been conjured up by dona Mercedes' assertion, a neatly dressed man emerged from the shadows in the corridor. His legs were disproportionately long. His shoulders, in contrast, seemed small and looked frail under his dark coat.

He vacillated for an instant, then lifted a cluster of green coconuts in a slight salute. In his other hand, he held a custom-made machete.

"Is Mercedes Peralta in?" he asked in a deep, raspy voice, interspersed by a harsh cough.

"She's waiting for you," I said, holding the curtain aside for him.

He had short, stiff, curly hair, and the space between his brows was creased in a deep frown. His dark, angular face exuded an unyielding hardness, matched by the fierce, relentless expression in his eyes. Only at the corners of his well-shaped mouth lingered a certain softness.

He stood irresolute for a moment, then a faint smile spread slowly over his face as he approached dona Mercedes.

He dropped the coconuts on the ground, and adjusting his pants at the knees, squatted by her chair. He selected the biggest coconut on the cluster, and with three expert cuts of his short machete, removed the top.

"They are just the way you like them," he said. "Still soft and very sweet."

Dona Mercedes brought the fruit to her lips, and in between her noisy slurps, remarked how good the milk was. "Give me some of the inside," she demanded, handing the fruit back to him.

With one sure blow, he halved the coconut and then loosened the soft, gelatinous pulp with the tip of his machete.

"Prepare the other half for the musiua," dona Mercedes said.

He stared at me long and hard, then without a word he scraped the remaining half of the coconut with the same meticulous care and handed it to me. I thanked him.

"And what brings you here today?" dona Mercedes asked, breaking the awkward silence. "Do you need my help?"

"Yes," he said, pulling a cigarette case from his pocket. He lit a cigarette with a lighter. After taking one long drag, he returned the case to his pocket.

"The spirit is all right," he said. "It's this damned cough that's getting worse. It doesn't let me sleep. I also have this headache. It doesn't let me work."

She invited him to sit down, not opposite her where her patients usually sat, but on the chair by the altar.

She lit three candles in front of the Virgin, then casually inquired about the coconut plantation he owned somewhere along the coast.

He turned around slowly and gazed into her eyes. She coaxed him with a movement of her head. "This musiua helps me with my patients," she said to him. "You can talk as if she weren't present."

His eyes caught mine for a moment. "My name is Benito Santos," he said and swiftly looked back at dona Mercedes. "Does she have a name?"

"She says her name is Florinda," dona Mercedes answered before I had time to say anything. "But I call her Musiua."

She watched him intently, then positioned herself behind him. With slow easy movements, she rubbed an unguent on his chest and shoulders for nearly a half hour.

"Benito Santos," she said, turning toward me, "is a powerful man. He comes to see me from time to time; always for a headache or a cold or a cough.

"I cure him in five sessions. I use a specially made unguent and an eloquent prayer offered to the spirit of the sea."

She continued massaging him for a long time. "Is the headache gone?" she asked, resting her hands on Benito Santos' shoulders.

He did not seem to have heard her question. He stared with unseeing eyes at the flickering candles. He began to talk about the sea and how ominous it was at dawn when the sun rises from the dim lusterless water.

In a monotonous, almost trancelike murmur, he spoke about his daily noon excursions into the sea. He had never learned to swim, only to float.

"Pelicans circle around me," he said. "Sometimes they fly very low and look directly into my eyes. I'm certain they want to know if my strength is waning."

With his head bowed, he remained silent for a long time, then his voice faded to an even lower, hard-to-understand murmur. "At dusk, when the sun is behind the far away hills and the light no longer touches the water, I hear the voice of the sea.

"It tells me that someday it will die, but while it lives, it is relentless. 1 know then that I love the sea."

Mercedes Peralta pressed her palms over his temples, her fingers spanning his head.

"Benito Santos," she said, "is a man who has overcome guilt. He's old and he's tired. But even now he is relentless like the sea."

Benito Santos came to see dona Mercedes for five consecutive days. After finishing each of his daily treatments, she always asked him to tell me his story. He never answered her and totally ignored me.

Finally, at the end of his last appointment, he abruptly turned and faced me. "Is that your jeep out there in the street?" he asked. Without giving me time to answer, he added, "Drive me back to the coconut plantation, please."

We drove in silence. Just prior to reaching the coast, I assured him that he did not have to honor dona Mercedes' request.

He shook his head emphatically. "Whatever she asks is sacred to me," he said dryly. "I just don't know what to say or how to say it."

I paid countless visits to Benito Santos under the pretext of getting coconuts for dona Mercedes. We talked a great deal. But he never warmed up to me.

He always stared at me defiantly until I turned my eyes away. He made it perfectly clear that he was talking to me only because Mercedes Peralta had requested it. He certainly was, as she had described him, hard and relentless.


Clutching his machete firmly in his hand, Benito Santos stood motionless in the hot noon sun. It scorched his back, stiff from cutting cane for a week.

He pushed back the brim of his hat to cool his forehead. His eyes followed the group of weary men walking across the empty, harvested sugarcane fields on their way into town.

For the last day and night everyone had worked without rest. Like him, the men would have no jobs to go to on Monday. It had been the last sugarcane crop before the tractors were to flatten and parcel off the land.

The owner of those fields had held out the longest. But finally, like all the other planters in the area, he had been forced to sell his property to a land-developing company in Caracas.

The valley was to be converted into an industrial center. Germans and Americans were going to build pharmaceutical laboratories. Italians were not only going to construct a shoe factory, but bring their own workers from Italy as well.

"Damn foreigners," Benito Santos swore, spitting on the ground. He didn't know how to read or write, and he had no skills. He was a sugarcane cropper. All he knew was how to wield a machete.

Dragging the long blade on the ground, he approached the hacienda's courtyard, then turned to the small bungalow, where the foreman had his office. A group of men, some standing, some squatting under the shade of the building's wide overlapping roof, eyed him suspiciously as he stepped into the office.

"What do you want?" the short, potbellied foreman sitting behind a gray metal desk asked. "You got paid, didn't you?" he added impatiently, wiping the sweat off his neck with a neatly folded white handkerchief.

Benito Santos nodded. He was a taciturn man, almost gruff. It was hard for him to speak, to ask a favor.

"I heard that the sugarcane has been transported to a mill in the next town," he stammered, his eyes fixed on the foreman's massive neck bulging over the collar of his starched shirt. "I've been around mills before. I'm wondering if you could hire me to work there."

Leaning back in his chair, the foreman regarded Benito Santos through drooping lids. "You live around here, don't you? How would you be getting to the next town? It's more than fifteen miles from here."

"By bus," Benito Santos mumbled, looking furtively into the man's eyes.

"Bus!" The foreman laughed scornfully, stroking his thin, neatly trimmed mustache. "You know well that the bus only leaves when it's full. You'd never get there before noon."

"I'll make it," Benito Santos said desperately. "If you give me the job, I'll make it somehow. Please."

"Listen," the foreman snapped. "I hired anyone capable of cutting down sugarcane regardless of age or experience because we had a deadline to meet. It was made perfectly clear to every man hired that this was a six-day job.

"At the mill we already have more people than we need." The foreman began to shuffle through the papers on his desk. "Don't waste any more of my time. I'm a busy man."

Benito Santos stepped into the courtyard, making sure not to trample on the tufts of grass growing between the stones. The mill, at the far end of the yard, already looked abandoned even though it had been in use only a few days ago. He knew he would never see its like in the valley again.

The loud honking of a truck jolted him. Quickly, he stepped aside, lifting his hand for a ride into town. He was enveloped in a cloud of dust.

"You got to walk, Benito Santos," someone shouted from the moving vehicle.

Long after the dust had settled he could still hear the shouts and laughter of the workers on the truck.

His fingers curled tightly around the handle of his machete. Slowly, they relaxed again.

He pulled his hat well over his forehead to shade his eyes from the bright sun glazing the blue of the sky.

Benito Santos didn't follow the main road into town but cut across the empty fields until he reached a narrow trail. It led toward the southern end of town, where the Saturday open-air market was situated.

He walked slower than usual, aware of the hole in one of his shoes and the flapping sole of the other, which stirred the dust on the ground before him.

From time to time, he rested under the dark cool shade of the mango trees growing on either side of the path: Dispiritedly, he watched the fleeting green outline of lizards darting in and out of the bushes.

It was way past noon when he reached the market. The place was still bustling with people. Vendors, their voices already hoarse, advertised their merchandise with the same enthusiasm they had displayed earlier that morning. And the customers, mostly women, haggled shamelessly over the prices.

Benito Santos walked past the Portuguese farmers' stands, where the now limp vegetables lay in disarray; past the meat and dry-fish stalls, where flies swarmed around and mangy dogs waited with endless patience for a piece of meat to fall on the ground.

He grinned at the hired children who were standing behind the fresh-fruit stalls, packing rotten fruit in paper bags instead of letting the customers choose from the merchandise on display.

He fingered the money in his pocket: six days' wages. He deliberated whether he should buy food for his wife, Altagracia, and their small son now or later.

"Later," he said out loud. There was always the chance that he would get a better deal if he haggled with the merchants just before they were ready to pack up.

"Get your food while you have the money, Benito Santos," an old woman who knew him well shouted. "The beans and the rice won't get any cheaper."

"Only women wait for the afternoon bargains," a merchant taunted him, making obscene gestures with a plantain.

Benito Santos stared at the grinning faces of the Lebanese peddlers, standing behind their gaudy stalls, advertising cheap dresses, costume jewelry, and perfumes.

Rage made the veins in his temples swell and stiffened the muscles on his neck. The humiliating incident in the foreman's office was vivid in his mind. The scornful laughter of the workers on the truck still rang in his ears.

The machete was as light as a knife in his hand. With tremendous effort he turned around and walked away.

A cold sweat bathed his body. His mouth was dry. He felt a tingling in his stomach that was not hunger.

He would have his rum now, he decided. He couldn't wait until he got home. He needed the rum to dispel his anger, to dispel his gloom, his despondency.

Purposefully, he headed toward the main entrance of the market, where trucks and packtrains of donkeys waited to be reloaded with the produce that wasn't sold.

He crossed the street, then stepped inside the small dark store at the corner and bought three pint bottles of the cheapest rum.

He sat down under the shade of a tree, facing the trucks and the donkeys. He didn't want to miss the moment the merchants began to pack up.

Sighing contentedly, he leaned against the tree trunk. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat and the dust from his haggard face with his sleeve.

Carefully, he opened one of the bottles and downed the first pint in one long gulp. Gradually, the rum dulled the tension in his stomach; it eased the pain in his stiff back and sore legs. He smiled. A vague feeling of well-being drifted through his head.

Yes, he mused, it was better to sit there, enjoying his rum, than to go home and listen to Altagracia's incessant nagging. He was slow to anger, but today he had had as much as he could take.

Through drooping lids, Benito Santos watched the people gathered in a circle near the market's entrance. It was the same crowd that came every Saturday afternoon from the nearby hamlets to bet on the cockfights.

Drowsily, he let his gaze wander to the two men squatting beneath a tree directly across from him. He wasn't much interested in cockfights, yet his attention was caught by the two roosters the men held in their hands.

They bounced them up and down to strengthen their legs. With an oddly gentle gesture, the men ruffled the birds' feathers and then shoved them against each other to rouse their spirits.

"That's a fine-looking bird," Benito Santos said to the man holding the dark rooster with the golden-tipped feathers.

"He certainly is," the man agreed readily. "He'll be in the last fight this afternoon. The best birds are saved for the last fight," the man added proudly, brushing the rooster's feathers. "You ought to bet on him. He'll be the winner today."

"You're sure?" Benito Santos asked casually, taking out another bottle of rum from his paper bag.

He took a long gulp, then meandered through the crowd of excited men squatting around a sand pit. They made room without looking at him, their eyes fixed on the center of the arena where two birds were locked in deadly combat.

"Your bets! Gentlemen, your bets!" a man shouted, his voice silencing the noisy crowd for a moment. "Your bets for the last fight! For the real fight!"

Eagerly the men exchanged their dirty bills for the colored markers indicating the amount of their bets.

"Are you sure your rooster is going to win today?" Benito Santos asked the owner of the bird with the golden-tipped feathers.

"He sure is!" the man exclaimed, planting rapturous kisses on the bird's scarred crest.

"Afraid to bet, Benito Santos?" asked one of the workers who had been cutting cane with him during the week. "You'd better buy some food for your old woman if you don't want trouble tonight," he added mockingly.

Benito Santos chose a marker and without hesitation bet the rest of his wages on the cock with the golden-tipped feathers.

He was certain he would double his money. He would be able to buy not only rice and beans but meat and more rum. There might even be enough money to buy his son his first pair of shoes.

Benito Santos, as excited as the rest of the spectators, shouted his approval as the owners raised their birds high over their heads. They sucked the sharp, deadly spurs on the roosters' legs as evidence that there was no poison on them. The men mumbled sweet nothings to their birds, and then, at the command of the referee, they placed them in the center of the sand pit.

The combatants viewed each other angrily but refused to fight. The crowd shouted, and a wicker cage was lowered over the roosters. Excitedly the men goaded the birds to attack. The roosters trembled with rage, and their plumage spread out beneath their shaved, bloodshot necks.

The cage was lifted. The cocks jumped at each other, skillfully avoiding pecks and blows of wings. But soon they were engaged in a deadly wing-beating, head-thrusting, leg-kicking explosion of fury.

The white cock's feathers were red with blood, either from its own wounds or from the deep gash on its opponent's neck.

Silently, Benito Santos prayed for the bird he had bet on to win.

At a signal from the referee, the open-beaked, hard-breathing roosters were lifted from the pit. With mounting anxiety Benito Santos watched the owner of the golden-feathered bird blow on its wounds. Soothingly, he talked to the rooster, caressing and fussing over it.

At the referee's command, the birds were once again placed in the center of the circle.

The white-feathered bird instantly took a well-aimed jump and sunk its spurs into its opponent's neck. Its triumphant crow shattered the silence of the audience as the golden-tipped rooster toppled over dead.

Benito Santos smiled bitterly, then laughed behind a grimace that struggled to hold back his tears. "At least I've got my rum," he mumbled, then gulped down the rest of his second bottle.

With trembling fingers he wiped his chin dry. He walked away from the crowd, heading toward the hills: the empty cane fields stretching endlessly before him shimmered in the bright afternoon sunlight. The yellow dust of the road raised by his shoes settled like fine, golden powder on his arms and hands.

Slowly, he went up a steep hill. Wherever there was a tree, he crossed the road and rested in its shade.

He opened his last bottle of rum and took one long gulp. He didn't want to see his wife. He couldn't bear to look into her accusing eyes.

He scanned the hills around him and let his gaze rest on the green slopes on the other side of the road where a high ranking general in the government had his farm.

Benito Santos took another swallow. The rum filled him with a vague hope.

Perhaps they might give him a job at the general's place. He could cut the green, irrigated alfalfa grown specifically for the horses. Hell! He had a skill! he thought. He was a sugarcane cropper. Cutting cane or alfalfa was all the same.

He might even be able to ask for an advance. Not much. Just enough to buy some rice and beans.

He almost ran down the hill, then up the newly paved road leading to the general's farm. He was so excited by the possibility of getting a job that he didn't even see the two soldiers by the wide open gate.

"Where do you think you're going?" one of them stopped him, pointing his rifle to a sign on the road. "Can't you read? No trespassing beyond this point. This is a private road."

Benito Santos was so winded his throat hurt with each breath. He looked from one soldier to the other, then addressed the second soldier, who was leaning against a large boulder next to the sign. He looked older and friendlier. "I'm in desperate need of a job," he murmured.

Silently, the soldier shook his head; his eyes fixed on Benito Santos' stiff black hair sticking through his torn straw hat. Benito Santos' worn, rolled-up khaki pants and shirt clung damply to his tall, gaunt frame.

"There are no jobs in this place," he said in a sympathetic tone. "There isn't anyone around here to hire you, anyway."

"There must be someone there with the horses," Benito Santos insisted. "Maybe I could help. Just for a couple of hours every day."

The guards looked at each other, then shrugged and grinned mischievously. "Ask for the German in charge of the horses," the younger-looking man said. "He might help you."

For a moment Benito Santos wondered what the soldiers could be laughing about. But he felt too grateful to let it worry him.

Afraid they might change their minds and call him back, he hurried along the straight paved road cut into the hill.

He stopped short in front of the general's house. Undecided, he stood looking at the two-story building. It was all white with a long balcony supported by massive columns.

Instead of calling out, he tiptoed toward one of the downstairs windows. It was open, and the air gently fluttered the gauzy curtain.

He wanted to have a quick look and see what it was like inside. He had heard that the luxurious furnishings had been brought over from Europe.

"What are you doing here?" a loud, heavily accented voice asked from behind him.

Startled, Benito Santos almost dropped his bottle of rum as he turned around. Wide-eyed, he regarded a wiry, middle-aged man with blond, closely cropped hair.

He must be the German the soldiers had told him to see, he thought, looking into the man's restless eyes. They were the color of the sky and shone hard under fiercely jutting brows.

"Do you have a job for me?" Benito Santos asked. "Any kind of job."

The man moved closer to Benito Santos and stared at him menacingly. "How dare you come here, you drunkard?" he spat out, his voice cold with contempt. "Get out of here before I set the dogs on you."

Benito Santos' gaze became unsteady, his eyelids twitched. He felt like a beggar. He hated to ask for a favor. He had always worked the best he could. His tongue felt heavy.

"Just for a couple of hours." He held out his hand so the man could see the cracks and calluses. "I'm a hard worker. I'm a cane cutter. I could cut some grass for the horses."

"Get out!" the German yelled. "You're drunk."

Benito Santos walked slowly, dragging the tip of his machete on the ground. The road before him seemed longer than ever, as though it stretched itself deliberately to delay his arrival home.

He wished he had someone to talk to. The monotonous drone of the insects made him feel even more desolate.

He crossed the dry gully to his shack. He remained outside for a moment, deeply breathing in the late-afternoon air, letting the gentle breeze cool his flushed face.

He had to stoop to enter his shack. It had no windows, only an opening in the front and one in the back, which he closed at night with a piece of cardboard propped up with a stick.

The heat was stifling inside. The sound of the hammock's ropes rubbing against the wood and Altagracia's uneven breathing irritated him. He knew she was seething with wrath.

He turned to look at his son sleeping on the ground. He wore a discolored rag, which barely covered his small chest. He couldn't remember whether the boy was two or three years old.

Altagracia rose from her hammock, her eyes fixed on the bag in his hand. She planted herself in front of him and demanded in a harsh, shrill voice, "Where is the food, Benito?"

"The market was already packed up by the time I got there," Benito Santos mumbled, moving over to the cot in one corner of the shack, the paper bag held tightly in his hand. "I'm sure there are still some beans and rice left here."

"There is nothing here as you well know," Altagracia said, trying to grab the paper bag. "You sure had time to get drunk." Her face with its yellowish, sagging skin was flushed. Her sunken, usually lifeless eyes shone with anger and despair.

He clearly felt the accelerated pounding of his heart. He didn't have to give her an explanation. He didn't owe anyone an explanation.

"Shut up, woman," he yelled. He lifted the bottle and drank the rest of the rum without drawing a breath.

"I worked the whole night cutting cane. I'm tired." He threw the empty bottle through the opening of the shack. "I want some peace and quiet now. I want no woman shouting at me. Take the boy and get the hell out of here."

Altagracia grabbed Benito Santos by the arm before he had a chance to lower himself on the cot.

"Give me the money; I'll buy the food myself. The boy needs to eat." She ripped open his pocket. "No money?" she repeated, in a daze, looking uncomprehendingly at him.

"Didn't you get paid today? You couldn't have spent six days' wages on rum." Shouting obscenities, she pulled his hair and pounded her clenched fists against his aching back and chest.

He felt drunk, not with rum, but with rage and hopelessness. He saw the gleam of fear in her eyes as he raised his machete.

Her scream filled the air, then there was silence. He looked at her still form on the ground, at her tangled mass of hair soaked in blood.

He felt something tugging at his pants. His small son held onto his leg with such strength he was certain the child would never let him free.

Possessed by an irrational fear, Benito Santos tried to shake him loose, but the boy would not let go. The boy's eyes were those of his mother; dark and deep, filled with that same accusing light.

Benito Santos' temples began to throb under the boy's unblinking stare. With blind fury, he raised the machete once more.

Never in his life had he felt such an agonizing desolation. Never before had he been so clear-headed either.

For a moment it was as if he had had another life, a more meaningful life- a life with a greater purpose- and was now looking into the nightmare that his existence had become.

Then, more aware than he had ever been, he soaked some rags in the nearly empty can of kerosene and set his shack on fire.

He ran as far as he could and then stopped. Motionless, he stood gazing at the empty fields at the foot of the hills, at the faraway mountains in the distance.

In the morning those mountains were the color of hope. Beyond them was the sea. He had never seen the sea. He had only heard that it was immense.

Benito Santos waited until the mountains, the hills, and the trees were no more than shadows; shadows like the memories of his childhood.

He felt he was again walking with his mother through the narrow streets of his village amid the crowd of the faithful behind some procession at nightfall with candles winking through the darkness.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen." His voice drifted away with the wind and the thousands of small sounds shrouding the hills.

He shivered with fear, and took off again in a wild run. He ran until he could no longer breathe.

He felt himself sinking into the soft ground. The earth was swallowing him: It was soothing him with blackness; and Benito Santos knew that this was the last day of his useless life. He had at last died.

He opened his eyes, seemingly to the sound of a woman's wailing, but it was the night breeze, rustling through the leaves around him.

How he had wished to remain forever in darkness; but he knew that nothing would ever be that easy for him.

He rose, picked up his machete, and headed toward the road that led to the mountains.

A clear light came down from the sky. It spread around him: It even gave him a shadow. The clear light made the air thinner, easier to breathe.

He had no place to go. Nothing to look forward to. He felt no profound emotion. There was only a vague sensation, a vague hope that he might get to see the sea.






The Witch's Dream: Part 4 - Chapter 18.

Version 2007.03.01


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 4 - Chapter 18.

"It's time for you to go," Candelaria said. "You shouldn't be working on Sundays." She pulled the plug of my tape recorder.

At that very instant, dona Mercedes stepped into the kitchen. She frowned, noticing that I was still in my robe. "Why aren't you ready?" she asked me.

"I know why," Candelaria said. Her voice held a curious softness, and a glimmer of amusement shone in her eyes. "She doesn't want to collect Benito Santos' coconuts. She's afraid of him."

Before I had a chance to deny her accusation, she was gone from the room.

"Is that true, Musiua?" dona Mercedes asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "I haven't noticed that you held any ill-feelings toward him."

I assured her that I did not. However, I couldn't help feeling that what Benito Santos had done to his wife and his child was abominable.

"His story has nothing to do with morality or justice," she interrupted me. "It's the story of a violent, desperate man.

I protested because I deeply resented that he had looked after only himself. I talked almost hysterically about the despair and the hopelessness of women and children.

"Stop it, Musiua." With her finger she poked me on my chest next to my collarbone. It felt as if she were pushing me with an iron tip.

"Don't give in to your false sense of order. Don't be a musiua that comes from a foreign country to find flaws: That kind of person would feel offended by Benito Santos and miss what I am trying to show you.

"I want to place you under the shadow of the people I've selected to tell you their stories.

"The story of Benito Santos' last day of his useless life sums up all his existence. I asked him to tell it to you with all the details he could remember; and I have also sent you to see for yourself his coconut grove by the sea so you would verify that the wheel of chance did turn."

It was hard for me to explain my feelings to dona Mercedes without moralizing. I did not want to, but I could not help myself.

She gave me an all-knowing smile.

"The value of his story," she said all of a sudden, "is that without any preparation, he made a link himself: He made the wheel of chance move.

"Witches say that sometimes one single act makes that link."

Dona Mercedes pushed herself up from the chair she had been sitting on, and holding firmly to my arm walked me out of the kitchen toward her room.

At her door, she stopped and looked at me. "Benito Santos killed his wife and child. That act moved the wheel of chance; but what made him end up where he is now- by the sea- was his desire to see the sea.

"As he must have told you, it was a vague desire, yet it was the only thing he had after committing an act of such violence and finality. So, the desire took hold of him and drove him.

"That is why he has to remain faithful to that desire that saved him. He has to love the sea. He comes to me so that I can help him maintain his unwavering course.

"It can be done, you know. We can make our own link with one single act. It doesn't have to be as violent and desperate as Benito Santos' act, but it has to be as final. If that act is followed by a desire of tremendous strength, sometimes, like Benito Santos, we can be placed outside of morality."






The Witch's Dream: Part 5.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

The Witch's Dream: Part 5.

  • Chapter 19.
  • Chapter 20.


The Witch's Dream: Part 5 - Chapter 19.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 5 - Chapter 19.

It was late in the afternoon when dona Mercedes and I left the house and walked up the street to Leon Chirino's house.

Leisurely, we went past the old colonial houses near the plaza and peeked inside the open windows.

The rooms were dark, yet we could make out the shadows of old women counting rosary beads as they said their silent afternoon prayers.

We rested on a bench in the plaza, surrounded by old men sitting on crude wooden chairs propped against tree trunks.

We waited with them for the sun to disappear behind the hills, and for the evening breeze to cool the air.



Leon Chirino lived on the other side of town at the foot of a shack-covered hill.

His house, made of unplastered cement blocks, had an extensive yard and was encircled by a high wall.

The small wooden gate in the wall was unlocked, as was the front door.

Without bothering to knock or to call out we went through a large living room and headed straight for the back patio, which had been converted into a workshop.

Under the bright glare of a single bulb, Leon Chirino was sanding a piece of wood.

He spread his hands in a gesture of invitation and pleasure, and invited us to sit on the bench across from his working table.

"I guess it's time to get ready," he said, brushing the sawdust off his kinky white hair, and the wood shavings from his clothes.

Expectantly, I looked at dona Mercedes, but she merely nodded.

A secret light shone in her eyes as she turned to Leon Chirino.

Without a word she rose and shuffled down the corridor bordering the patio toward the back of the house.

I was about to follow, when Leon Chirino stopped me short. "You'd better come with me," he said, switching off the light.

He spat through his teeth, accurately aiming at one of the dried-up flower pots in the corner.

"Where is dona Mercedes going?" I asked.

He shrugged impatiently, and guided me in the opposite direction to a narrow alcove that separated the living room from the kitchen.

Against one wall of the small enclosure stood an earthenware water filter; against the other, a refrigerator.

"Would you like one of these?" He held up a bottle of Pepsi he had removed from the icebox.

Not waiting for my reply, he opened the bottle and casually added, "Dona Mercedes is making sure there are enough cigars."

"Is there going to be a seance?" I asked, taking the bottle from his hand.

Leon Chirino turned on the light in the living room, then moved to the high window facing the street. He reached for a wooden panel, and before placing it in the window sill, he looked back over his shoulder; his eyes shining, one hand stroking his chin. His smile, slightly crooked, was devilish.

"There certainly is going to be one," he said.

Sipping the Pepsi, I went to sit on the couch by the window.

The lack of furniture made the room appear larger than it actually was.

Other than the couch, there was only a tall cabinet crammed with books, snapshots, bottles, jars, cups, and glasses; and several wooden chairs lined up against the walls.

Mumbling something unintelligible, Leon Chirino turned off the light, then lit the candles that stood on the carved ledges beneath the various pictures of saints, Indian chieftains, and black slave leaders adorning the ochre-painted walls.

"I want you to sit here," he ordered, placing two chairs in the middle of the room.

"On which one?"

"Whichever you prefer."

Grinning broadly, he unfastened my wristwatch, put it in his pocket, then went to the cabinet and took out a small jar.

The jar was half-filled with mercury: In his dark hands it looked like the giant pupil of a live monster.

"I understand that you're a full-fledged medium," he said, placing the jar in my lap. "The mercury will keep the spirit from gravitating toward you.

"We don't want the spirit near you. It's too dangerous for you."

He winked and hung a silver chain necklace with a medal of the Virgin around my neck. "This medal is guaranteed to be a protection," he assured me.

Closing his eyes, he joined his hands in prayer.

As soon as he had finished, he warned me that there was no way of knowing whose spirit would visit us during the seance.

"Don't let go of the jar and don't remove the necklace," he admonished, pulling up the rest of the chairs to form a circle in the middle of the room.

He blew out all the candles except the one burning beneath the picture of El Negro Miguel- a famous slave leader who had headed the first slave uprising in Venezuela.

Then he said another short prayer, and silently left the room.

The candle had almost burned down when he returned.

Urging me to keep my eyes fixed on the jar in my lap, he sat beside me.

Overcome by curiosity, I looked up several times when I heard people come into the room, and sit on the chairs.

In the uncertain light I failed to recognize a single face.

Mercedes Peralta was the last one to come in.

She removed the candle from the ledge and distributed the hand-rolled cigars.

"Don't talk to anyone before or after the seance," she whispered in my ear as she held the flickering flame to my cigar. "No one else besides Leon Chirino knows you are a medium. Mediums are vulnerable."

She sat down opposite me.

I closed my eyes, and puffed skillfully as I had done countless times in dona Mercedes' patio.

I became so engrossed in that act that I lost track of time.

A soft moan arose from the smoky darkness.

I opened my eyes and saw a woman materialize in the middle of the circle of chairs, a hazy figure.

Slowly, a reddish light spread all over her until she seemed to be aglow.

The manner in which she carried herself, the way she was dressed- black skirt and blouse- the familiar way she tilted her head to one side, made me think it was Mercedes Peralta.

However, the longer I observed her, the less sure I was.

Wondering whether I was going through one of the inexplicable visions I had had in the patio, I clutched the mercury jar in my hands and rose from my chair.

I stood transfixed as the woman became transparent.

I found nothing frightening about her transparency: I simply accepted that it was possible to see through her.

Without any warning the woman collapsed in a dark heap on the ground: The light inside her seemed to have been turned off.

I was totally reassured that she was not an apparition when she took out a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

Exhausted, I sank into my chair.

Leon Chirino, sitting on my left, nudged me with his elbow, gesturing me to keep my attention on the center of the room.

There, inside the circle of chairs where the transparent woman had been, stood an old, foreign-looking woman.

She stared at me, her blue eyes wide open, frightened, bewildered.

Her head jerked back, then forward, and before I could make any sense of the vision, it faded- not suddenly; but slowly, it floated about.

It was so quiet in the room that for an instant I thought everyone had gone.

On the sly, I glanced around me.

All I saw was the glow of cigars.

They couldn't possibly be smoking the same cigars dona Mercedes had distributed, I thought: I had finished mine a long time ago.

As I leaned forward to attract Leon Chirino's attention, someone placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Dona Mercedes!" I exclaimed, recognizing her touch.

With my head bent I waited for her to say something.

When she didn't, I looked up, but she was not there.

I was alone in the room: Everyone else had left.

Frightened, I stood up, and ran toward the door, only to be stopped by Leon Chirino.

"Frida Herzog's spirit roams around here," he said. "She died on the steps of this hill."

He moved toward the window and opened the wooden panels.

Like a ghostly apparition the smoke swirled out of the room, dissolving into the night air.

Leon Chirino faced me and once again repeated that Frida Herzog had died on the steps of that hill.

He walked around the room carefully inspecting the shadowy corners, perhaps to make sure that no one was there.

"Was Frida Herzog the old woman I saw?" I asked, "Did you see her, too?"

He nodded, then mumbled once again that her spirit was still roaming around.

He brushed his forehead repeatedly, as if he were trying to rid himself of a thought or, perhaps, the image of the frightened old woman.

The stillness in the room became unsettling.

"I'd better catch up with dona Mercedes," I said softly and opened the door.

"Wait!" Leon Chirino stepped forward and grabbed my arm.

He lifted the silver necklace over my head and took the jar containing the mercury from my hand.

"During a seance, chronological time is suspended," he murmured in a slow, tired voice. "Spiritual time is a time of equilibrium that is neither reality nor a dream. Yet, it is a time that exists in space."

He emphasized that I had been plummeted into an event that had happened a long time ago.

"The past has no time sequence," he continued. "Today can be joined up with yesterday; with events of many years ago."

He fastened my watch around my wrist, and said, "The best thing is not to talk about these matters.

"What happens is vague and elusive, and not meant to be put into words."



Anxious to catch up with dona Mercedes, I agreed with him halfheartedly.

Leon Chirino, however, determined to keep me in his house, repeated again and again that Frida Herzog had died on the hills right behind his house.

"I saw dona Mercedes turn transparent," I interrupted him. "Did you see that, too?"

He stared at me, as though he had not expected me to ask about her, but the next moment he was laughing.

"She wanted to dazzle you," he said brimming with pride. "She's a perfect medium."

Half-smiling, he closed his tired eyes. He seemed to be savoring some treasured vision.

Then gently he pushed me outside, and without a sound, closed the door behind me.

For a moment I stood bewildered outside Leon Chirino's door.

I knew I had lost track of time during the seance, but somehow I couldn't believe that the whole night had gone by, and that I had failed to hear the rain: Yet, it was dawn and there were puddles on the sidewalk.

A parrot screeched somewhere in the distance. I looked up.

Across the street, standing like a shadow by the eucalyptus tree that marked the cement steps leading up the shack-covered hill, was Mercedes Peralta. I ran toward her.

Anticipating my questions, she touched my lips with her finger, then bent low and picked up a small, freshly broken branch lying on the ground.

It was still wet with the night's rain. She shook it: The scent of eucalyptus, imprisoned in hundreds of drops, showered on my head.

"We better get going," she said, but instead of heading home, she led me up the hill.

The air smelled of mildewed cardboard. There was no one around. The shacks appeared to be abandoned.

Halfway up, we turned onto one of the paths that spread like branches from the wide steps; and stopped in front of a yellow-painted house roofed with sheets of corrugated tin.

The unlocked front door opened directly into what seemed to be a bedroom.

A narrow, neatly made-up bed stood in the middle of the room.

Hairy ferns growing in animal-shaped flower pots rested on stools.

Bamboo cages with canaries in them hung from the ceiling.

Pants, jackets, and crisply ironed shirts dangled from wrought-iron hooks fastened on the yellow walls.

A man emerged from behind a brightly patterned curtain that I first mistook for a wall decoration.

"Efrain Sandoval!" I exclaimed, wondering what the man from whose store I purchased my notepads and pencils was doing in that place.

I was well acquainted with him and his German-born wife, who by speech and manner was more Venezuelan than a born native. Together with their two daughters they lived near the plaza above the stationery-radio-TV shop he owned.

He was in his forties, but his slight build and his delicately featured face made him look much younger. His slanted dark eyes fringed by long, curly lashes shone brightly.

He appeared to be amused by some secret thought.

As always, he was immaculately dressed; but that morning, his whole being reeked of cigar smoke.

"Were you at the seance?" I asked him in an involuntary tone of incredulity.

Gesturing me to be quiet, he invited us to sit on the bed.

"I'll be right back," he promised, vanishing behind the curtain.

Shortly, he reappeared, carrying a bamboo tray heavy with food, plates, and cutlery.

He cleared off one of the stools and placed the tray on it; and with the flamboyant movements of a maitre d', he served us black beans, rice, fried plantains, spicy shredded meat, and coffee.

In nervous anticipation I looked from one to the other, expecting a discussion of the spiritualists' meeting.

"The musiua is about to burst with curiosity," dona Mercedes announced, a devilish glint in her eyes.

"She wants to know why you live up here, when you have such a nice home above your store in town.

"I would like you to tell her why."

"You would?" Efrain Sandoval asked indifferently as he ate the last of the beans on his plate.

He chewed slowly, stalling for time.

He rose, walked over to the window, and opened it.

For a second or two he gazed at the pale dawn sky then turned and stared at me.

"I guess you must have a good reason for wanting to know about me?" he added in a questioning tone.

"She does," dona Mercedes answered. "So don't be put off when she comes to your store to pester you for your story."

Efrain Sandoval smiled sheepishly, tilted his stool, and leaned against the wall.

He let his gaze wander about the room: There was a remote expression in his eyes: He seemed no longer aware of our presence.

"But what's the point of telling her?" he finally asked without looking at dona Mercedes. "It's not an earth-shaking story. It's rather banal."

"That's the very point of it," she said. "The musiua has heard all kinds of stories by now. Yours is of particular interest because you never did anything to make it happen. You were just there, placed by a higher order."

"I still don't see how the story of Frida Herzog is going to help the musiua," Efrain Sandoval insisted.

"Let her worry about that," Mercedes Peralta said dryly.

She rose from the bed and motioned me to do likewise.

Efrain Sandoval looked as though he was going to argue the point.

Instead he nodded. "As you already know, I have a large house in town," he said, turning toward me.

He opened his arms wide. "Yet, I also live here where I can feel the presence of Frida Herzog, who unwittingly gave me everything I have."

He moved toward the window, but before closing it he glanced uncertainly at dona Mercedes, and asked, "Are you going to give me a cleansing today?"

"Of course." She laughed. "Don't mind the musiua. She has seen me doing this before."

Efrain Sandoval seemed to vacillate for a moment, then, apparently afraid that there might not be enough time, he promptly took off his coat and lay face up on the bed.

Mercedes Peralta retrieved a small bottle, a white handkerchief, two candles, and two cigars from her dress pocket. Meticulously, she lined them up on the floor at the foot of the bed.

She lit one of the candles, then a cigar, and inhaled deeply.

Wrapped in smoke, the murmured words of her incantation tumbled out of her mouth with each exhalation.

A wicked smile flittered across her face as she reached for the white handkerchief and the little bottle, half-filled with a mixture of perfumed water and ammonia.

She poured a generous amount on the handkerchief, and folded it into a perfect square.

"Breathe!" she commanded, and in one swift, well-aimed motion she held the handkerchief under Efrain Sandoval's nose.

Mumbling incoherently, he twisted and turned in an effort to sit up. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his moving lips tried in vain to form a plea. Dona Mercedes held him in place quite effortlessly by simply increasing the pressure of her hand over his nose. Soon, he gave up struggling. He crossed his arms over his chest and lay still, utterly exhausted.

Dona Mercedes lit a second cigar. Mumbling a soft prayer, she asked the spirit of Hans Herzog to protect Efrain Sandoval.

The last few puffs of smoke she blew into her cupped hands, and then ran her fingers over his face, his folded arms, and all the way down his legs.

Startled upon hearing a strange sound, I looked around me.

The room was filled with smoke, and out of that haze a form appeared, no more than a shadow or a billow of smoke that seemed to be hovering beside the bed.

Efrain Sandoval's deep sleep, punctuated by loud snoring, broke the spell.

Mercedes Peralta rose, put all her paraphernalia, including the cigar stubs, into her pocket, then turned to the window and opened it.

Pointing her chin to the door, she motioned me to follow.

"Will he be all right?" I asked once we were outside: I had never attended such a short session.

"He'll be fine for another year," she assured me. "Every year, Efrain Sandoval attends a spiritualists' meeting to renew himself."

She made a wide sweeping gesture with her arms. "Frida Herzog's spirit roams around here, Efrain believes it has brought him luck, and that's why he has chosen to keep this shack while his family lives in town.

"It isn't true, but his belief doesn't harm anyone. In fact, it brings him relief."

"But who is Frida Herzog?" I asked. "And who is Hans Herzog? You definitely asked his spirit to protect Efrain."

Dona Mercedes put her hand over my lips. "Musiua, have patience," she said, bemused.

"Efrain will tell you in time. All I can say is that the one who moved the wheel of chance for Efrain wasn't Frida Herzog. She had no reason to. It was actually a ghost who did it. The ghost of Hans Herzog."

Dona Mercedes leaned heavily against me as we walked down the hill. "I can hardly wait to get into my hammock," she mumbled. "I'm dead tired."


Afraid that someone might tamper with or perhaps even steal his moped, Efrain pulled it up onto the sidewalk and into the hallway of the new two-story building owned by his employer, Frida Herzog.

The Finnish woman and her children who lived in the bottom apartment watched him resentfully. They considered the hallway their front porch.

He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, and climbed the stairs to Frida Herzog's apartment.

He had worked for the Herzogs since he was an adolescent: It was Hans Herzog who had bought him the moped.

The years he worked for him had flown by so fast, Efrain had not even felt them.

He had liked his job as an all-around helper and delivery boy in Hans Herzog's poultry business, but what he had enjoyed the most was his employer's gentility and his grand sense of humor.

Efrain never had the feeling that he was working, but rather that he went to the office every day to get a lesson in the art of good living.

Over the years he had become more like an adopted son or a disciple of Hans Herzog than an employee.

"I thank you, Efrain," he used to tell him, "a man of my nature needs, at a certain age, an unbiased audience; a captive ear."

Hans Herzog had immigrated from Germany before the war, not to make a fortune, but in search of fulfillment.

He married late in life because he considered marriage and parenthood a moral necessity: He called them the controlled strains of paradise.

When Hans Herzog had a stroke, it was Efrain who tended him day and night.

Hans Herzog could not speak anymore, but he communicated with Efrain just the same through the intensity of his eyes.

In his last moments, he made a frantic effort to say something to Efrain; he failed. So he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. And died.

Now, Efrain worked for the man's widow, but not in the same capacity, and certainly not with the same pleasure.

She had sold the poultry business: It reminded her of her husband, she said; but she kept Efrain as an employee because he was the only one who knew how to drive the moped.

Noticing that the door to Frida Herzog's apartment was ajar, he pushed it open without knocking and stepped into the tiny hall that led to the living room.

The room, cluttered with beige upholstered furniture, was divided from the dining area by a grand piano.

Glassed-in bookcases stood on either side of an enormous fireplace, which Frida Herzog lit once a year on Christmas Eve.

Efrain moved back a few steps so he could see himself completely in the gilded mirror hanging above the mantel piece.

He was in his midtwenties, yet his small wiry frame and his boyish, somehow immature, beardless face, made him look sixteen.

With painstaking absorption he combed his curly hair, and adjusted his tie and the cologne-scented handkerchief in his breast pocket.

Being poor was no reason to look untidy, he thought, and he glanced over his shoulder to make sure the back of his coat was smooth and unwrinkled.

Whistling, he crossed the room and stepped out onto the wide balcony.

Potted rubber trees, orchids, ceiling-high ferns, and bird cages partially hid Frida Herzog.

Stout and solidly built, she sat at her desk, a white wrought-iron table with a heavy, opaque glass top.

"I've been waiting for you since nine o'clock," she said by way of greeting.

The angry expression in her blue eyes was magnified by the thick, horn-rimmed glasses posted menacingly on her prominent nose.

"What peace! What coolness one breathes in this veritable heaven!" Efrain exclaimed in a tone of exaltation.

He knew that flattering Frida Herzog about her jungle always put her in a good mood. "Even at noon your canaries sing like angels."

Imitating the call of the birds, he took off his coat and hung it carefully over the back of a chair.

"Never mind the birds," she said crossly, motioning him to sit across from her. "I pay you a salary, and I expect you to be here on time."

"I was held up by prospective clients," he said importantly.

She regarded him doubtfully, dabbing at the tiny drops of perspiration on her upper lip and forehead with a delicately embroidered handkerchief. "Did you take any orders?"

She gave him no opportunity to answer, but pushed several of the slender white boxes on the table toward him. "Check these," she grumbled.

Undaunted by her bad mood, he cheerfully informed her that the orders were as good as written up and signed.

Then, almost reverently, he opened the white boxes before him and gazed in awe at the bulky, silver-plated ballpoint pens lying luxuriously in the dark blue velvet-lined cases.

He uncapped one pen, unscrewed its top, and carefully inspected a small rectangular piece of metal and rubber resting on a minute ink pad. It was a seal.

To lift it out, he pressed the hollow end of the pen's cap on the perfectly fitting mount projecting from the metal plate.

He stamped the box, screwed the seal back, and capped the pen.

He did the same with the other pens: He made sure this way that the customers' names and addresses were spelled correctly.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I want no fingerprints on the pens?" Frida Herzog snapped, grabbing the pen from his hands. She polished it with her handkerchief and slipped it back inside the box. "Now wrap them!"

He gave her a hostile glance, and did as she ordered.

"Do you also want me to glue the address labels on them?" he asked as soon as he finished wrapping the last one.

"Yes. Do that." She handed him six neatly typed labels from a small, metal filing box. "Make sure to apply the glue evenly."

"What?" Efrain retorted irritably: He had not understood a word she said. Her accent, barely noticeable under ordinary circumstances, flared up whenever she was angry or afraid, making it difficult to understand what she was saying.

Frida Herzog spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully as she repeated, "Apply the glue evenly all the way to the corners of the labels."

She looked at him sternly and added, "I want the labels to stay glued."

"If looks could kill, I would be dead," he mumbled, bringing both hands to his head in a mock gesture of agony.

Then he smiled at her entrancingly as he cursed her under his breath.

"What did you say?" Frida Herzog asked, her accent so thick that the words came out slurred.

"I said that it won't take me any time at all to do what you want."

He loosened his blue-striped tie and the collar of his stiffly starched shirt, then reached for the gourd-shaped glue container on the table and squeezed a small amount of glue on each label.

Meticulously, he spread it evenly with the rubber-tipped nozzle all the way to the corners and then pasted the labels to the small, perfectly wrapped, marked boxes containing the ballpoint pens.

"That's nicely done, Efrain." A hint of approval momentarily played upon Frida Herzog's plump, rosy face.

She never got over being surprised at the neat way he adhered the labels exactly in the middle of the boxes. She couldn't have done it better herself.

Encouraged by her compliment, he decided to ask about the pen she had promised him

Although he had already given up hope of ever receiving one from her, he nevertheless reminded her at every opportunity.

Each time she had a different excuse for not honoring her promise.

"When are you going to give me a pen?" he repeated, his voice high and urgent.

Frida Herzog stared at him in silence, then shifted forward in her chair and planted her elbows firmly on the table.

"Haven't I told you before of the difficulties I have had in convincing the manufacturer of the pens to give me the dealership for this area? Don't you realize that to be my age," she never said how old she was, "and to be a woman is a great handicap?"

She paused for a moment, then with a touch of pride in her tone, added, "Just because I am doing so well selling pens doesn't mean I'm in a position to give them away."

"One pen won't break you," Efrain insisted.

"Your pen! Your pen! Is that all you ever think of?" Indignation made her voice quiver.

She thrust her face forward, only inches away from his. Her eyes didn't even blink as they held his fixed.

Mesmerized, he just kept staring at her blue eyes in which a glimmer of madness was just discernible.

Perhaps sensing she had gone too far, she shifted her gaze away.

Slowly, her expression softened.

In a coaxing tone she went on to say that she was certain that together they could sell thousands of pens.

They would sell them not only in town and in the surrounding hamlets but all over the country.

"Be patient, Efrain," she entreated, leaning even closer toward him. "When business expands, we'll both get rich!"

She slumped back in her chair, and ran her hand affectionately over the small, gray filing box.

"But all I want is a pen, you crazy old idiot," Efrain mumbled despairingly.

Frida Herzog didn't hear him: Dreamily, she gazed at her bird cages, a sad, faraway look in her eyes.

"I work very hard," Efrain said in a loud clear voice. "Not only have I been delivering pens for you, but I've gotten nearly all your customers myself."

He ignored her attempt to interrupt him. "And you won't even give me a pen."

"I'm not saying that you haven't done well," she said peevishly. "All I'm trying to do is make you understand that at the beginning of any business venture, sacrifices have to be made."

She paced about the balcony, her voice rising sharply as she continued. "Very soon I'll not only give you a pen and a commission, but make you a partner."

She came to stand in front of him. "I'm a businesswoman. I can envision these pens in every household all over the country. Efrain, we'll sell a pen to every literate person in this country."

She moved away from him, and leaned over the railing. "Just look at those hills!" she cried out. "Look at those shacks!"

With a sweep of her arm that made the wide sleeves of her housecoat flutter, she took in the whole panorama before her.

A radiant smile parted her lips as she turned to face him. "Just think of all those shacks in the hills. What opportunities!

"We'll sell pens to the illiterates as well. Instead of having to make an X every time they need to sign a document, they can instead stamp their name on any paper that needs their signature."

She clapped her hands in childish delight, then sat beside him and reached into her pocket.

"This," she declared holding up her own gold-plated pen, "is the ideal answer for everyone's problem!"

Gingerly, she unscrewed the pen, hooked the tiny seal onto the cap's hollow end, and stamped the back of each of the boxes on the table. Proudly, she read her name and address printed in minute, purple letters.

"There are hundreds of people living in those shacks. I just know they'll all want one of these pens."

She touched his arm. "Efrain, as of today I'll pay you a commission on every pen you sell in those hills."

"They can't afford one," he reminded her sarcastically.

"I'll do something I've never done before," she declared bombastically. "I'll let them have the pens on credit." With a sweeping motion, she distractedly scooped the small pen boxes- including her gold pen- into Efrain's worn leather satchel. "You'd better go now."

A look of sheer incredulity spread across his face.

He looked up at her, wondering if she had noticed her mistake, then he nonchalantly reached for his satchel. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

"You only have six pens to deliver this afternoon," she reminded him. "I'll be expecting you back by five o'clock. These pens have already been paid for. You won't have to wait around for the money."

"It's the middle of the day," Efrain protested. "You can't expect me to go in this heat.

"Besides, I've got to eat first. I also need money to cover my traveling expenses."

Noticing her blank expression, he clarified, "I need to get gas for the moped."

She handed him some small change. "Don't forget to ask for a receipt," she said, glaring at him over her glasses.

He shrugged with displeasure. "Stingy idiot. This won't even fill the tank," he said and hissed under his breath.

"What did you call me?" Frida Herzog snapped.

He bit back the insult that rose to his lips. "This isn't enough to fill the gas tank," he said, slipping the coins in his pocket.

He took out his comb and, ignoring her disapproving expression, ran it through his unruly black hair.

"Four of the deliveries are within walking distance," she admonished. "There is no need to run the moped around town. I've walked those distances myself and even farther. If I can do it at my age, I would certainly expect a young man like you could do it."

Whistling softly, he adjusted his tie and put on his coat.

With a casual wave of his hand he turned and walked out into the living room.

A loud sigh escaped his lips. His eyes widened, expressing both surprise and admiration.

Sitting in one of the bulky armchairs, her bare legs hanging over the armrest, was Antonia, Frida Herzog's only daughter.

She didn't cover her legs, but looked at him with tender concern- the way women look at babies- and then she smiled provocatively.

She was a small, pretty woman in her midtwenties; but her worn-out, haggard expression and the air of despair about her made her look much older.

She was gone most of the time. Much to her mother's embarrassment, Antonia took off with men every chance she got, only returning periodically to visit. No wonder the old woman was in such a foul mood, Efrain thought. He felt a surge of passion for Antonia and wished he could stay and talk to her; but knowing that Frida Herzog could hear them from the balcony, he merely puckered his lips and blew Antonia a soundless kiss before he walked out the front door.



Frida Herzog stood motionless by the balcony railing.

She blinked repeatedly: The burning sun and the vibrant air made her eyes tear.

Heat waves billowed in the nearby foothills, transforming the multicolored shacks into a hazy flickering collage.

Not too long ago those hills had been green.

Almost overnight, squatters had transformed them into shanty towns. Like mushrooms after a heavy rain, the shacks had just popped up one morning, and no one had dared to pull them down.

Her glance strayed to Efrain's noisy moped sputtering along in the street below.

She hoped that he would first call on the two secretaries at the pharmaceutical laboratory who had been so enthusiastic about the pens. Frida Herzog was certain that once the two girls showed off their dazzling new pens to their co-workers, orders would be coming in promptly.

Chuckling to herself, she turned and gazed across the balcony into the living room where her daughter sat.

Frida Herzog heaved a deep sigh, and disappointedly shook her head from side to side. There was no way to make Antonia understand that she didn't want bare legs on the beige, raw silk-covered armchairs.

She had had such high hopes for her beautiful daughter. Antonia could have married any number of rich men.

It was beyond Frida Herzog's comprehension why the girl had married a penniless, unambitious salesman, who one day just walked out on her. Frida Herzog couldn't remember whether it had been during lunch or dinner when he got up from the table and never returned.

With an air of resignation, Frida Herzog stepped into the living room, forcing her lips into a pleasant smile.

"Really! Efrain is getting more impudent every day," she said, sitting in the armchair opposite Antonia. "I'm afraid that if I give him a pen, he'll quit work. That's all he's interested in."

"You know what he's like," Antonia said. She didn't look up but continued to buffer her long, well-cared-for nails. "So, all Efrain wants is a pen. What's wrong with that?"

"He should buy one!" Frida Herzog snapped spitefully.

"Really, Mother," Antonia chided. "Those silly trinkets are way too expensive. Obviously, he can't afford one."

"Don't make me laugh," Frida Herzog snorted. "I pay him well. If he wouldn't waste his money on clothes, he could--"

Antonia's words stopped her in midsentence. "Those pens are only a fad," she stated, "and Efrain knows it, too. In a few months, or perhaps only weeks, people will no longer want them."

Frida Herzog straightened in her chair as if her spine had been pulled up. Her face was red with anger. "Don't you dare tell me that," she yelled. "This pen will go on forever!"

"Calm down. Mother. You can't believe that," Antonia said in a conciliatory tone. "Why do you think you're selling pens in this godforsaken place? Don't you realize it's because no one in Caracas wants them any longer?"

"That's not true," Frida Herzog shouted. "Some day I'll have the dealership for the entire region, maybe even for the whole country. If I were the manufacturer of the pens, I would be trying to expand internationally. That's what I would do. Create an empire."

Antonia laughed, then turned toward the mirror above the mantel piece.

Streaks of premature gray laced her dark blond hair. There were wrinkles on either side of her mouth. Her large blue eyes would have been beautiful had it not been for their hard, embittered expression.

Not age, but exhaustion and despair were beginning to rob her face and body of its youth.

"Efrain has skills you haven't yet discovered," Antonia said. "No one can equal him in finding ways to make money.

"But to think you can get rich on pens! That's a joke. Why can't you simply use him in what he's best at?"

A contemptuous grin spread over Frida Herzog's face. "Use him at what he's best at! You think that I don't know what you have been up to in the last few months. I might be a little deaf, but I'm not stupid."

Seeing Antonia was about to rise, she hastily added, "You never had any class: Making out with Efrain! You should be ashamed of yourself. He's a mulatto, or whatever! He's colored."

Her anger spent, Frida Herzog leaned back in her armchair and closed her eyes. She wished she could retract her words, yet when she spoke again, her voice was still querulous. "Isn't there anything you want out of life?"

"I want to marry Efrain," Antonia said softly.

"Over my dead body!" Frida Herzog yelled. "I'll disinherit you. I'll throw you out of this house."

She gasped for air. "Let me tell you, I'm going to take his moped away and fire him."

But Antonia no longer heard her. She had left the living room, slamming the door behind her.

For a few seconds Frida Herzog gazed at that door through which her daughter had disappeared, expecting her to return at any moment.

Her eyes felt heavy with tears that would not fall.

Silently, she headed toward her bedroom down the hall.

She sat in front of the kidney-shaped dressing table.

With trembling fingers, she took off her glasses and examined herself in the mirror. She ought to get a new permanent, she thought, combing her fingers through her wispy gray hair. Her eyes, encircled by dark shadows, were sunken. Her skin, once as smooth and white as fine porcelain, had aged inexorably, eroded by the relentless tropical sun.

Tears flooded her eyes. "Oh God," she said softly. "Don't let me get ill and die in this foreign place."

She heard soft steps outside; no doubt Antonia had been listening by the door. She was too tired to worry about it.

She lay on the bed and dozed in a half-pleasant sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of a Mozart sonata. The thought that Antonia was actually playing the grand piano filled her with intense joy. The girl had always played so well.

It was almost four when Frida Herzog awoke. As usual after a nap, she felt refreshed and in good spirits.

She decided to wear the polka-dot silk dress and the matching shoes Antonia had given her for Christmas.

The sun, already halfway down the sky, filled the living room with shadows. She looked out across the balcony at the brightly colored shacks on the distant hills. They appeared to be so much closer in the afternoon light.

She went to the kitchen and prepared her afternoon tray: coffee, sugar, cream, and a plateful of poppy-seed pastries.

"Antonia," she called affectionately, as she sat down in one of the armchairs. She listened for the familiar clicking of heels on the hard tile floor before pouring the coffee.

She called again, but there was no answer. She must have gone out, Frida Herzog decided, unfolding a white linen napkin on her lap.

It was close to five when she checked the time on her gold wristwatch.

Efrain should be back any minute now, she thought.

Perhaps he had been telling the truth and had indeed found her a new client. Although she never voiced it, she had long ago recognized that despite his lack of ambition, he was good at dealing with people.

Too bad she would have to let him go. She would have a hard time finding a replacement for him, but she couldn't possibly consent to having him around when she knew Antonia's plans for him.

The thought that her daughter might have wanted only to upset her crossed her mind. She couldn't really believe that Antonia would marry that boy.

By six o'clock Frida Herzog was so restless that she called the two secretaries at the laboratory and the owner of the clothing store near the plaza. The pens had not been delivered.

Dumbstruck, she stared at the telephone, then stepped out on the balcony, and with nervous hands, she turned over every item on her desk.

"He took my pen!" she shrieked.

She headed for the front door and hurried down the stairs out into the street. She neither saw the startled faces of the neighbors gossiping on the sidewalk nor heard their greetings as she dashed around the corner.

Only upon reaching the foot of the hill did she stop to rest. Wishing she had put on more comfortable shoes instead of high heels, she slowly climbed the wide dirt path leading to the shacks.

She had never been to Efrain's house, but she knew more or less where it was. She had heard about the dangers of those shanty towns where no stranger dared to go. Even the police were reluctant to pursue criminals that chose to hide in those hills.

She was not afraid. Who would want to harm an old woman? She felt quite reassured upon noticing that not all the dwellings were shacks. Some were made of cement blocks, and a few were even two stories high.

She paused frequently to catch her breath, to quiet her rapidly pounding heart.

People stared at her curiously. Barefoot, half-naked children stopped their games and giggled as she walked by.

Just before reaching the top of the hill, she turned around and gazed at the town below. A gentle breeze cooled her flushed face.

Bathed in the mellow, diffused glow of the twilight, still vibrant with the afternoon heat, the town had never looked more beautiful.

Overcome by an odd, undefinable premonition of doom, her eyes searched for the silhouette of her building.

A girl's friendly voice dispelled her feelings. "Do you need any help?" she asked, regarding her curiously. "Are you lost?"

"I'm looking for Efrain Sandoval's house," Frida Herzog responded. So absorbed had she been in locating her building, she hadn't noticed that it was almost night. "Can you tell me where Efrain lives?" She repeated her question several times, while the girl kept staring at her, a blank expression on her face. It was obvious that she had not understood a word she was saying.

"You have gone too far," an old man squatting nearby informed her politely. He was barely outlined by the faint light escaping from the unevenly hammered boards of a shack.

"Go down a bit and turn left onto the walkway. It's the yellow house. You can't miss it. It looks like a canary."

There was a worried look in his eyes as he watched her unsteady steps down the hill. "You'd better go home though," he called after her. "There are a lot of drunks around at this time, and they get into fights."

But Frida Herzog didn't hear his warning words: They were drowned by the angry shouts of men and the sound of hurried, thudding steps.

Before she had a chance to turn and see what was happening, she felt a sharp blow.

The ground seemed to move underneath her, and she crashed through a makeshift railing put up to mark, rather than safeguard, a vertical drop.

For an instant, she saw in horror how the rock-covered ground below advanced to meet her. There were voices, some loud, some soft, and then there was only silence and darkness.



Efrain awoke with a start: He had had an uncanny dream.

As he had done so many times before in his sleep, he had again talked with Hans Herzog.

His friend was urging him to take matters in his own hands and marry Antonia. Together they should take a tour around the world.

Efrain had laughed. He told his friend that he would rather hear one of his stories about those foreign places.

Hans Herzog had refused, saying that it was time for Efrain to see those places himself.

Although Efrain was accustomed to the vividness of his dreams of Hans Herzog, this particular one had been so suggestive: It had left a lingering sense of reality which Efrain could not dispel.

To this day he had doggedly refused to admit that his friend and employer was dead. After all, he saw him and talked to him every night in his dreams.

Efrain lit the kerosene lamp on the table by his bed and opened the bottle of beer he had put on a stool. He poured it into a tall glass and blew the foam from the rim before taking a long gulp. He didn't mind that the beer was warm.

"To taking matters in my own hands!" he toasted, removing the gold-plated pen from his satchel.

Chuckling contentedly, he unscrewed the seal, hooked it onto the cap's hollow end, and stamped his arm repeatedly.

A week ago he had decided to take matters in his own hands and arranged with an engraver at a jewelry store to make him an exact replica of the seal but with his name on it.

Efrain had no doubt that luck had intervened in his favor.

How else could he explain this startling coincidence: The day he was to pick up the stamp bearing his name and address, Frida Herzog, by mistake, had put her own gold-plated pen in his satchel along with the six he was to deliver.

He poured the rest of the beer in his glass and sipped contentedly. Perhaps some unconscious part of Frida Herzog had wanted him to have the pen. He liked to believe that.

An insistent knocking on his door intruded on his thoughts.

"Efrain!" someone called, the voice urgent. "An old foreign lady who was looking for you has been knocked down by a drunk."

"Frida Herzog!" Grabbing the satchel from the table he rushed outside toward the crowd gathered at the bottom of the hill.

"It can't be," he repeated, pushing the people aside.

She was sprawled on the ground.

He kneeled down by her. The dim light of a kerosene lamp cast a yellowish gleam on her face.

He tried to say something, but not a word passed his lips. All he could do was stare into her pale blue eyes.

Without her glasses, which lay smashed beside her, her eyes looked wide, watchful, almost childlike.

The suggestion of a frown hovered around her lips, slightly parted to reveal her white teeth. He felt that there was something she wanted to say.

"I've got the pens," he said reassuringly, taking the six boxes from the satchel. He held them close to her face.

"I couldn't deliver them today," he lied, "because I got involved with filling out some order forms for you. We have four new clients."

Her frown deepened. Her lips moved, mumbling something about his being fired from the job and about Antonia. Her eyes grew wider, her pupils dilated, and then life ran out.

"I work for her," Efrain said to no one in particular.

"Life is so strange. Only this morning she gave me this most beautiful pen," he explained, removing the gold-plated pen from his pocket.

With precise, careful movements he hooked the seal to the pen's cap and pressed it against his forearm.

He read his name and address in a loud clear voice,"Efrain Sandoval. The Canary Shack. Curmina; and I can arrange for any of you to buy one of these precious pens on credit."






The Witch's Dream: Part 5 - Chapter 20.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 5 - Chapter 20.

It was Sunday morning, and I was sitting with dona Mercedes in the plaza, waiting for Candelaria to come out of church. Only an hour earlier, I had had my last meeting with Efrain Sandoval.

On a nearby bench was a well-dressed, dignified old man, reading out loud from a Caracas newspaper.

He read in a grave voice, absorbed in what seemed important to him: He never noticed the smiles of the people around him.

Across the street, a disheveled old man came out of a bar that was already open.

He put on his hat, and clutching a bottle in a plastic sack tightly under his arm, he walked down the street, coughing and wheezing.

With an inexplicable feeling of sadness I glanced at dona Mercedes.

She was wearing sunglasses, and I couldn't see the expression in her eyes as she looked straight ahead of her. She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself as if touched by a sudden cold wind.

She listened attentively as I tried to tell her how I had understood so far all the stories I had heard.

"You are showing me the different ways to manipulate that force that Florinda calls intent" I said.

"To make it move is not the same as to manipulate it," she corrected me, still hugging herself.

"And I'm trying much more than that. As I said, I'm putting you temporarily under the shadow of those people so that you can feel the wheel of chance moving.

"Without that feeling, everything you're doing will be empty. You must follow the ups and downs of the person who is telling you his tale: For an instant you must be under his shadow."

"How about Efrain Sandoval? He certainly had nothing to do with what happened to him. Why should I be placed under his shadow?" I asked.

"Because the wheel moved for him. He didn't move it himself, yet it's his life that changed. I wanted you to feel that change, to feel that movement of the wheel.

"As I've already mentioned to you, a ghost, the spirit of Hans Herzog, moved it for him.

"Just as Victor Julio, at the moment of dying, moved the wheel of chance and ruined the life of Octavio Cantu, Hans Herzog moved that wheel after he was dead and enriched the life of Efrain Sandoval."

Dona Mercedes took off her glasses and looked straight into my face.

She opened her mouth to add something, but instead she smiled and rose from the bench. "Mass will be over any moment now," she said. "Let's wait for Candelaria at the church door."






The Witch's Dream: Part 6.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 6.

  • Chapter 21.
  • Chapter 22.
  • Chapter 23.


The Witch's Dream: Part 6 - Chapter 21.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 6 - Chapter 21.

"Musiua, are you there?" Mercedes Peralta whispered, opening the door to my room noiselessly. Outlined by the weak beam of my reading light, she was the picture of a witch with her long black dress and her wide-brimmed felt hat that hid half of her face.

"Don't turn on the light," she said as I reached for the switch. "I can't bear the brightness of a bulb."

She sat on my bed. Her brow was set tightly in concentration as she smoothed out the wrinkles in my blanket.

She looked up and fixed her unblinking eyes on my face.

Self-consciously I ran my fingers over my cheeks and chin, wondering whether there was something wrong.

Giggling, she turned toward the night table and began neatly stacking my small, thin notepads.

"I must go to Chuao right now," she finally said, her voice low and grave.

"Chuao?" I repeated. "At this hour?"

Seeing her emphatic nod, I added, "We'll get stuck in the mud if it rains."

Chuao was a village near the coast, at least an hour's drive from Curmina.

"It will rain," she casually admitted. "But with your jeep we won't get stuck."

She sat hunched over the night table, biting her lower lip, deliberating whether to say more. "I have to be there tonight by midnight," she murmured in a tone that betrayed urgency rather than desire. "I have to get some plants that will be available only tonight."

"It's past eleven," I pointed out, checking the illuminated dial of my wristwatch. "We'll never make it by midnight."

Grinning, dona Mercedes reached for my jeans and shirt hanging at the front of the iron bedstead. "We'll make your watch stop counting the hours."

A faint smile lit up her face; her eyes, trusting and expectant, held mine. "You'll take me, won't you?"



Heavy raindrops drummed on the jeep the moment we left town. Within seconds the rain came in a solid sheet, dense and dark.

I slowed down, unable to see, irritated by the squeaking of the wipers clearing an arc of glass that was instantly blurred again.

The trees fringing the road waved indistinctly beside and above us, giving the impression that we were driving through a tunnel.

Only the intermittent solitary bark of a dog indicated that we had passed another shack.

The rainstorm ended with the same abruptness with which it had begun, yet the sky remained overcast. The clouds hung oppressively low.

I kept my eyes glued to the windshield, intent on avoiding the frogs, which, momentarily blinded by the headlights, jumped across the road.

All at once, as if they had been erased from the sky, the clouds vanished the moment we turned onto the road that led to the coast.

The moon shone brightly upon a flat landscape where an occasional tree swayed gently in the breeze, its leaves shining silvery in the unreal light.

I stopped in the middle of a crossroad and got out of the jeep. The air, warm and humid, smelled of the mountains and the sea.

"What made you stop here, Musiua?" Mercedes Peralta asked, her voice full of bewilderment as she got out and stood beside me.

"I'm a witch," I explained, looking into her eyes.

I knew that if I'd told her that I just wanted to stretch my legs, she wouldn't believe me.

"I was born in a place like this," I went on, "somewhere between the mountains and the sea."

Mercedes Peralta frowned at me, then a humorous, delighted twinkle shone in her eyes.

Giggling uncontrollably, she sat on the wet ground and pulled me down with her. "Perhaps you weren't born like a normal human being; maybe a curiosa lost you on her way across the sky," she said.

"What is a curiosa?" I asked.

She regarded me cheerfully and explained that curiosas were witches who were no longer concerned with the obvious aspects of sorcery: symbolic paraphernalia, rituals, and incantations.

"Curiosas," she whispered, "are beings preoccupied with things of the eternal. They are like spiders, spinning fine, invisible threads between the known and the unknown."

She took off her hat, then lay on her back, flat on the ground, with her head precisely in the middle of the crossroad, pointing north.

"Lie down, Musiua," she urged me, stretching her arms toward the east and the west. "Make sure the top of your head touches mine and that your arms and legs are in the same position as mine."

It was comfortable lying head to head on the crossroad. Although separated by our hair, I had the feeling our scalps were fused together. I turned my head sideways and to my great amusement noticed how much longer her arms were than mine.

Seemingly aware of my discovery, dona Mercedes moved her arms closer to mine.

"If someone sees us, they'll think we're crazy," I said.

"Perhaps," she conceded. "However, if it's people who usually walk by this crossroad at this time of the night, they will run away in fright, thinking they have seen two curiosas ready for flight."

We were silent for a moment, but before I asked her about the curiosas' flight, she spoke again.

"The reason I was so interested to know why you stopped at the crossroad," she said, "was that there are people who swear they have seen a curiosa lying naked on this very spot.

"They say that she had wings growing out of her back and that they saw her body become translucent white as she took off into the sky."

"I saw your body turn transparent at the seance for Efrain Sandoval," I said.

"Of course you did," she retorted with an amused casualness. "I did that just for you because I know that you'll never be a healer. You're a medium and, perhaps, even a witch but not a healer. I should know it, I'm a witch myself."

"What makes one a witch?" I asked in between fits of giggles. I did not want to take her seriously.

"Witches are creatures not only capable of moving the wheel of chance," she replied, "but also capable of making their own link.

"What would you say if at this moment we took off flying, joined at our heads?"

For a second or two, I had the most terrifying apprehension.

Then, a feeling of utter indifference invaded me.

"Repeat any of the incantations the spirit of my ancestor taught you," she commanded. "I'll say it with you."

Our voices merged into a single harmonious sound, filling the space around us, enveloping us into a giant cocoon.

The words rose into a deep continuous line, carrying us up and up. I saw the clouds advancing at me.

We began to turn like a wheel until everything was black.

Someone was shaking me vigorously. I woke up with an unexpected jolt.

I was sitting behind the steering wheel of my jeep. And I was driving!

I had no recollection of walking back to the car.

"Don't fall asleep," dona Mercedes said. "We'll crash and die like two fools."

I stepped on the brakes and turned off the ignition.

The thought that I had been driving asleep made me tremble with fear.

"Where are we going?" I asked. My voice sounded an octave lower.

She smiled and made a gesture of exasperation, raising her eyebrows.

"You get tired too easily, Musiua," she said. "You're too little. But, I think that's your best feature. If you were bigger, you would be unbearable."

I insisted on knowing our destination: I meant it in terms of physical locale, so that I could drive with a sense of direction.

"We are going to meet Leon Chirino and another friend," she informed me. "Let's go. I'll give you directions as you drive."

I started the jeep and drove in silence. I was still drowsy.

"Is Leon Chirino a medium and a healer?" I asked shortly.

She laughed softly but did not answer.

After a long moment she asked, "What makes you think that?" .

"There's something quite inexplicable about him," I said. "He reminds me of you."

"Does he now?" she asked mockingly: Then in a sudden serious tone she admitted that Leon Chirino was a medium and a clairvoyant.

Lost in thought, I did not hear her directions and was jolted when she yelled. "You passed it! You've got to back up now," she admonished, pointing to a tall bucare tree.

"Pull up there!" She smiled, then added, "We have to walk from here on."

The tree marked the entrance to a narrow path. The ground was covered with small flowers. I knew them to be red, but they appeared black in the moonlight. Bucares hardly ever grow by themselves: Usually, they are found in groves, shading coffee and cacao trees.

Following a narrow, overgrown trail bordered by other bucare trees, we headed toward a cluster of hills looming darkly before us.

There were no other sounds than Mercedes Peralta's uneven breathing and the crackling of twigs being crushed under our feet.

The path ended in front of a low house bordered by a wide clearing of hard-packed earth.

Its mud walls, plastered over a cane frame, were badly weathered. The roof was partially covered with zinc sheets and dried palm fronds. Deep eaves extended to make a wide porch. The front had no windows, only a narrow door through which a faint light escaped.

Dona Mercedes pushed the door open. Flickering candles cast more shadows than light in a sparsely furnished room.

Leon Chirino, sitting on a straight-backed chair, stared at us with an expression of surprise and delight.

Haltingly, he stood up, embraced the healer warmly, and guided her to the chair he had just vacated.

He greeted me and jokingly shook my hand. "Let me introduce you to one of the greatest healers around," he said. "Second only to dona Mercedes herself."

But before he could continue, someone cried out, "I'm Agustin."

Only then did I notice the low-hanging hammock in the corner.

A small man lay in it. His body was half-twisted, one foot touching the ground, so that he could rock the hammock back and forth.

He didn't seem particularly young, nor was he old. He was perhaps in his thirties, yet his hollowed cheeks and sharp bones made him look like a starved child.

The most remarkable thing about him was his eyes. They were light blue, and in his black face they shone with a dazzling intensity.

Awkwardly, I stood in the middle of the room. There was something eerie about the uncertain light of the candles playing with our shadows on the walls, gauzy with cobwebs.

The Spartan furniture- a table, three chairs, two stools, and a cot, all meticulously arranged against the wall- imparted an unlived-in atmosphere to the room.

"Do you live here?" I asked Agustin.

"No. I don't," he said, approaching me. "This is my summer palace." Pleased with his joke, he threw his head back and laughed.

Embarrassed, I moved toward the nearest stool and screamed as something sharp scratched my ankle. A hideous, dirty-looking cat stared up at me.

"There is no need to yell the place down," Agustfn said and gathered the scrawny feline in his arms.

It began to purr the instant he rubbed its head. "She likes you. Do you want to touch her?"

I shook my head emphatically. It wasn't so much the fleas and the mangy bare spots scattered over its yellowish fur that I minded, but its piercing yellow-green slitted eyes that never left my face.

"We better go if we want to get the plants in time," Leon Chirino said, helping dona Mercedes to her feet.

He unhooked the oil lamp hanging from a nail behind the door, lit it, and then signaled us to follow him.

A low-arched doorway covered by a plastic curtain led into a back room that served as a kitchen and storage area.

One side of the room opened to a large plot filled with short, stubby trees and tall shrubs. In the faint light of the lantern, it looked like an abandoned fruit orchard.

We squeezed through a gap in the seemingly impenetrable wall of bushes and found ourselves in a desolate landscape.

The hillside, with its recently burned underbrush and charred stumps, looked frighteningly grotesque in the moonlight.

Without a sound, Leon Chirino and Agustin vanished.

"Where did they go?" I whispered to dona Mercedes.

"They went ahead," she said vaguely, pointing into the darkness.

Shadows, animated by the oil lamp she carried, zigzagged beside and ahead of us on the narrow path leading into the thicket.

I saw a light in the distance, gleaming through the bushes. Like a glowworm, it appeared and disappeared in quick succession.

As we came closer to it, I felt sure I could hear a monotonous chant mingling with the distinct sound of buzzing insects and of leaves stirring in the breeze.

Mercedes Peralta turned off the oil lamp. But before the last glimmer died out, I saw her billowing skirt settle near a crumbling low wall, about twelve feet from where I stood.

A glowing cigar illuminated her features. A diaphanous, shimmering radiance escaped through the top of her head.

I called out her name, but there was no answer.

Fascinated, I watched a misty cloud of cigar smoke hover directly above me in a circle. It didn't disperse the way smoke would, but stayed fixed in midair for a long moment.

Something brushed my cheek. Automatically, I brought my hand to my face and then in utter astonishment gazed at my fingertips; they were phosphorescent.

Frightened, I ran toward the low wall where I had seen dona Mercedes sit down. I had barely moved a few steps, when I was intercepted by Leon Chirino and Agustin.

"Where are you going, Musiua?" Leon Chirino asked mockingly.

"I have to help dona Mercedes collect her plants."

My response seemed to amuse them. They chuckled.

Leon Chirino patted me on the head, and Agustin daringly grabbed my thumb and squeezed it as if it were a rubber pump.

"We have to wait here patiently," Agustin said. "I've just pumped patience inside you through your thumb."

"She brought me here to help her," I insisted.

"Sure," he said reassuringly. "You have to help her but not with her plants."

Taking my arm, he guided me toward a fallen tree trunk. "Let's wait for dona Mercedes here."



Leaves hung from Mercedes Peralta's forehead, silvery green and shining.

Quietly, she fastened the oil lamp on a branch, then squatted on the ground and proceeded to sort the plants she had collected into separate piles.

Verbena roots were prescribed for menstrual pains. Valerian roots soaked in rum were an ideal remedy for nervousness, irritability, anxiety, and nightmares. Torco roots, soaked in rum, cured anemia and yellow fever. Guaritoto roots, basically a male remedy, were prescribed for bladder difficulties. Rosemary and rue were used mainly as disinfectants. Malva leaves were applied on skin rashes, and Artemisia boiled in sugarcane juice eased menstrual pains, killed parasites, and reduced fevers. Zabila cured asthma.

"But you grow all these plants in your yard," I said puzzled. "Why did you come here to collect them?"

Agustin grinned gleefully. "Let me tell you something, Musiua," he whispered, bringing his head close to mine. "These plants have grown out of corpses."

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "We are in the middle of a cemetery."

Alarmed, I looked around. There were neither tombstones nor mounds to indicate that we were in a graveyard, but I hadn't seen any tombstones in the other cemetery either.

"Our ancestors are buried here," Agustm said and crossed himself. "On nights like this, when a full moon alters the distance of graves and paints white shadows at the foot of trees, one can hear a pitiful moaning and the rattling of chains.

"Men carrying their cutoff heads wander about. They are the ghosts of slaves who, after having dug a deep hole to bury their masters' treasures, were decapitated and interred with the gold.

"But there is no need to be frightened," Agustin hastened to add. "All they want is a bit of rum. If you give them some, they will tell you where the treasures are buried.

"There are also ghosts of friars who died blaspheming and now want to confess their sins, but there is no one to hear them.

"And there are the ghosts of pirates who came all the way to Chuao in search of the Spaniards' gold."

He chuckled, then added in a confidential tone, "There are also the lonely ghosts, who whistle at passersby. These are the simplest of them all. They don't ask for much. All these lonely ghosts want is for someone to say an Our Father for them."

Mercedes Peralta, a root poised in one hand, slowly lifted her head.

Her dark eyes held mine in their gaze. "Agustin has an inexhaustible supply of stories," she said. "Each tale he garnishes to the limit."

Agustin rose. The way he stretched his body and limbs gave the impression that he was boneless.

He plopped down in front of dona Mercedes and buried his head in her lap.

"We better get going," she said, stroking his head tenderly. "I'm sending the musiua to your place in a few days."

"But I treat only children," Agustin stammered, looking up at me with a sad, apologetic face.

"She doesn't need a healing." Dona Mercedes laughed. "All she wants is to watch you and to hear your stories."






The Witch's Dream: Part 6 - Chapter 22.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 6 - Chapter 22.

I sat up with a jolt: Something had plopped down on my bed by my feet with a forceful thump.

The dog sleeping nearby raised its head, pricked its ears, but hearing nothing other than my mumbled imprecations, put its muzzle back on its forepaws.

For a moment, I was totally disoriented as to where I was, but when I heard dona Mercedes' soft, yet persistent murmur, I realized I was in the house of Leon Chirino's brother, in a small town an hour's drive from Curmina.

I was on the cot they had set up for me in the kitchen. I had driven Leon Chirino and dona Mercedes there in the middle of the night, for they had to conduct a private seance for his brother.

Closing my eyes, I settled back on the lumpy pillow and abandoned myself to the comforting sound of the healer's voice. I felt the sound wrap itself around me. I was definitely falling asleep when another thumping noise woke me up again.

The musty blanket I was covered with was all bunched up around my neck.

I half rose to straighten it out and screamed upon seeing Agustin's cat perched on my knee.

"Why do you always shriek when you see my pet?" His voice coming from the darkness was full of gentle mockery. Agustin, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my cot, reached for his cat.

"I've come to protect you from the dog," he explained, his dazzling blue eyes fixed on my face. "Dogs don't really sleep at night. If you open your eyes in the darkness you can see how a dog watches you all night long. That's why they are called watchdogs." He laughed at his own joke.

I opened my mouth to speak to him, but no sound crossed my lips. I reached out, but Agustin and the cat wavered indistinctly before my eyes until they finally faded away.

Perhaps they are all outside, I thought, and stepped into the yard, still shrouded by the shadows of dawn. There was no one about.

I looked at my wristwatch. Only two hours had passed since dona Mercedes, Leon Chirino, and I had arrived.

Realizing that I had had far too little sleep, I went back to my cot, pulled the blanket over my head, and dozed off.

I awoke to the sound of voices and music and the scent of coffee.

Leon Chirino, bent over the kerosene stove, was listening to the radio as he strained freshly made coffee through a flannel sieve.

"Did you have a good sleep?" he asked, motioning me to sit down by him.

I joined him at a big, square table covered with brand-new oilcloth. He half filled two cups with coffee and added to each a generous amount of cane liquor.

"For strength," he said, pushing the steaming porcelain cup toward me.

Afraid to get drunk, I took a few hesitant sips. The cup had golden edges and painted roses on its surface.

He replenished his own cup with more coffee and cane liquor.

"Dona Mercedes says that you're clairvoyant," I said. "Can you tell me what fate has in store for me?" I hoped that my abrupt question would elicit a candid response.

"My dear," he said in that charming forbearance older people show when addressing someone much younger. "I'm an old friend of dona Mercedes.

"I live with her ghosts and her memories. I share her solitude." He spat through his teeth, then taking two cigarettes from the pack on the table, he put one behind each ear.

"You'd better go and see Agustin," he advised. "He starts early. Let me show you the way into town."

"You really haven't answered my question," I said undaunted by his eagerness to get me out of the house.

A sardonic, bemused expression appeared on his face. "I can't tell you what's in store for you," he affirmed.

"Clairvoyants have glimpses of things they don't understand and then make up the rest."

He took my arm and practically pulled me outside. "Let me show you the way to Agustin's house," he repeated.

He pointed to a trail winding down the hill. "If you follow this path, you'll reach town. Anyone there will tell you where Agustin lives."

"What about dona Mercedes?" I asked.

"We'll come and get you in the evening," he replied, then bent toward me and in a conspiratorial whisper he added, "Dona Mercedes and I will be busy the whole day with my brother's business."

The twittering of bluebirds in the trees and the fragrance of the ripe mangoes, shimmering amid the dark foliage like clumps of gold, filled the air.

A well-trodden path winding down the slope ran into a wide dirt-packed street and branched off again into the hills at the other end of the hot, sunlit town.

Women sweeping the cement sidewalks in front of their brightly painted houses paused for an instant to return my greeting as I walked by.

"Can you tell me where the healer Agustin lives?" I asked one of the women.

"I sure can," she replied, resting her chin on her hands cupped over the end of the broom handle. In a loud voice- no doubt for the benefit of her curious neighbors- she directed me to the green stucco house at the very end of the street. "It's the one with the big antenna on the roof. You can't miss it."

She lowered her voice to a murmur and in a confidential tone assured me that Agustin could cure anything from insomnia to snakebites. Even cancer and leprosy were not too much for him. His young patients always got well.

I knocked repeatedly on Agustin's front door, but there was no answer.

"Just walk right in," a young girl shouted, leaning out a window across the street. "Agustin can't hear you. He's way in the back."

Following her advice, I stepped through the front door that opened into the inside patio. I peeked into each of the three rooms I passed, which also opened onto the patio.

Except for a hammock in each of them, the first two rooms were empty.

The third one was the living room. Calendars and magazine pictures decorated the walls. A row of straight-backed chairs and a plastic-covered couch faced an enormous television set.

Farther back was the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen through an alcove was yet another room. I saw Agustin there, seated at a large table.

As I approached, he rose smiling and stood scratching his head, his other hand thrust deep into the pocket of his worn khaki pants. His white shirt had patches, and the cutoff sleeves were frayed at the unhemmed cuffs.

"This is my working room!" he exclaimed proudly, extending his arm about in a circle. "I've got everything in here. And I'm about to open. My patients come through the side door. That door brings both of us luck."

The room, well lit and ventilated by two windows facing the hills, smelled of disinfectant.

There were rows of unvarnished, unpainted shelves on all the walls. On the shelves, neatly arranged and all properly labeled, stood various-sized flasks, bottles, jars, and boxes filled with dried roots, bark, leaves, and flowers. These items were not only identified by their common names but also by their scientific Latin nomenclature.

The table was hand carved and faced the open windows. Bottles, bowls, pestles, books, and two scales were lined up on the highly polished surface.

A cot and the three-foot-tall crucifix hanging in a corner with its votive candle burning on a triangular ledge beneath it indeed confirmed that I had stepped into the working room of a healer, not an old-fashioned apothecary.

Without much ado, Agustin brought in another chair from the kitchen and invited me to observe him at work.

He opened the lucky side door he had pointed out earlier. There were three women and four children in the adjacent room.

The hours passed swiftly. He treated each patient by first examining a jar filled with the child's urine that had been brought in by the mother. Prompted by each woman's account of her child's symptoms, Agustin proceeded to "read the waters."

The odor, the color, and the kind of microbes, or filaments, as he preferred to call them and which he claimed to see with the naked eye, were all carefully considered before he arrived at a diagnosis.

Fevers, colds, indigestion, parasites, asthma, rashes, allergies, anemia, and even measles and smallpox were among the most prevalent illnesses Agustin claimed to recognize after a thorough "reading of the waters."

In respectful silence, each woman waited for Agustin to invoke the help of Christ before he prescribed the appropriate medication.

He mixed his own herbal concoctions. Being familiar with, and a believer in, modern pharmacopoeia, Agustin was inclined to supplement his own remedies with milk of magnesia, antibiotics, aspirins, and vitamins, which he had repacked and rebottled in his own containers.

Like Mercedes Peralta, he charged no set fee but left it to the judgment of his clients: That is, they paid whatever they could afford.

Our late lunch of chicken and pork empanadas, brought to us by a woman in the neighborhood, came to an abrupt end when a man carrying a small boy walked into the kitchen. The child, perhaps six or seven years old, had cut the calf of his leg while playing in the field with his father's machete.

In his calm, sure manner, Agustin carried the child to the cot in his working room and undid the makeshift, blood-soaked bandage. First he bathed the deep gash with rosemary water, and then with peroxide.

It was hard to tell whether the child was being hypnotized by Agustin's soothing touch, as he massaged the anxious little face, or by his soft voice, as he recited an incantation, but in a matter of moments, the boy was asleep.

And then Agustin began the most important part of his treatment. To stop the bleeding, he applied to the wound a poultice of leaves that had been soaked in clear, sugarcane liquor.

Then he prepared a paste that, he claimed, would heal the wound in less than ten days and leave no scar.

Invoking the guidance of Christ, Agustin sprinkled a few drops of a milky substance on an abalone shell. With slow, rhythmic motions he began to grind the shell with a broad wooden pestle. A half hour elapsed before he had little less than a half teaspoon of a greenish, musky-smelling substance.

He examined the cut once more, pressed the wound closed with his fingers, and carefully spread the paste over the gash. Mumbling a prayer, he expertly bandaged the leg with strips of white cloth.

A satisfied smile lit his face as he handed the sleeping boy into the father's arms and told him to bring him every other day to change the dressing.

Late in the afternoon, certain that there would be no more patients that day, Agustin gave me a tour of his yard.

His medicinal plants grew in neat rows and square patches, arranged as carefully as the jars and bottles were on the table and shelves in his working room.

At the far end of the yard, leaning against a tool shed, stood an old kerosene refrigerator.

"Don't open it!" Agustin cried out, holding my arm in a firm grip.

"How could I?" I protested. "It's padlocked. What secrets do you keep in there?"

"My witchcraft," he whispered. "You do know that I practice witchcraft, don't you?"

His tone was mocking, but his face was somber when he added, "I'm a specialist in healing children and bewitching adults."

"Do you really practice witchcraft?" I asked incredulously.

"Don't be obtuse, Musiua," Agustin chided.

He paused for a moment, then in an emphatic tone, added, "Dona Mercedes must have told you that the other side of healing is bewitching. They go together because one is useless without the other. I heal children. I bewitch adults," he repeated, knocking on the top of the refrigerator. "I'm very good at both.

"Dona Mercedes says that one day I will bewitch the same ones I healed when they were children." He smiled at my startled face. "I don't think I will. But only time will tell."

Taking advantage of his expansive mood, I finally told him what had been on my mind the whole day. That I had seen and talked to him when I was in a dreamlike state.

Agustin listened attentively, but his gaze betrayed nothing.

"I can't quite define what it was," I said, "but it wasn't a dream!" Exasperated by his unwillingness to comment or to explain, I urged him to say something.

"I like you so much that I wanted to know if you're really a medium," he said, smiling. "Now I know you are."

"I think you're humoring me," I said, even more exasperated.

Agustin's eyebrows raised in arcs of astonishment. "It must be horrible to have big feet."

"Big feet?" I stammered uncomprehendingly, looking down at my sandals. "My feet are in perfect proportion to my size."

"They should be smaller," Agustin insisted, putting his fingers to his lips as though to suppress a smile. "Your feet are too large.

"That's why you live in perpetual reality. That's why you want everything explained." There was mockery in his voice, mixed with a tinge of compassion that did nothing to reassure me.

"Witchcraft follows rules that cannot be empirically demonstrated or repeated, unlike other laws of nature. Witchcraft is precisely the act of persuading reason to rise above itself or, if you wish, to move below itself." He chuckled and gave me a push.

I stumbled over my feet, and he quickly grabbed my arm to keep me from falling.

"Do you see now that your feet are too big?" Agustin asked and then laughed.

I wondered if he was trying to hypnotize me, for he gazed at me without blinking. I was held captive by his eyes. Like two drops of water, they seemed to spread wider and wider, blurring everything around me. All I was aware of was his voice.

"A sorcerer chooses to be different from what he was raised to be," he continued. "He has to understand that witchcraft is a lifelong task.

"A sorcerer, through witchcraft, weaves patterns like webs; patterns that transmit invoked powers to some superior mystery.

Human actions have an endless, spreading network of results; he accepts and reinterprets these results in a magical way."

He brought his face even closer to mine and lowered his voice to a soft whisper. "A sorcerer's hold on reality is absolute. His grip is so powerful, he can bend reality every which way in the service of his art. But he never forgets what reality is or was."

Without another word he turned and walked toward the living room.

Swiftly, I followed after him.

He plopped down on the sofa and crossed his legs the way I had seen him do on my cot.

Smiling up at me, he patted the place beside him. "Let's have some real witchcraft," he said, switching on the remote control of the enormous TV set.

There was no time to ask any more questions. In the next instant, we were surrounded by a group of giggling children from the neighborhood.

"Each evening they come here to watch TV with me for an hour or so," Agustin explained. "Later on, you and I will have time to talk."

After that initial meeting, I became Agustin's unbiased admirer. Attracted not only by his healing skills but by his haunting personality, I practically moved into one of the empty rooms of his house.

He wove countless stories for me, including the one Mercedes Peralta wanted me to hear.


Startled by a faint moan, Agustin opened his eyes.

In a shaft of light, a spider suspended on invisible thread dropped from the crumbling cane ceiling all the way to the ground where Agustin lay curled up like a cat.

He reached toward the spider, crushed it between his fingers, and ate it. Sighing, he drew his knees even closer to his chest as he felt the cold of dawn seep through the cracks of the weather-beaten mud walls.

Agustin couldn't remember whether days or weeks had passed since his mother brought him to this dilapidated, abandoned hut, where bats hung from the ceiling like unlit bulbs and cockroaches swarmed around in daylight and in darkness.

All he knew was that he had been hungry ever since; that the slugs, spiders, and grasshoppers he caught never stilled the gnawing pain in his swollen belly.

Agustin heard the faint moan again. It came from the shadowy corner at the far end of the room.

He saw an apparition of his mother sitting on the mattress, her mouth slightly open as she rubbed her naked belly. She was riding the mattress as though she were on a donkey, her naked shadow moving up and down on the soot-stained wall.

Only a few hours before, he had seen his mother struggling with a man. He had seen her thin legs, like black snakes, wrapped tightly around the man's torso, squeezing the breath out of him. And when he heard his mother's piercing scream, followed by a silence that had lasted for the rest of the night, he knew that the man had won the struggle. He had killed her.

Agustin's tired eyes closed with pleasure at the thought that he was now an orphan. He was safe. They would take him at the mission.

Half-conscious of his mother's ghostly sighs, giggles, and whispers whirling about the room, he dozed off again.

A loud groan shattered the morning stillness. Agustin opened his eyes and pressed his fist against his lips to stifle a scream as he saw the same man from the night before sit up on the mattress.

Agustin didn't know the man, yet he was sure he was from Ipairi. Agustin vaguely remembered seeing him talking to his mother in the plaza.

Had the women from the small hamlet in the hills sent the man to take Agustin back? To perhaps kill him? It couldn't be. He must be having a vivid horrible dream.

The man cleared his throat and spat on the ground. His voice filled the room. "I'll take you away today. But I can't take the boy. Why didn't you leave him with the Protestants? You know that they have a place for children: Even if they won't take him, they'll feed him."

When Agustin heard his mother's harsh reply he knew that he was wide awake: He knew that she was not a ghost.

"The Protestants won't take any children unless they are orphaned," his mother said. "There was nothing else I could do but bring the boy to this abandoned shack. I'm waiting for him to die."

"I know of a woman who'll take him," the man said. "She'll know what to do with him. She's a witch."

"It's too late now," his mother said. "I wish I had given Agustin to a witch when he was born.

"Ever since he was a baby, a witch in Ipairi wanted him. She used to feed him strange potions and hang amulets around his wrists and neck, allegedly to guard him from calamities and disease.

"I know she cast a spell on the boy. That witch is responsible for all my misfortune."

His mother was silent for a moment; then in a strangled whisper, as though she were under attack by an unseen enemy, she added, "I'm terrified of witches. If I went to one now, she'd know that I haven't been feeding the boy. She'd kill me."

Tears rolled down Agustin's cheeks as he remembered the days in Ipairi when his mother used to cradle him in her arms. She would smother him with kisses and tell him that his eyes were like pieces of the sky.

But when the women in the neighboring shacks forbade their children to play with him, his mother became a different person. She no longer touched or kissed him. Finally, she ceased speaking to him altogether.

One afternoon, a woman carrying a dead child in her arms burst into their shack. "Blue eyes in a black face," she screamed at Agustin's mother, "that's the work of the devil. That's the devil himself. He killed my baby with the evil eye. If you don't get rid of that boy, I will."

That same night, his mother fled with him to the hills. Agustin was certain that it was that woman who had cast a spell on his mother so she would hate him.

The man's loud voice cut into Agustin's reveries.

"You don't have to take him to the witch yourself. I can leave word with her to pick the kid up tonight.

"We'll be gone by then. I'll take you far away from here, where no witch will ever find you," the man promised.

His mother remained silent for a long time; then she flung her head back and laughed hysterically.

She rose from the mattress and wrapped the dirty blanket tightly around her body. Stepping around the broken table and the few crates scattered about, she made her way across the room.

"Look at him," she hissed, jerking her chin toward the comer where Agustfn lay curled up, pretending to be asleep. "He's only six years old, yet he looks like an evil old man.

"His hair has fallen out. His body is covered with scabs. His stomach is swollen with parasites. Yet, he survives.

"He has no clothes. He sleeps without a blanket. Yet, he doesn't even catch cold."

She turned toward the man on the mattress. "Can't you see that he is indeed the devil? The devil will find me wherever I go."

His mother's eyes shone feverishly bright under her disheveled hair. "The thought of having suckled the devil at my own breast fills me with fear and revulsion."

She reached up to a niche in the wall where she had hidden the corncakes the man had brought her last night. She gave one to the man, and nibbling on the other one, she lowered herself beside him on the mattress.

In a monotonous, trancelike tone she recounted that Agustfn was a changeling.

"One of the nurses at the hospital changed my own baby for the devil," she continued, her tone suddenly vehement.

"Everyone knew that I was going to have a girl. My pregnant belly was broad instead of pointed. My hair began to fall out. Blotches and blemishes appeared on my skin. My legs swelled. Those are the symptoms of carrying a girl.

"At first, even though I knew he was a changeling, I couldn't help but love him. He was so beautiful and so clever. He never cried. He spoke before he walked, and he sang like an angel.

"I refused to believe any of the women in Ipairi who accused Agustin of having the evil eye. Even after my stillborn pregnancy I didn't pay any attention to the neighbors' insinuations.

"I just thought they were ignorant, and worst of all, envious of the boy's beautiful eyes. After all, who ever heard of a child having the evil eye?"

She scraped out the white, soft center of the corncake and flung the dry crust across the room. "But when my man died in an accident at the mill, I had to agree with the women." She covered her face with her hands, and quietly added, "Agustin has never been ill in his life. I should have left him to his fate in Ipairi. Then his death would not be on my conscience."

"Let me get word to the woman I've been telling you about," the man said, his voice soft, yet persuasive. "I know she'll take him."

At great length he explained about his job at the pharmaceutical laboratory. He worked in the storeroom and was on very good terms with his boss. He foresaw no difficulties in convincing the man of his need for an advance.

"With the money, the two of us can go to Caracas," he said. He rose and dressed. "Wait for me at the laboratory. I'll be out by five. I'll have everything arranged by then."

Agustin reached for the dry crust on the ground. On unsteady legs, he walked toward the narrow, back doorway, which no longer had a door, and stepped out into what had once been a yard.

He headed toward his favorite place, the gnarled, no-longer-blooming acacia tree overhanging the ravine. He sat on the ground, his legs extended in front of him, his naked back resting against a portion of the crumbling low wall that had once encircled the grounds.

The scrawny, sickly looking cat that had followed him all the way from Ipairi rubbed its coarse fur against his thigh. Agustin gave it a small piece of the crust, then pushed the cat away toward the lizards scuttling in and out of the crevices in the mud wall.

He would not part with another crumb. He was never capable of satisfying his own relentless hunger; a hunger that filled his days and nights with dreams of food. With a sigh on his lips he dozed off.

Startled by a gust of wind, he woke up. Dead leaves swirled in a circle around him. The leaves rose high up in the air and then descended in brown rustling whirlpools into the ravine.

He could hear the murmuring stream below. When it rained the shallow water grew into a seething river, sweeping along trees and dead animals from the hamlets in the mountains.

Agustin turned his head slightly and gazed at the silent hills around him. Thin columns of smoke drifted up into the sky, melting with the moving clouds. Could the Protestant mission be that close? he asked himself. Or perhaps the smoke was from the house of the woman who wasn't afraid to take him.

He rested his cheek on his small bony hand. Flies buzzed around his open mouth. He pressed his parched lips together, spread his legs, and urinated. He was hungry. He could feel the pain inside him as he again fell asleep.

The sun was high when Agustin awoke. The cat was nearby, devouring a large lizard. He crawled toward the feline. It snarled viciously, holding the half-eaten reptile tightly under its paw. Agustin kicked the cat in the stomach, then reached for the slippery entrails and swallowed them. He looked up and found his mother watching him from the doorway.

"Holy Virgin!" she exclaimed. "He isn't human." She crossed herself. "It won't be long before he poisons himself."

Again she made the sign of the cross and, folding her hands in prayer, murmured, "Holy Father. Get him out of my way. Make him die a natural death, so I won't have him on my conscience."

She went inside, lifted the mattress, and pulled out her only dress. She caressed it and lovingly pressed the wrinkled dress against her body, then shook it repeatedly and laid it out on the mattress with great care.

Curiously, Agustin watched her light a fire in the cooking pit. Humming a little tune, she retrieved the coffee and the pieces of sugar loaf she kept in a crate nailed high up on the wall.

Agustin wanted a piece of that sugar. He tried to stand up, but overcome by nausea he crouched with his elbows against the ground and vomited unchewed pieces of lizard.

Salty tears dribbled down his sunken cheeks. He gagged repeatedly, foam and bile spurting from his trembling lips.

He wiped his mouth and chin on his shoulders. With a painful moan he tried to straighten up but slumped forward on the ground.

The sound of the murmuring ravine engulfed him like a soft veil. When the smell of coffee filtered through his nostrils and he heard his mother say that she had made him sweet coffee, he knew that he was dreaming. His dry lips grimaced.

He wanted to smile when he heard her laugh; that high, abrupt, happy laughter he used to know so well. He wondered if she would put on her red dress and meet the man at the pharmaceutical laboratory.

Agustin opened his eyes. On the ground next to him stood a small tin filled with coffee. Afraid the vision would vanish, he reached out and lifted the can to his mouth. Indifferent to the burning pain on his lips and tongue, he sipped the strong, very sweet brew. It cleared his head and stopped his nausea.

Dreamily, Agustin gazed at the slanted rain lines in the distance. Within moments dark clouds, edged with gold, floated across the sky. The clouds stained the hills with purple shadows and turned the sky a smoky black.

A cold wind, followed by a deafening roar, rose from the bottom of the ravine. The rainwater from the distant hills gushed down the deep gorge with outrageous force. Within moments large heavy drops burst from the sky.

Agustin rose, tilted his face skyward, and, with arms outstretched, welcomed the soothing coolness that washed him clean. Driven by an inexplicable impulse, he went into the house and picked up the dress on the mattress.

Clutching it with trembling hands, he hurried outside to the very edge of the ravine and threw the garment into the wind. It flew like a kite, landing on a leafless branch of the old acacia tree overhanging the steep slope.

"You devil! You monster!" his mother screamed, rushing toward him, her hair tumbling wildly about her face, her arms extended. As if transfixed by the sound of the roaring water, she just stood there between the boy and the fluttering dress, her eyes filled with hatred, unable to say a word.

Then, holding on to weeds and exposed roots, she carefully eased herself toward the overhanging branch of the acacia tree.

Agustin watched her from behind the gnarled trunk with fascinated interest. Her feet moved with unerring agility on the steep slippery ground.

She will get the dress by any means, he thought. He felt anger and fear.

She was only a few inches away from it. She stretched her arm as far as she could. She touched the dress with the tip of her fingers and then lost her footing and tumbled over the brink.

Her horror-stricken scream mingled with the sound of the roaring water was carried away by the wind.

Agustin moved closer to the edge. His eyes shone with a hollow depth as he saw his mother's body spin helplessly in the thick brown water on its journey to the sea.

The storm died away. The rain ceased. The wind dropped: All but the turbulent water in the ravine regained its habitual murmuring calm.

Agustin walked into the house, lay down on the mattress, and covered himself with the thin, dirty blanket. He felt the coarse, wet fur of the cat seeking the warmth of his body. He pulled the blanket over his eyes and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

It was night when he awoke. Through the open doorway he could see the moon entangled in the barren branches of the acacia tree. "We'll go now," he murmured, stroking the cat.

He felt strong. It would be easy to walk across the hills, he decided. With each other as companions, he had the vague certainty that he and the cat would find the Protestant mission or the house of the woman who was not afraid to take him.






The Witch's Dream: Part 6 - Chapter 23.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 6 - Chapter 23.

Mercedes Peralta came rushing into my room, sat on my bed, and shifted about until she was comfortably settled.

"Unpack your gear," she said. "You can't go to see Agustin anymore. He's left for his yearly trip to remote areas in the country."

She spoke with such certainty that I had the feeling she had just finished talking to him over the telephone; but I knew there wasn't one in the neighborhood.

Candelaria came at that moment into the room holding a tray with my favorite dessert: guava jelly and a few slices of white cheese.

"I know it's not the same as sitting spiritually with Agustin in front of a TV set," she remarked, "but I'm all you have for the moment." She placed the tray on the night table and sat down on the bed opposite from dona Mercedes.

Dona Mercedes laughed and urged me to eat my treat. She said that Agustin was known in distant, godforsaken towns and visited them yearly. At great length she talked about his gift for healing children.

"When will he be back?" I asked. The thought that I might not see him again filled me with indescribable sadness.

"There's no way to know," dona Mercedes said. "Six months, perhaps even longer. He does this because he feels he has a great debt to pay."

"Whom does he owe?"

She looked at Candelaria, then both of them looked at me as though I ought to have known.

"Witches understand debts of this kind in a most peculiar manner," dona Mercedes finally said. "Healers pray to the saints, and to the Virgin, and to our Lord Jesus Christ.

"Witches pray to power: They entice it with their incantations." She rose from the bed and paced about the room.

Softly, as though she were talking to herself, she continued to say that although Agustin prayed to the saints, he owed something to a higher order; an order that was not human.

Dona Mercedes was silent for a few moments, looking at me but allowing no expression to be read on her face.

"Agustin has known about that higher order all his life, even as a child," she continued. "Did he ever tell you that the same man who was going to take his mother away found Agustin on a pitch-black night, in the rain, already half-dead, and brought him to me?"

Dona Mercedes did not wait for my response but quickly added, "To be in harmony with that higher order has always been the secret of Agustin's success. He does it through his healing and bewitching."

Again she paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. "That higher order made Agustin and Candelaria a gift," she continued, lowering her gaze toward me. "It helped them from the moment they were born.

"Candelaria pays part of her debt by being my servant. She is the best servant there is."

Dona Mercedes moved toward the door, and before stepping outside, she turned to face Candelaria and me, a dazzling smile on her face. "I think that in some measure you, too, owe a great deal to that higher order," she said. "So try by all means to pay back the debt you have."

Not a word was said for a long time. The two women looked at me with a sense of expectancy. It occurred to me that they were waiting for me to make the obvious connection- obvious to them: Just as Candelaria was a born witch, Agustin was a born sorcerer.

Dona Mercedes and Candelaria listened to me with beaming smiles.

"Agustin is capable of making his own links," dona Mercedes explained. "He has a direct connection to that higher order which is the wheel of chance itself; and the witch's shadow as well, or whatever it is that makes that wheel move."






The Witch's Dream: Part 7.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 7.

  • Chapter 24.
  • Chapter 25.
  • Chapter 26.


The Witch's Dream: Part 7 - Chapter 24.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 7 - Chapter 24.

Sharing the faint light of the bulb above us, Candelaria and I sat across from each other at the kitchen table. She was studying the glossy pictures in the magazine I had bought for her; I was transcribing my tapes.

"Did you hear a knock at the front door?" I asked, pulling the earphone from my ear.

Totally oblivious to my words, she pointed to the picture of a blond model. "I can't decide which girl I like better," she mused. "If I cut out this one, I'll lose the one on the other side of the page, the brunette walking down the street with a tiger on a leash."

"I would save the one with the tiger," I suggested. "There will be more blond models in the magazine." I touched her arm. "Listen, someone's at the door."

It took Candelaria a moment to draw herself away from the magazine and another moment to realize that indeed there was someone knocking.

"Who could it possibly be at this late hour?" she mumbled indifferently, as she shifted her attention back to the glossy pages.

"Perhaps it's a patient." I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight.

"Oh no, my dear," Candelaria said calmly and looked up. "No one ever comes at this hour. People know that dona Mercedes doesn't treat anyone this late unless it's an emergency."

Before I had a chance to say that it probably was an emergency there was another, this time more insistent, knock.

I hurried to the front of the house.

For a moment I hesitated outside the healing room, deliberating whether I should let Mercedes Peralta know that there was someone at the door.

For three days Mercedes Peralta had been in that room. Day and night she had lit candles on the altar, smoked cigar after cigar, and, with a rapturous expression on her face, had recited unintelligible incantations until the walls vibrated with the sound.

Mercedes Peralta had never answered any of my questions, yet, she seemed to welcome my interruptions when I brought her food or insisted she rest for a few hours.

Another knock sent me hurrying to the front door, which Candelaria always bolted as soon as it got dark; an unnecessary precaution, for anyone wanting to come inside could have done so through the open kitchen.

"Who is it?" I asked before unlatching the iron bolt.

"Gente de paz, peaceful folk," a man's voice answered.

Amazed to hear someone with a faint foreign accent reply in the archaic convention dating from the days of the Spanish Conquest, I automatically responded in the required manner, "Hail the Virgin Mary," and opened the door.

The tall, white-haired man leaning against the wall regarded me with such a baffled expression on his face, I burst into laughter.

"Is this Mercedes Peralta's house?" he asked in a halting voice.

I nodded, studying his face. It was not so much that it was wrinkled but rather eroded, ravaged as though by grief or pain. His watery blue eyes were sunken in wide circles of age and weariness.

"Is Mercedes Peralta in?" he asked, looking past me into the dimly lit hallway.

"She is," I replied. "But she doesn't see people this late."

"I've been walking around town for hours, pondering whether I should come," he said. "I need to see her. I'm an old friend or an old enemy."

Shaken by the anguish and despair in the man's voice, I invited him inside.

"She's in her working room," I said. "I'd better let her know that you've come to see her." I stepped ahead of him and smiled encouragingly. "What is your name?"

"Don't announce me," the man begged, gripping my arm. "Let me go in by myself. I know the way."

Stiffly, he limped across the patio and down the corridor. He paused for a second in front of dona Mercedes' room, then climbed the two steps leading inside.

I followed close behind him ready to take the blame should Mercedes Peralta be annoyed by the intrusion.

For an instant, I thought she had already gone to bed: But as soon as my eyes became accustomed to the shadowy darkness, I saw her sitting in her high-backed chair at the far end of the room, barely outlined by the faint light of a single candle burning on the altar.

"Federico Mueller!" she gasped, staring at him in total panic.

She seemed not to trust her vision and repeatedly rubbed her eyes with her hands. "How can it be? All these years I thought you were dead."

Awkwardly, he went down on his knees, buried his face in the healer's lap, and cried with the abandonment of a despairing child. "Help me, help me," he repeated in between sobs.

Hastily, I moved toward the entrance, only to halt abruptly when I heard Federico Mueller fall on the floor with a dull thump.

I wanted to summon Candelaria, but dona Mercedes stopped me. "How extraordinary!" she exclaimed in a trembling tone. "Everything is fitting into place like a magical jigsaw puzzle.

"This is the person you remind me of. You brought him back to me."

I wanted to tell her that I saw no similarity between the old man and myself, but she sent me to her bedroom to fetch her basket with medicinal plants. When I returned, Federico Mueller was still lying curled up on the floor. Dona Mercedes was trying to revive him.

"Get Candelaria," she said. "I can't handle Federico Mueller by myself."

Candelaria had heard the commotion and was already standing by the entrance. She walked in.

There was an expression of disbelief, of sheer horror in Candelaria's eyes. "He's come back," she murmured, approaching Federico Mueller.

Candelaria crossed herself, then turned to dona Mercedes and asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"His soul is detaching itself from his body," she answered. "I'm too weak to try to push it back."

Candelaria sat on her haunches and swiftly moved Federico Mueller's inert body to a sitting position. She gave him a sort of bear hug from behind. The bones of his back cracked as if they were breaking into a hundred pieces.

Candelaria propped him in a sitting position against the wall. "He's very ill," she said to me. "I think he's come back here to die." She left the room crossing herself.

Federico Mueller opened his eyes. He took in everything in one glance, then he looked at me as if he were silently begging me to leave him alone with dona Mercedes.

"Musiua," she said in a weak voice as I was walking out of the room, "since you have brought him back to my life, you ought to stay."

I sat down awkwardly on my stool.

He began to talk to no one in particular. He rambled on incoherently for hours.

Mercedes Peralta listened attentively: Whatever he was saying seemed to make all the sense in the world to her.

A long silence ensued after Federico Mueller stopped talking.

Slowly, dona Mercedes rose and lit a candle in front of the statue of the Virgin. Poised before the altar, she looked like an ancient wood statue, her face an expressionless mask.

Only her eyes seemed alive as they filled with tears. She lit a cigar and drew each breath deep inside her, as if she were feeding a force within her chest.

The flame grew brighter as the candle shrank. It cast an eerie light on her features as she turned to face Federico Mueller.

Mumbling a soft incantation, she massaged first his head and then his shoulders.

"You can do anything you want with me," he said, pressing both her palms against his temples.

"Go into the living room," dona Mercedes said, her voice a shaky whisper. "I'll be along shortly with a valerian potion. It will put you to sleep." Smiling, she patted his hair into place.

Hesitantly, he limped across the patio and down the corridor. The sound of his steps echoed faintly through the house.

Mercedes Peralta turned once again to the altar but could not reach it. She was beginning to fall, when I jumped up and caught her.

Feeling the uncontrollable tremor of her body, I realized how immense had been her stress and her poise. She had comforted Federico Mueller for hours.

I had seen only his turmoil: She had revealed nothing about her own.



"Musiua, tell Candelaria to get ready," dona Mercedes said, stepping into the kitchen where I was writing. "You're taking us in your jeep."

Certain that she was already asleep, I went immediately to look for Candelaria in her room. She was not there.

The door of her wardrobe stood wide open, exposing the beveledged mirror on its door and all her clothes. They were arranged not only by color but also by the length of the hems.

Her narrow bed- a frame of laths, and a horsehair mattress- stood between two bookcases filled with romance novels and photo albums containing cutout magazine pictures.

Everything was in immaculate order, nothing was rumpled.

"I'm ready," Candelaria said behind me.

Startled, I turned around. "Dona Mercedes wants you to--" She did not let me finish, but propelled me toward my room down the corridor.

"I've taken care of everything," she assured me. "Hurry up and change. We don't have much time."

On my way out I peeked into the living room. Federico Mueller was sleeping peacefully on the couch.

Dona Mercedes and Candelaria were already waiting for me in my jeep. There was no moon or a single star in the sky, yet it was a lovely night; soft and black with a cool wind blowing from the hills.

Following Candelaria's directions, I drove the two women to the homes of the people who regularly attended the spiritualists' meeting.

As was customary, I waited outside. Except for Leon Chirino, I had never met any of them, yet I knew where each one of them lived.

I wondered if the two women were setting a date for a seance, for they did not stay long at any of the houses.

"And now to Leon Chirino's house," Candelaria said, helping dona Mercedes settle in the backseat.

Candelaria seemed angry. Nonstop she rambled on about Federico Mueller.

Although I was bursting with curiosity, I could not pay attention to her seemingly incoherent statements. I was too preoccupied watching the distraught look on dona Mercedes' face in the rearview mirror.

She opened her mouth several times to speak, but instead she shook her head and looked out the window, seeking aid and comfort from the night.

Leon Chirino took a long time coming to the door. He must have been sound asleep and unable to hear Candelaria's impatient, loud banging.

He opened the door with his arms crossed, protecting his chest from the cold, humid breeze spreading the dawn across the hills. There was a look of foreboding in his eyes.

"Federico Mueller is at my house," dona Mercedes said before he had time to even greet her.

Leon Chirino did not say a word. Yet, it was evident that he had been thrown into a state of profound agitation, of great indecision. His lips trembled, and his eyes alternately shone with rage or filled with tears under his white, bushy brows.

He motioned us to follow him to the kitchen. He made sure dona Mercedes was comfortably settled in a hammock hanging near the stove, then he made a fresh pot of coffee, while we sat in complete silence.

As soon as he had served Candelaria and me a cup, he helped dona Mercedes into a sitting position, and standing behind her proceeded to massage the back of her head.

He moved down to her neck, then to her shoulders and arms, all the way to her feet. The sound of his melodious incantation floated over the room, clear like the dawn, peaceful and infinitely lonely.

"Only you know what to do," Leon Chirino said to her, helping her up. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Nodding, she embraced him and thanked him for lending her his strength. A mysterious smile curved her lips as she turned to the table, and leisurely sipped her cup of coffee.

"Now we have to see my compadre," she said, taking my arm. "Please take us to El Mocha's house."

"Lucas Nunez?" I asked, looking from one to the other.

All three nodded, but no one said a word.

I had remembered Candelaria's comment about the godfather of dona Mercedes' adopted son Elio: Candelaria had told me that Lucas Nunez blamed himself for Elio's death.

The sun had already risen above the mountains when we reached the small town along the coast where Lucas Nunez lived.

The place was hot and salty from the sea and musky with flowering mimosa trees.

The town's main street lined with brightly painted colonial houses, a small church, and a plaza ended at the edge of a coconut plantation.

Beyond was the sea. It could not be seen, but the wind carried the sound of waves breaking on the shore.

Lucas Nunez's house stood on one of the town's side streets, which were not really streets but wide paths covered with stones.

Dona Mercedes rapped lightly on the door and, without waiting for an answer, pushed it open and stepped inside a dark, damp room.

Still blinded by the brightness outside, I could at first barely make out the silhouette of a man reading at a wooden table in a small back patio.

He gazed at us with such a desolate expression on his face I wanted to flee.

Haltingly, he stood up and silently embraced dona Mercedes, Leon Chirino, and Candelaria.

The man was tall and bony. His white hair was cropped so close to his head that the darkness of his scalp shone through.

I felt a strange anguish upon noticing his hands and realized why he was nicknamed El Mocho, the maimed one. The first joint of each finger was missing.

"Federico Mueller is at my house," dona Mercedes said softly. "The musiua here brought him to my door."

Slowly, Lucas Nunez turned toward me. There was something so intense about the man's narrow face, about his shiny eyes, that I shrank back.

"Is she related to him?" he asked in a harsh voice, no longer seeming to see me.

"The musiua has never seen Federico Mueller in her life," dona Mercedes remarked. "But she brought him to my door."

Lucas Nunez leaned against the wall. "If he is in your house, then I will kill him," he declared in a strangled whisper.

Dona Mercedes and Leon Chirino each took him by an arm and led him into one of the rooms.

"Who is this Federico Mueller?" I asked Candelaria. "What did he do?"

"But, Musiua," she said impatiently. "I've been telling you during the whole trip about the horrible things Federico Mueller did."

She looked at me baffled, shaking her head in disbelief.

Despite my insistence that she repeat them, she would not say another word about Federico Mueller.

Instead of going to rest in her hammock upon returning to her house, Mercedes Peralta asked Candelaria and me to join her in her working room.

Mercedes Peralta lit seven candles on the altar, and reaching behind the folds of the Virgin's blue mantle, pulled out a revolver.

Horrified and fascinated, I watched her caress the gun. She smiled at me, and pressed the revolver into my hands.

"It's unloaded," she said. "I unloaded it the day you arrived.

I knew then that I wasn't going to need it, but I didn't know that you were going to bring him back to me."

She went over to her chair and, heaving a deep sigh, sat down. "I've had that gun for almost thirty years," she went on. "I was going to kill Federico Mueller with it."

"And you should do it now!" Candelaria hissed through clenched teeth.

"I know what I'm going to do," dona Mercedes went on, ignoring the interruption. "I'm going to take care of Federico Mueller for as long as he lives."

"Dear God!" Candelaria exclaimed. "Have you lost your mind?"

A childlike look of innocent hope, a wave of affection, shone in dona Mercedes' eyes as she regarded us intently.

She held up her hand, pleading us to silence. "You brought Federico Mueller to my door," she said to me.

"And now I know that there is nothing to forgive. Nothing to understand; and he came back to make me realize just that.

"This is why I'll never mention what he did. He was dead, but he's not now."






The Witch's Dream: Part 7 - Chapter 25.

Version 2007.03.03


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 7 - Chapter 25.

There were several empty rooms in the house, but Federico Mueller chose to sleep in the narrow alcove back of the kitchen. It was just large enough for a cot and a night table.

Quite vehemently, he declined my offer to drive him to Caracas and get his belongings.

He said that nothing of what he had there would be of any value to him now; yet, he was grateful, when at dona Mercedes' prompting, I bought him several shirts and a pair of khaki pants, and toiletries.

And thus, Federico Mueller became part of the household. Dona Mercedes pampered him. She indulged him.

Every morning and again every afternoon she treated him in her working room; and each night she made him drink a valerian potion laced with rum.

Federico Mueller never left the house. He spent all his time either in a hammock in the yard, or talking to dona Mercedes.

Candelaria ignored his existence: He did likewise; not only with her, but also with me.

One day, however, Federico Mueller began to speak to me in German, haltingly at first: It cost him a tremendous effort to form the words.

But soon he gained a total command of the language, and never again did he speak a word of Spanish with me.

That changed him radically. It was as though his problems, whatever they may have been, were encased in the sound of Spanish words.

Candelaria was, at first, mildly curious about the foreign language. She began asking Federico Mueller questions, and ended up succumbing to his innate charm.

He taught her German nursery rhymes, which Candelaria sang the whole day long with faultless pronunciation.

And he repeated to me again and again in a perfectly coherent way what he had said to dona Mercedes the night he arrived.


As happened every night, Federico Mueller woke up screaming.

He sat up in bed, his back pushed against the headboard in an effort to escape that one particular face: It always came so close to him he could see the cruel mocking glint in the man's eyes and his gold-rimmed teeth as he laughed in great guffaws.

Beyond him were all the other faces of the people who always populated his nightmares: faces distorted by pain and fear. They always screamed in agony, begged for mercy.

All of them except her. She never screamed. She never broke her stare. It was a look he could not bear.

Moaning, Federico Mueller pressed his fists against his eyes, as if with that gesture he could keep his past at bay. For thirty years he had been tormented by those nightmares, and by the memories and visions that would follow in a wave of dreadful lucidity.

Exhausted, he slid back under the covers.

Something palpable, yet unseen, lingered in the room. It prevented him from falling asleep.

He pushed the blanket aside, and reluctant to turn on the light, limped across to the window, and pulled back the curtain.

Spellbound, he gazed at the white mist of dawn filtering into the room. He strained his eyes wide open to reassure himself that he was not dreaming.

As it had so often happened, she materialized out of that formless haze, and sat by his working table amid the stuffed birds that stared at him impassively from their dead, empty glass eyes.

Carefully, he approached the figure. Swiftly she vanished, like a shadow that leaves no trace.

The bells of the nearby church and the hurried steps of old women on their way to early mass echoed through the silent streets.

The familiar sounds reassured him that today was going to be like any other day.

He washed and shaved, then prepared his morning coffee and ate standing at the stove.

Feeling decidedly better, he settled down to work on his birds.

A vague restlessness, some undefined dread, prevented him from finishing his work on the owl he had promised a client for that afternoon.

He put on his good suit, and went outside for a walk.

The city still had an air of restful clarity at that early hour.

Slowly, he limped down the narrow street. The section of Caracas where he lived had been bypassed by the frenzy of modernization that had swept through the rest of the city.

Except for a casual greeting, he never stopped to talk to anyone.

Yet, he felt oddly protected by these old streets with their one-story colonial houses alive with the laughter of children, and the voices of women gossiping in front of their doors.

At first, people had talked a great deal about him, but he never gave in to the need to explain his presence. He was aware that because of his aloofness, his neighbors speculated and were suspicious of him.

Over the years, as was to be expected, people's interest in him finally waned. Nowadays, they merely thought of him as an eccentric old man who stuffed birds for a living, and wanted to be left alone.

Federico Mueller caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror outside a shop.

As always when he saw his reflection, he couldn't help but be startled to discover that he looked so much older than his years could possibly warrant.

Not a vestige remained of the tall, handsome man with blond curls and a deep tan.

Although he had been only thirty when he first came to live in this section of Caracas, he already looked the way he did now at sixty: old before his time, with a useless leg, white hair, deeply etched wrinkles, and a death-like pallor that wouldn't disappear regardless of how long he stayed outdoors.

Shaking his head, he resumed his walk toward the plaza and rested on a bench.

A few old men were already about, sitting with their hands between their knees, each one lost in his own memories. He found something oddly disturbing in their unshared solitude.

He rose and walked on, limping through block after block of crowded streets.

The sun was hot. The contours of buildings had lost their early-morning preciseness, and the noise in the streets intensified the dizzying shimmer of the haze hanging over the city.

And again, as he had done so many times before, he found himself standing in front of the same bus depot.

His eyes caught a dark face in the crowd. "Mercedes," he whispered, knowing that it couldn't possibly be her.

He wondered if the woman had heard him, for suddenly she looked into his eyes. It was a rapid, yet deliberate glance that filled him with apprehension and hope.

Then the woman vanished in the crowd.

"Have you seen a dark, tall woman pass by?" he asked one of the hawkers roaming around the bus depot, his tray of candies and cigarettes strapped in front of him.

"I've seen hundreds of women," the man said, making a wide circle with his hand. "There are lots of women around here." He grabbed Federico Mueller's arm and turned him slightly to the left. "See those buses over there? They are filled with women. Old ones, dark ones, tall ones. Anyway you like them. They are all going to the coastal towns." Laughing, the man continued weaving in and out of the waiting buses, advertising his wares.

Possessed by an irrational certainty that he would find that face, Federico Mueller got on a bus and walked down the aisle gazing intently at each passenger. They stared back at him in silence.

For an instant, he thought that all the faces resembled hers. He had to rest for a moment, he thought, and sat on one of the empty seats at the back of the bus.

A faint, faraway voice demanding his ticket roused him from his slumber. The words vibrated in his head.

A drowsiness pressed heavily on his brow, and he had difficulty opening his eyes. He gazed out the window. The city was far behind.

Puzzled and embarrassed, he looked up at the ticket collector. "I didn't intend to go anyplace," Federico Mueller stammered apologetically. "I only came looking for someone."

He paused for a moment, then mumbled to himself. "Someone I hoped and dreaded to find on this bus."

"That happens," the man remarked sympathetically. "Since you have to pay the full fare, you might as well take advantage of the ride, and go all the way to Curmina."

The man smiled and patted Federico Mueller on the shoulder. "There you can get a bus that will take you back to the capital."

Federico Mueller handed him some money. "When does the bus come back to Caracas?" he asked.

"Around midnight," the man said vaguely. "Or whenever there are enough people to make the trip worthwhile." The man gave him back his change, then continued down the aisle, and collected the rest of the tickets from the passengers.

It was fate that I had to catch this bus without having planned to do so, Federico Mueller thought.

A half smile flittered across his face. His worn eyelids closed with a feeling of hope, quiet and deep. Fate was finally forcing him to surrender to his past. An unknown peacefulness filled him as he recalled that past.


It all began at a party in Caracas, where he was approached by a high-ranking general in the government, who asked him point-blank to join the secret police.

Believing him to be drunk, Federico did not take the man's words seriously. It came as a surprise when a few days later an army officer knocked on his door.

"I'm Captain Sergio Medina," he introduced himself. There had been nothing sinister about the short, powerfully built man with the copperish skin and the gold-rimmed teeth that flashed in a strong open smile.

Convincingly, he talked about the excitement involved in the job they had in mind for him, the good pay, the fast promotions. Flattered and intrigued, Federico accompanied Medina to the general's house.

Patting him affectionately on his back, like an old friend, the general took him to his study. "This job will earn you the respect and gratitude of this country," the general said. "A country that, after all, is your own and yet isn't. This will be your chance to truly become one of us."

Nodding, Federico could not help but agree with the general.

He had been sixteen years old when his parents had immigrated to Venezuela. Under the auspices of a government program, they had settled in the interior to farm the vast acreages of land allotted to them, which they had hoped to own one day.

After an accident that killed both of his parents, Federico, not in the least interested in farming, apprenticed himself to a German zoologist, an expert in taxidermy who taught him all he knew.

"I can't think how I could be of use to you," Federico said to the general. "All I know is how to trap and stuff birds."

The general laughed uproariously. "My dear Federico," he emphasized, "your experience as a taxidermist is the ideal cover for the job we have in mind for you."

The general smiled confidentially, and leaning closer added, "We have accurate reports of a subversive group operating in the Curmina area. We want you to find out about them."

He laughed again, gleefully, like a child. "So far, we have been unsuccessful with the men we have sent into the area. But you, my friend, a musiu trapping birds, will not arouse any suspicion."

Federico was never given the opportunity to refuse the job. Within days, a brand-new jeep equipped with the latest instruments and chemicals of a quality he had never been able to afford were put at his disposal.

Federico was always careful when in the hills. One morning, however, upon seeing a rare toucan in one of his traps, he leapt out of his hammock without first putting on his boots.

He felt a sting between his toes. He swore, and thought he had stepped on a thorn. But when a sharp pain radiated from the small punctures- where two little drops of blood had formed- and quickly spread through his whole foot, and up his leg, he knew he had been bitten by a snake: A snake he had neither seen nor heard.

He rushed to his jeep parked nearby and rummaged through his gear until he found his first-aid kit. He tied a handkerchief halfway up the calf of his leg, then expertly cut across the two punctures and bled the wound.

But too much poison had already gone into the bloodstream. Flashing pains shot all the way to his buttocks, and his foot swelled to twice its size.

He would never make it to Caracas, he thought, easing himself behind the steering wheel. He would have to take his chances in the nearest town.

The nurse at the dispensary near the plaza calmly informed him that they were out of antivenin serum.

"What am I supposed to do? Die?" Federico shouted, his face contorted with anger and pain.

"I hope not," the nurse remarked calmly. "I'm sure you've already discarded the chances of reaching Caracas in time."

She studied him, carefully considering her next words. "I know of a healer here. She has the best contras, the secret potions to counteract a snake's poison."

The nurse smiled apologetically. "That's why we hardly ever stock up on serum. Most victims prefer to go to her."

She examined the swollen foot once more. "I don't know what kind of snake bit you, but it looks bad to me. Your only chance is the healer. You'd better take it."

Federico had never been to a witch doctor in his life, but at that moment he was willing to try anything. He didn't want to die. He was beyond caring who helped him.

The nurse, assisted by two customers from the bar across the street, carried Federico to the witch doctor's house in the outskirts of town. He was put on a cot in a smoke-filled room that smelled of ammonia.

At the rasping sound of a match, Federico opened his eyes. Through the haze of smoke, he saw a tall woman lighting a candle on an altar.

In the flickering light her face was like a mask, very still with high-molded bones over which her tautly stretched skin, dark and smooth, shone like polished wood. Her eyes, hooded by heavy lids, revealed absolutely nothing as they looked into his.

"A macagua bite for sure," she diagnosed, shifting her gaze to his foot. "That snake gave you all she had.

"You were lucky the nurse brought you here. There is no serum for this kind of poison."

She pulled up a chair beside him, then examined his foot with great attention, her long fingers soft and gentle as she probed the skin around the wound.

"You don't have to worry," she stated with absolute conviction. "You're young. You'll survive the poison and my treatment."

Turning toward the table behind her, she reached for two large decanters filled with a syruplike greenish brown liquid in which roots, leaves, and snake entrails floated around. From one jar, she poured a certain amount in a metal plate: From the other one, she half filled a small tin mug.

She lit a cigar. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes and swayed her head. Abruptly, she bent over his foot and blew what seemed to be the accumulated smoke of the entire cigar into the cut he had made with his knife. She sucked the blood, then quickly spit it out and rinsed her mouth with a clear, strong-smelling liquid. Seven times she repeated this procedure.

Thoroughly exhausted, she rested her head against the back of her chair.

A few moments later she began to mumble an incantation. She unbuttoned his shirt, and with her middle finger which she had dipped into the cigar's ashes, she drew a straight line from the base of his throat down to his genitals. With remarkable ease, she turned him around, pulled off his shirt, and painted a similar line down his back.

"I've halved you now," she informed him. "The poison can't go over to the other side." She then retraced the back and front lines with a dab of fresh ashes.

In spite of his pain, Federico laughed. "I'm sure the poison spread all over my body a long time ago," he said.

She held his face between her hands, forcing him to look into her eyes. "Musiu, if you don't trust me, you'll die," she warned him, then proceeded to wash his foot with the liquid she had poured into the metal plate.

That done, she reached for the tin mug. "Drink it all," she commanded, holding it to his lips. "If you throw up, you're done for."

Uncontrollable waves of nausea threatened to bring the foul-tasting potion up.

"Force yourself to keep it down," she urged him, placing a small rectangular pillow filled with dried maize kernels under his neck.

She watched him attentively as she soaked a handkerchief in a mixture of rose water and ammonia.

"Now breathe!" she ordered, holding the handkerchief over his nose. "Breathe slowly and deeply."

For a moment he struggled under the suffocating pressure of her hand, then gradually relaxed as she began to massage his face.

"Don't get close to pregnant women. They'll neutralize the effect of the contra," she admonished.

He looked at her uncomprehendingly, then mumbled that he did not know any pregnant women.

Seemingly satisfied with his statements, Mercedes Peralta turned to the altar, lined up seven candles around the statue of Saint John, and lit them.

Silently, she gazed at the flickering flames, then with a sudden jerk, she threw back her head and recited an oddly dissonant litany.

The words turned into a cry, which rose and fell with the regularity of her breathing. It was an inhuman-sounding lament that caused the walls to vibrate and the candle flames to waver.

The sound filled the room, the house, and went far beyond, as if it were meant to reach some distant force.

Federico was vaguely aware of being moved into another room.

The days and nights blurred into each other as he lay half-conscious on the cot, hounded by fevers and chills.

Whenever he opened his eyes, he saw the healer's face in the darkness, the red stones in her earrings shining like an extra pair of eyes. In a soft melodious voice, she sent the shadows, the terrible phantoms of his fever, scurrying to their corners.

Or, as if she were part of his hallucinations, she identified those unknown forces and commanded him to wrestle with them.

Afterward, she bathed his sweat-covered body and massaged him until his skin was cool again.

There were times when Federico felt someone else's presence in the room. Different hands, larger and stronger, yet as gentle as the healer's, cradled his head while she urged him in a harsh tone to drink the foul-tasting potions she held to his lips.

The morning she brought him his first meal of rice and vegetables, a young man holding a guitar followed her into the room.

"I'm Elio," he introduced himself. Then strumming his guitar, he began to sing a funny little ditty that related the events of Federico's bout with the poison.

Elio also told him that the day the nurse at the dispensary brought him to his mother's house, he set out for the hills, and with his machete, slayed the macagua that had bitten him. Had the snake survived, the potions and incantations would have been useless.

One morning, upon noticing that the purple swollen flesh had returned to normal, Federico reached for his laundered clothes hanging over the bedstead.

Eager to test his strength, he walked out into the yard, where he found the healer bent over a tub rilled with rosemary water. Silently, he watched her dip her hands into the purple liquid.

Smiling, she looked up at him. "It keeps my hair from turning white," she explained, combing her fingers repeatedly through her curls.

Bewildered by the surge of desire welling up inside him, he moved closer. He longed to kiss the drops of rosemary water trickling down her face, her neck, into the bodice of her dress.

He didn't care that she might be old enough to be his mother. To him she was ageless and mysteriously seductive.

"You saved my life," he murmured, touching her face. His fingers lingered on her cheeks, her full lips, her warm smooth neck. "You must have added a love potion to that foul-tasting brew you forced me to drink every day."

She looked straight into his eyes but did not answer.

Afraid she had taken offense, he mumbled an apology.

She shook her head, her raspy laughter starting low in her throat.

He had never heard such a sound. She laughed with her whole soul, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

"You can stay here until you're stronger," she said, tousling his blond curls. In her veiled eyes, there was a hint of mockery but also of passion.

Months passed swiftly. The healer accepted him as her lover. Yet, she would never let him stay a full night in her room.

"Just a little longer," he pleaded each time, caressing the silken texture of her skin, fervently wishing that for once she would give in to his demand. But she always pushed him out into the darkness, and laughing, would close the door behind him.

"Perhaps if we stay lovers for three years," she used to tell him every time.

The rainy season had almost come to an end before Federico resumed his trips into the hills.

Elio accompanied him, at first to protect him, but soon he too was caught up with trapping and stuffing birds.

Never before had Federico taken someone with him. Despite the ten-year age difference, they became the best of friends.

Federico was surprised at how readily Elio endured the long hours of silence as they waited for a bird to fall into a trap; and how much he enjoyed their leisurely walks along the cool, hazy summits, where one was easily overtaken by fog and wind.

Federico was often tempted to tell Elio about Captain Medina, but somehow he never dared to break that intimate, fragile stillness.

Federico felt a vague guilt about the easy days in the hills and the secret nights with the healer. Not only had he convinced Elio and the healer, but he himself had begun to believe that Captain Medina was merely the middleman from Caracas who sold his stuffed birds to schools, museums, and curio shops.

"You've got to do better than catch those damn birds," Captain Medina said to him one afternoon as they were having a beer at a local bar. "Mingle more with the healer's patients. Through gossip, one learns the most astounding things. At any rate, you must finish your brilliant maneuver."

Federico had been surprised and, in turn, upset when Captain Medina had congratulated him on his clever scheme: The captain actually believed that Federico had let the snake bite him on purpose.

"It's the intellectuals," Federico said, "the educated people, who plan and plot against a dictatorship. Not poor farmers and fishermen. They are too busy making a living to notice what kind of government they have."

"Musiu, you aren't paid to give me your opinions," Medina cut him short. "Just do what you're supposed to do."

Medina turned the empty beer glass in his hands, then looked up at Federico and added in a whisper, "Not too long ago the leader of a small, but fanatic, revolutionary group escaped from jail. We have reason to believe that he's hiding in the area."

Laughing, Medina placed his right hand on the table. "He left in jail the first joint of each of his fingers. For that, he's now called El Mocho."



The rain had kept on falling since early afternoon: The sound of the defective gutter by his window prevented Federico from falling asleep.

He went out into the corridor and was about to light a cigarette when he heard a soft murmur coming from the healer's working room.

He knew it was not the healer. That morning he had driven her to a neighboring town where she was to attend a seance.

Federico tiptoed down the corridor. Among the different voices, he distinctly recognized Elio's excited voice.

At first, he could not make much sense of their conversation, but when the words 'dynamite', 'the proposed dam in the hills', and 'the dictator's unofficial visit to it' crop up several times, he realized with disturbing clarity that he had unwittingly stumbled on a plot to assassinate the head of the military government.

Federico leaned against the wall, his heart beating violently, then he resolutely walked up the two steps into the dark room.

"Elio! Is that you?" Federico said. "I heard voices and got worried."

There were several men in the room: They recoiled instantly into the shadows.

Elio was not in the least perturbed. He took Federico by the arm and introduced him to the man sitting on the chair by the altar.

"Godfather, this is the musiu I've been telling you about," he said. "He's a friend of the family. He's to be trusted."

Slowly, the man rose. There was something saintly about his bony face, with the wide cheekbones standing out sharply under his dark skin and eyes that shone with a chilling fierceness. "A pleasure to meet you," he said. "I'm Lucas Nunez."

For a moment Federico stared at the proffered hand, then shook it. The first joint of each finger was missing.

"I feel that you can be trusted," he said to Federico. "Elio says that you may be willing to help us."

Nodding, Federico closed his eyes, afraid his voice and gaze would betray his turmoil.

Lucas Nunez introduced him to the group of men.

One by one they shook his hand, then sat back on the floor, forming a half-circle. The faint flicker of the candles on the altar barely outlined their faces.

Federico listened attentively to Lucas Nunez's precise, calm arguments as he discussed the past and present political situation in Venezuela.

"And how can I help you?" Federico asked him at the end of his explanation.

Lucas Nunez's eyes revealed a sad, reflective mood: His face clouded over, struck with unwelcome memories.

But then, he smiled and said, "If the others agree, you could drive some explosives into the hills for us."

They all agreed instantly. Federico sensed that they had accepted him so fully and so quickly because they knew he was Mercedes Peralta's lover.

It was after midnight when their conversation ceased, bit by bit, like the flapping wings of an injured bird. The men looked pale, haggard.

Federico felt a chill as they embraced him. Without a sound, they left the room and disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

He was stunned by the devilish irony of his situation. Lucas Nunez's last words rang in his ears. "You're the perfect man for the job. No one will suspect a musiu trapping birds in the hills."

Federico pulled the jeep over to a small clearing beside the road. A light drizzle swathed the hills as with gauze, and the half-moon filtering through the misty clouds gave a spectral radiance to the landscape.

Silently, he and Elio unloaded the well-padded box packed tightly with dynamite sticks.

"I'll carry the stuff down to the shack," Elio said, smiling reassuringly. "Don't look so worried, Federico. They'll have the bridge mined by dawn."

Federico watched him descend the steep overgrown trail into the shadows below. Often he had come with him to this spot, looking for wild pomarrosas, a peculiarly fragrant fruit that smells like rose petals. It was the healer's favorite fruit.

Federico sat on a fallen tree trunk and buried his face in his hands.

Except for the vague guilt he had felt, at times, for accepting the generous pay- which far exceeded the worth of even the rarest of birds he had delivered to Medina- he had dismissed all thought regarding the implications of what he was doing.

Until now, it had all seemed to him like a make-believe adventure in a movie or in some exotic novel. It had nothing to do with having to betray people he knew and loved; people who trusted him.

He wished Elio would hurry: Federico had seen Medina's jeep parked in a secluded place on the outskirts of town, secretly following him.

Federico had told Medina everything, and now it was too late to regret it.

He leapt to his feet as a dazzling flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Thunder broke in a deafening roar, echoing in the depths of the ravine. Rain came in a solid sheet, so dense it blurred everything around him.

"What a fool I am!" he cried out loud, running down the steep trail. With absolute certainty, Federico knew that Medina had no intention of honoring his promise to spare the healer and her son, that he had only given it as a means to get Federico to divulge everything he knew.

"Elio!!" Federico screamed, but his shout was drowned by the resounding volley of a machine gun and the startled cries of hundreds of birds rising up into the dark sky.

In the few minutes that it took him to reach the shack, his mind raced through a nightmare. With devastating clarity he saw how his life, in one instant, had taken a fatal turn.

Almost mechanically, he went through the motions of sobbing over Elio's lifeless, torn body. He neither heard nor saw Medina and the two soldiers entering the shack.

Medina was shouting at one of his men, but his voice was only a distant murmur. "You goddamn fool! I told you not to shoot! You could have had us all blown to pieces with that dynamite."

"I heard someone running in the dark," the soldier defended himself. "It could have been an ambush. I don't trust this musiu!"

Medina turned away from the man and pointed his flashlight into Federico's face. "You're dumber than I thought," he spit. "What did you think this was going to be? Make believe?"

He ordered the soldiers to take the box with the explosives up the ravine.

Federico brought the jeep to such a violent halt in front of the healer's house that he pitched forward, hitting his head on the windshield.

For a moment he sat dazed looking uncomprehendingly at the closed door; at the closed shutters.

No light shone through the cracks of the wooden panels, yet the blaring sound of a radio playing a popular tune could be heard for miles.

Federico went around to the yard, where he saw the army jeep parked on the side street. "Medina!" he screamed, running across the patio through the kitchen to the healer's working room.

Defeated, utterly worn-out, he fell to the ground, not far from where the healer lay moaning in the corner by the altar.

"She doesn't know anything," Federico shouted. "She's not involved in this."

Medina threw his head back and laughed uproariously: His gold-rimmed teeth caught the light of the candles burning on the altar. "To be a double-crossing spy, you have to be infinitely more clever than I," he said. "I have practice. Being cunning and suspicious is my livelihood." He kicked Federico in the groin. "If you wanted to warn her, you should have come here first and not wasted time crying over the boy you killed."

The two soldiers grabbed the healer by the arms, forcing her to stand up. Her half-closed eyes were bruised and swollen. Her lips and nose were bleeding. Shaking herself loose, she glanced around the room until her eyes found Federico.

"Where is Elio?" she asked.

"Tell her, Federico." Medina laughed, his eyes shining with malice. "Tell her how you killed him."

Like an enraged animal unleashing its last strength, she pushed Medina against the altar, then turned to one of the soldiers and reached for his gun.

The soldier fired a shot.

The healer stood still, her hands pressed on her chest, trying to stop the blood from seeping through the bodice of her dress. "I curse you to the end of your days, Federico."

Her voice dropped: The words were unclear. She seemed to be reciting an almost inaudible incantation.

Softly, like a rag doll, she collapsed on the ground.

With a last surge of lucidity, Federico made a final decision: in death, he would join the people he had betrayed.

His thoughts ran ahead of him. He would atone by killing the men responsible for everything: himself, and his accomplice- Medina.

Federico unsheathed his hunting knife and plunged it into Medina's heart.

He expected to be killed instantly, but one of the soldiers only shot him in the leg.

Hand-cuffed, blindfolded, and gagged, Federico was carried outside into a car. He wondered if it was already daylight, for he heard the mocking babble of a flock of parrots crossing the sky.

He was certain they had arrived in Caracas when the car stopped hours later.

He was put into a cell. He confessed to anything his torturers hinted at: Everything, he said, was immaterial to him. His life had already ended.

Federico had no idea how long he remained in jail. Unlike the other prisoners, he did not count the weeks, months, and years. All the days were the same to him.

One day he was set free.

It was a morning of great agitation. People were screaming, crying, and laughing in the streets. The dictatorship had come to an end.

Federico moved to an old section of the city and he began to stuff birds again. He no longer went into the hills to trap them, however.






The Witch's Dream: Part 7 - Chapter 26.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 7 - Chapter 26.

"Human nature is most strange," dona Mercedes said. "I knew that you were going to do something for me. I knew it from the first moment I laid eyes on you.

"And yet, when you did what you were here to do, I couldn't believe my eyes. You have actually moved the wheel of chance for me.

"I can say that you enticed Federico Mueller to return to the realm of the living. You brought him back to me by the force of your witch's shadow."

My retort was cut off before I had time to open my mouth. "During all these months you've been at my house," she said, "you have been under my shadow, in a minimal way, of course; yet the usual would've been for me to make a link for you, and not the other way around."

I wanted to clarify matters. I insisted that I had not done anything. But she would not hear of it.

`For the sake of understanding, I proposed a line of thought: She had made the link herself with her conviction that I was the one who would bring her something.

"No," she said, puckering her face. "Your reasoning is wrong. It makes me very sad that you seek explanations that only impoverish us."

She rose and embraced me. "I feel sorry for you," she whispered in my ear.

Suddenly, she laughed, a joyful sound that dispelled her sadness. "There is no way to explain how you've done this," she said. "I'm not talking about human arrangements or about the shadowy nature of witchcraft, but about something as elusive as timelessness itself."

She almost stammered, searching for words. "All I know and feel is that you made a link for me. How extraordinary! I was trying to show you how witches move the wheel of chance, and then you moved it for me yourself."

"I told you I can't take credit for that," I insisted and meant it. Her fervor embarrassed me.

"Don't be so thick, Musiua," she retorted in an annoyed tone that reminded me of Agustin. "Something is helping you to create a transition for me. You can say, and be thoroughly accurate in saying it, that you have used your witch's shadow without even knowing it."






The Witch's Dream: Part 8.

The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 8.

  • Chapter 27.
  • Chapter 28.


The Witch's Dream: Part 8 - Chapter 27.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 8 - Chapter 27.

The rainy season was almost over, yet it still rained every afternoon; a torrential downpour accompanied by thunder and lightning.

Usually, I spent these rainy afternoons with dona Mercedes in her room, where she lay in her hammock, either bemused with or indifferent to my presence.

If I asked her a question, she would answer me: If I said nothing, she would remain silent.

"No patient ever comes after the rain," I said, watching the downpour from her bedroom window.

The storm was soon over, and it left the street flooded.

Three buzzards landed on a nearby roof. With wings outstretched they leapt about, then lined up at the very ridge and faced the sun bursting through the clouds.

Half-naked children came out of their houses. They booed the buzzards away, then chased one another across the muddy puddles.

"No one ever comes after the rain," I repeated and turned to dona Mercedes, who was sitting silently in her hammock, one leg crossed over the other, staring at her cutoff shoe.

"I think I'll go and visit Leon Chirino," I said and got up from my chair.

"I wouldn't do that," she mumbled, her gaze still on her toes.

She looked up. There was a heavy brooding look in her eyes.

She hesitated, frowning and biting her lips, as if she wanted to say something else. Instead, she rose and, taking my arm, led me to her working room.

Once inside, she moved with great speed, her skirt swishing noisily as she went from one corner to another, looking over and over again in the same places, turning everything upside down on the table, on the altar, and inside the glass cabinet. "I can't find it," she finally said.

"What did you lose?" I asked. "Perhaps I know where it is."

She opened her mouth to speak, but instead she turned to the altar. She lit a candle, then a cigar, which she puffed on nonstop until it was just a stub, her eyes fixed on the ashes falling on the metal plate in front of her.

She turned abruptly, stared at me still standing by the table, and went down on her haunches. She crawled underneath the table and, reaching behind the bottles, dragged out a long gold chain on which a clump of medals was attached.

I began, "What are you--"

I stopped in midsentence as I remembered the night she threw the chain high up in the sky. 'When you see the medals again, you'll return to Caracas,' she had said.

I never found out if some kind of trick had been involved or if I had merely been too tired to witness their fall. I had totally forgotten about the medals, for I had not seen them since.

Mercedes Peralta was grinning as she stood up. She hung the medals around my neck and said, "Feel how heavy they are. Pure gold!"

"They really are heavy!" I exclaimed, bouncing the clump in my hand.

Smooth and shiny, the medals had a luxuriant orange tinge to them, characteristic of Venezuelan gold.

They ranged in size from a dime to a silver dollar. Not all of them were religious medals. Some bore the likeness of Indian chieftains from the time of the Spanish Conquest.

"What are they for?"

I asked.

"To diagnose," dona Mercedes said. "To heal. They're good for anything I choose to do with them."

Sighing loudly, she sat on her chair by the table.

With the chain still around my neck, I stood in front of her. I wanted to ask her where I should put the medals, but a feeling of utter desolation rendered me speechless. As I gazed into her eyes, I saw boundless melancholy and longing reflected in them.

"You're an experienced medium now," she murmured. "But your time here has ended."

She had tried for a week to help me summon the spirit of her ancestor: It seemed that my incantations had no more power. We had failed to lure the spirit as I alone had done every night for months.

Dona Mercedes laughed a little tinkling laughter that sounded oddly ominous. "The spirit is telling us that it's time for you to move on.

"You have fulfilled what you came to do. You came to move the wheel of chance for me.

"I moved it for you the night I saw you at the plaza from Leon Chirino's car. It was at that precise instant that I wished you to come here.

"Had I not done so, you would never have found me regardless of who sent you to my door. You see, I, too, used my witch's shadow to make a link for you."

She gathered the boxes, candles, jars, and scraps of material from the table, piled them in her arms, then carefully eased herself out of her chair. "Help me," she said, pointing with her chin to the glass cabinet.

After placing each item neatly on the shelves, I turned to the altar and lined up the knocked-over saints.

"A part of me will always be with you," dona Mercedes said softly. "Wherever you go, whatever you do, my invisible spirit will always be there. Fate has woven its invisible threads and tied us together."

The thought that she was saying good-bye brought tears to my eyes. It struck me like a revelation that I had taken her for granted, loved her carelessly and easily the way one loves the old.

I had no time to express my feelings, for at that moment an old woman burst into the room.

"Dona Mercedes!" she cried out, clutching her folded hands against her shriveled bosom. "You have to help Clara.

"She's had one of her attacks, and there is no way I can bring her here. She's just lying on her bed as if she were dead."

The woman spoke rapidly out of the side of her mouth, her voice rising sharply as she moved toward the healer.

"I don't know what to do. There is no use calling the doctor, for I know that she's having one of her attacks."

She paused and crossed herself, and as she looked about the room, she discovered me. "I didn't realize you were with a patient," she mumbled contritely.

Offering the woman a chair, dona Mercedes put her at ease. "Don't worry, Emilia. The musiua is no patient. She's my helper," she explained. Then she sent me to fetch her basket from the kitchen.

As I stepped outside I heard dona Mercedes ask Emilia if the aunts had been to visit Clara. I took my time closing the curtain behind me so that I could hear the woman's answer.

"They finally left this morning," she said. "They have been here for almost a week. They want to move back here. Luisito came, too. As usual he was anxious to take Clara back with him to Caracas."



Although I had no way of assessing what the information meant to dona Mercedes, I knew that she deemed it necessary to include the house in her treatment, for she sent Emilia to the drugstore to purchase a bottle of lluvia de oro, golden rain; a bottle of lluvia de plata, silver rain; and a bottle of la mono poderosa, the powerful hand.

These flower extracts, mixed with water, are used to wash the bewitched as well as their houses. It is a task the bewitched themselves have to perform.



The valley and the gentle slopes south of town- where sugarcane fields used to be- had been claimed by industrial centers and unattractive rows of boxlike houses.

Amid them, like some relic of the past, stood what remained of the hacienda El Rincón: a large pink house and an orchard.

For a long time dona Mercedes and I stood gazing at the house, the peeling paint, the closed doors, and shutters.

Not a sound came from inside. Not a leaf stirred in the trees.

We walked through the front gate. The traffic noise from the wide streets around us was muted by the crumbling high wall enclosing the property and by the tall casuarina trees, which also shut out the direct sun.

"Do you think Emilia has returned?" I whispered, intimidated by that eerie silence; by the afternoon shadows falling across the wide walkway.

Without answering, dona Mercedes pushed open the front door.

A gust of wind redolent of decay scattered dead leaves at our feet.

We walked along the wide corridor bordering the inside patio full of shade and humidity.

Water trickled from a flat dish held perfectly balanced on the raised hands of a chubby angel.

We turned a corner and continued along another corridor past endless rooms.

Half-opened doors allowed glimpses of unmatching odds and ends of furniture thrown together in the most haphazard fashion.

I could see sheets draped over couches and armchairs, rolled-up carpets, and statues. Beveled mirrors, portraits, and paintings were propped against the walls, as if waiting to be rehung.

Dona Mercedes, not in the least perturbed by the chaotic atmosphere of the house, only shrugged her shoulders when I commented on it.

With the confidence of someone familiar with her surroundings, she stepped into a large, dimly lit bedroom.

At the very center stood a wide mahogany bed draped with mosquito nets as delicate as mist. Dark, heavy curtains covered the windows, and a black cloth was flung over the mirror on the dresser.

The smell of burning tallow, incense, and holy water made me think of a church.

Books lay everywhere, piled carelessly on the floor, on the bed, on the two armchairs, on the night table, on the dresser, and even on an upside-down chamber pot.

Mercedes Peralta turned on the lamp by the night table. "Clara," she called softly, pushing the netting aside.

Expecting to see a child, I stood gaping at a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, propped against the raised headboard with her limbs all awry like a rag doll that had been carelessly tossed on the bed.

A red Chinese silk robe embroidered with dragons barely covered her voluptuous figure. In spite of her disheveled appearance, she was stunningly beautiful, with high slanted cheekbones, a sensual full mouth, and dark skin burnished to a fine gloss.

"Negrita, Clarita," dona Mercedes called, shaking her gently by the shoulder.

The young woman opened her eyes with a start- like someone awakening from a nightmare- then shrank back, her pupils enormously dilated. Tears flowed down her cheeks, but no expression crossed her face.

Pushing the books onto the floor, dona Mercedes placed her basket at the foot of the bed, retrieved a handkerchief, sprinkled it with perfumed water and ammonia, her favorite remedy, and held it under the woman's nose.

The spiritual injection, as dona Mercedes called it, did not seem to affect the young woman, for she only stirred slightly. "Why can't I die in peace?" she asked, her voice querulous with fatigue.

"Don't talk nonsense, Clara," dona Mercedes said, rummaging through her basket. "When a person is ready to die, I'll gladly help them prepare for their eternal sleep.

"There are sicknesses that bring a body's death, but your time to die hasn't come yet."

As soon as dona Mercedes had found what she was after, she rose and motioned me to come closer.

"Stay with her. I'll be back shortly," she whispered in my ear.

Uneasily, I watched her leave the room, then shifted my attention to the bed, and caught sight of the deathlike stillness in the woman's face.

She did not even appear to be breathing, but she seemed aware of my intense scrutiny: her lids slowly opened, flickering lazily, hurt by the dim light.

She reached for the brush on the night table. "Would you braid my hair for me?" she asked.

Smiling, I nodded and took the brush. "One or two braids?" I asked, running the brush through her long curly hair; over and over to get out the tangles.

Like dona Mercedes' and Candelaria's, her hair smelled of rosemary.

"How about one nice thick braid?" I asked.

Clara did not answer. With a fixed, but absent, gaze she stared at the farthest wall in the room, where oval-framed photographs hung surrounded by palm fronds braided in the form of a cross.

With her face contorted by pain she turned toward me. Her limbs began to shake violently. Her face darkened as she gasped for air and tried to push herself up the headboard.

I ran to the door, but afraid to leave her all by herself, I did not dare go out of the room. Repeatedly, I called for dona Mercedes: There was no answer.

Certain that some fresh air would do Clara good, I stepped over to the window and pulled open the curtain.

A faint glimmer of daylight still lingered outside. It made the leaves of the fruit trees vibrate with color and chased the shadows out of the room.

But the warm breeze drifting through the window made Clara only worse. Her body shook convulsively: Heaving and gasping, she collapsed on the bed.

Afraid that she might be suffering from an epileptic seizure and might bite off her tongue, I tried to get the hairbrush between her chattering teeth.

That filled her with terror. Her eyes dilated further. Her fingernails turned purple, and her wildly racing heartbeat throbbed in the swelling veins of her neck.

At a total loss as to what to do, I clutched the gold medals, which were still around my neck, and swung them back and forth in front of her eyes. I was not guided by any definite thought or idea; it was a purely automatic response.

"Negrita, Clarita," I murmured the way I had heard dona Mercedes call her earlier.

With a feeble effort, Clara tried to lift her hand.

I lowered the chain within her reach. Moaning softly, she clasped the medals and held them against her breasts.

She seemed to be drawing strength from some magic force, for the swollen veins in her neck receded. Her breathing became easier. Her pupils went back to normal, and I noticed that her eyes were not dark but a light brown, like amber.

A faint smile formed on her lips, which stuck dryly to her teeth. Closing her eyes, she let go of the medals and slipped sideways on the bed.

Dona Mercedes walked in so swiftly that she seemed to materialize at the foot of the bed, as if conjured up by the shadows invading the room.

In her hands, she held a large aluminum mug filled with a strong-smelling potion. Tightly clasped under her arm was a pile of newspapers.

Pressing her lips firmly together, she gestured me to remain silent, then placed the mug on the night table, and the newspapers on the floor.

She picked up the gold chain from the bed and, smiling, hung the medals around her neck.

Mumbling a prayer, she lit a candle and again rummaged through her basket until she found a tiny black clump of dough wrapped in leaves.

She rolled the dough between her palms into a ball and dropped it into the mug. It dissolved instantly with a fizzling sound.

She stirred the potion with her finger, and after tasting it brought the mug to Clara's lips. "Drink it all," she ordered.

Dona Mercedes watched silently, with an oddly detached expression on her face, as Clara gulp the liquid down.

An almost imperceptible smile appeared on Clara's face. It quickly turned into a harsh laughter, and ended in a terrified chatter, of which I did not catch a single word.

Moments later, she lay flat on the bed, whispering broken excuses and asking forgiveness.

Totally unperturbed by her outburst, dona Mercedes bent over Clara and massaged around her eyes; her fingers describing identical circles.

She moved to her temples, then with downward strokes, massaged the rest of her face, as if she were pulling off a mask.

Expertly, she rolled Clara toward the edge of the bed. Then, making sure Clara's head was hanging directly over the newspapers on the floor, she pressed hard on Clara's back until she vomited.

Nodding with approval, dona Mercedes examined the dark clump on the floor, wrapped it in the papers, and tied the bundle with a string.

"Now we'll have to bury this mess outside," she said, and in one swift motion she lifted Clara off the bed.

Gently, she wiped her face clean and tightened the belt on her robe.

"Musiua," dona Mercedes called, turning toward me, "hold Clara's other arm."

With the young woman in between us, we slowly shuffled down the corridor out into the yard and down the wide cement steps that led to the terraced slope where fruit trees grew.

There dona Mercedes buried the bundle in a deep hole she made me dig. Clara sat on the stone steps and watched us indifferently.

For six consecutive days Clara fasted. Every afternoon at precisely six o'clock, I drove dona Mercedes to El Rincón. She treated Clara in exactly the same manner. Each session ended under a fruit tree, where the newspaper bundle, smaller each day, was buried.

On the sixth and last day, hard as she tried, Clara did not vomit. Nevertheless, dona Mercedes made her bury the empty, bundled-up paper.

"Will she be all right now?" I asked on the way home. "Are the sessions over?"

"Not quite, to both questions," she said.

"Starting tomorrow, you're going to see Clara every day by yourself as part of her treatment." She patted my arm affectionately. "Get her to talk to you. It'll do her a lot of good.

"And," she added as an afterthought, "it'll do you a lot of good too."


Clothes and shoebox in hand, Clara hurried down the corridor into the bathroom.

She dropped everything on the floor, then took off her nightgown and admired herself in the mirrored walls.

She moved closer to see if her budding breasts had grown a bit more overnight. A satisfied smile spread over her face as she bent her head and counted her few pubic hairs.

Humming a little tune, she turned on the hot and cold water faucets in the enormous shell-shaped bathtub, then went over to the dressing table and carefully examined the various bottles arranged on the marble top.

Unable to decide which of the bath gels or salts to use, she poured a small amount of each into the water.

For a moment she stood staring at the foaming bubbles.

How different it had been in Piritu. Water had to be drawn from the river or from the newly installed municipal faucet by the road and had to be carried up the hill in tin cans.

Only a year had passed since her arrival at El Rincón, yet it seemed she had been living in this large old house forever.

She had made no conscious effort to forget her life in Piritu. Her memories, however, had begun to fade like visions in a dream.

All that remained was her grandmother's face, with the sound of her rocking chair creaking on the dirt-packed floor on that last day in the shack.


"You're almost grown up, Negra," her grandmother had said, her face looking older, more tired than it ever had before. The child knew at that instant that the only person she had in the world was going to die.

"That's what old age does," her grandmother had said, aware of the child's realization. "When a body is ready to die, there is nothing one can do but lie down and close one's eyes.

"I've already traded my rocking chair for a coffin, and this shack for a Christian burial."

"But grandmother--"

"Hush, child," the old woman stopped her in mid-sentence.

She pulled out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, untied the knot in one corner, and counted the few coins she kept there for an emergency. "It's enough to get you to El Rincón."

She ran her fingers over the child's face, then braided her long curly hair.

"No one knows who your father is, but your mother, my daughter, is don Luis's illegitimate child.

"She left for Caracas right after you were born. She went to seek her fortune; but fortune doesn't need to be sought...quot;

Her voice trailed off: She had lost her train of thought.

After a long silence she added, "I'm sure don Luis will recognize you as his granddaughter. He's the owner of El Rincón. He's old and lonely."

She took the child's hands in hers, pressed them against her wrinkled cheeks, and kissed the leaf-shaped mole in her right palm. "Show this to him."



The candle burning before the figure of a black Christ blurred before the child's eyes.

She let her gaze wander to the cot in the corner, to the basket stuffed with starched, unironed clothing, to the wheelbarrow leaning against the wall in which she pushed her grandmother around.

For one last time her eyes rested on the old woman: Settled back in her rocking chair, she stared with empty eyes into the distance, her face already shrunken with death.



It was dusk when the bus driver let her off right in front of the recessed arched doorway built into the wall surrounding El Rincón.

She walked up the terraced hillside, where fruit trees grew all evenly spaced from one another.

Halfway up she stopped short and remained utterly still, her whole being taken over by the sight of a small tree covered with white blossoms.

"That's an apple tree," a voice said; and then inquired, "And who are you? Where have you come from?"

For an instant, she believed it was the tree that had spoken, then she became aware of an old man standing beside her.

"I fell out of the apple tree," she said, holding out her hand in greeting.

Surprised by her formal gesture, he stared at her hand. Instead of shaking it, he just held it in his, her palm turned up. "Strange," he murmured, his thumb moving over the leaf-shaped mole.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

"I think I'm your granddaughter," she said hopefully: She had taken an instant liking to him.

He was frail-looking, with silver-white hair that contrasted sharply with his tanned face. From his nose to the corners of his mouth ran two deep lines. She wondered if they had been drawn by worry and hard work, or by smiling a lot.

"Who sent you here?" the old man asked, his thumb still rubbing over the leaf-shaped mole.

"My grandmother, Eliza Gomez, of Piritu. She used to work here. She died yesterday morning."

"And what's your name?" he asked, studying her upturned face with the wide, amber-colored eyes, the fine nose, the full mouth, and the determined angle of her chin.

"They call me La Negra...," she faltered under his intense scrutiny.

"La Negra Clara," he said. "That was my grandmother's name. She was as dark as you."

To make light of his words, he led her around the apple tree.

"It was the size of a parsley sprig when I brought it back with me from a trip to Europe. People laughed at me, saying that the tree would never grow in the tropics.

"It's old now. It hasn't grown very tall, nor has it ever borne any fruit. But once in a while it dresses itself all in white."

Wistfully, he looked at the delicate blossoms: Then his glance came to rest on the child's eager face, and he said, "It's just as well that you fell out of the apple tree. This way I'll never take such a gift for granted."

Emilia's voice roused Clara from her reveries. "Negraaaaa," she called, sticking her head through the door. "Hurry up, child. I heard the car down the road."

Hastily, Clara stepped out of the tub, dried herself, and still half-wet, slipped into her favorite dress. It was yellow with embroidered daisies around the collar, the sleeves, and the waistband.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she giggled. The dress made her look even darker, but she liked it.

She had no doubt that her cousin Luisito would like it, too. He was to spend the whole summer at El Rincón. She had never met him: Last summer his parents had taken him to Europe.

Upon hearing the sound of an engine, Clara rushed along the corridor to the living room just in time to see from the open window a shiny black limousine pull up the driveway.

Amazed, she watched the uniformed chauffeur and a corpulent woman dressed in a white smock alight from the car.

Somber faced, they unloaded an endless number of suitcases, boxes, baskets, and bird cages.

Silently, they carried everything inside, disdaining Emilia's help when she ran out to give them a hand.

Before they were quite done, a loud, uninterrupted honking echoed down the road. Within moments a second car, just as large, black, and shiny as the first one, pulled up.

A short fat man, dressed in a beige guayabera, a Panama hat, and dark pants stuffed into boots that creaked with newness, moved out from behind the steering wheel.

Clara knew it was Raul; a very important man in the government and her grandfather's son-in-law.

"Don Luis!" Raul shouted. "I've brought your daughters; the Three Graces!"

He bowed low, almost sweeping the ground with his hat, then opened the back door of the limousine and held out his hand to help three women out of the car: the twins, Maria del Rosario and Maria del Carmen; and the youngest sister, Maria Magdalena, Raul's wife.

"Luisito," Raul called, opening the car's front door. "Let me help you with those..."

Clara, not waiting to hear the rest of his words, rushed outside. "Luisito! I've been looking forward--" She came to a dead halt.

Bewildered, Clara stared at the little boy holding on to a pair of crutches. "I didn't know you had an accident."

Glowering, Luisito looked into her dark face. "I didn't have an accident," he said matter-of-factly.

For being so slight and frail, he had a booming voice. "I had poliomyelitis," he explained, and noticing her uncomprehending expression, he added, "I'm a cripple."

"A cripple?" she repeated with a quizzical, yet calm, acceptance. "No one told me."

His little white hands and dark curls framing his pale, delicately featured face made her think of something unworldly. He reminded her of the blossoms on the apple tree.

She knew him to be thirteen, a year older than she, but to look at him one would think he was seven or eight.

His lips turned up at the corners, twitching, as if he had guessed her thoughts, and was suppressing his laughter.

"Oh, Luisito." She sighed with relief and bent to kiss his cheek. "You look like an angel."

"Who is she?" one of the twins asked, turning to Emilia. "Did you find someone to help you in the kitchen? Is she a relative of yours?"

"I'm Clara!" the child retorted, planting herself between the housekeeper and the aunt. "La Negra Clara, your niece!"

"My what?" the woman shrieked, grabbing Clara by the arm and shaking her.

"Negrita, Clarita," the boy cried excitedly. With the aid of only one crutch he limped toward her.

"Didn't you hear, Aunt Maria del Rosario? She's my cousin!" Taking Clara's hand, he pulled her away from his startled parents and his aunts. "Let's see what's keeping Grandfather."

Before Clara could explain that Grandfather was in town, Luisito had turned to the wide gravel path that led to the orchard behind the house. He maneuvered his crutches so swiftly and skillfully, he made her think of a monkey rather than a cripple.

"Luisito!" Maria del Rosario called after him. "You have to rest after the long, tiring drive. It's too hot to be outdoors."

"Leave him alone," Raul said, ushering the three women inside. "The fresh air will do him good."



"Where is Grandfather?" Luisito asked, easing himself to the ground under the shade of the mango tree growing by the wall.

"In town," Clara said, sitting beside him. She was glad she had not accompanied her grandfather on his rounds as usual.

She liked going with him to the barber shop, to the pharmacy where he bought the latest medicines which he never took, and to the bar where he had a glass of brandy and played a game of dominoes.

But today, she wouldn't have missed Luisito's arrival for anything in the world.

"Let's surprise Grandfather. He didn't expect you until late in the afternoon," Clara suggested. "Let's go into town without telling anybody."

"I can't walk that far." Luisito lowered his head and slowly pushed his crutches away.

Clara sucked in her lower lip. "We'll make it," she declared with fierce determination. "I'll push you in the wheelbarrow. I'm good at that."

She held her hand over his lips to stop him from interrupting her. "All you have to do is slide into the wheelbarrow and sit."

She pointed to the narrow arched doorway in the wall. "I'll meet you there."

She gave him no time to voice any objections but rose and ran to the tool shed halfway down the slope.

"You see how easy it was." Clara laughed and helped him into the wheelbarrow. "No one will know where we are." She placed the crutches on his lap, then pushed him along the wide, newly paved road, past factories, and still, empty stretches of land.

Sighing heavily, she brought the wheelbarrow to an abrupt halt. The heat made the landscape waver in the distance. The shimmering light hurt her eyes.

Her grandmother, although tiny and skinny, had certainly weighed more than Luisito, she thought, yet Clara didn't recall having had such a hard time pushing her about as she did now with her cousin.

"It'll take forever to get into town on this road," she declared, wiping the dust and perspiration off her face with the back of her hand. "Hold on tight, Luisito!" she cried out, steering the wheelbarrow down an empty field, green with weeds from the recent rains.

"You're a genius," the boy said laughing. "This is better than anything!

"You make me feel very happy; and happiness is what makes people healthy. I know it because I'm a cripple."

Excitedly, he pointed one of his crutches skyward. "Look, Clara. Look at those vultures above us. They are so powerful, so free."

vHe grabbed her arm. "Look at them! Look at their open black wings, how their legs stretch out beneath their tails. Look at their fierce beaks dripping blood. I'll bet you they're happy, too."

"The slaughterhouse is nearby," Clara explained.

"Push me to that pack of vultures on the ground," he begged, pointing to a place where the birds had settled like black shadows at the other side of the slaughterhouse.

"Faster, Clara!" he yelled. "Faster!"

The vultures hopped aside, then lifted lazily into the air and flew low in ever tightening circles before descending again a bit farther away.

Watching his flushed face, his eyes shiny with excitement, Clara knew that she was making him happy.

For a moment, her attention strayed from the uneven terrain, and she failed to maneuver the wheelbarrow around a large stone.

Luisito fell forward amid a clump of tall grass. He lay so still he looked dead.

"Luisito," Clara called anxiously, kneeling beside him. He didn't respond.

Carefully, she turned him around. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, and the weeds had scratched his cheeks.

His lids fluttered open. His eyes, round and puzzled, looked up into hers.

"You're wounded," she said. Taking his hand, she pressed it against his forehead, then showed him his bloodstained fingers.

He looked so happy, so pleased with himself that she laughed.

"Let's see if you're injured anyplace else," she said. "What about your leg?"

He sat up, then lifted his pant leg and said, "The braces are fine. If the braces ever get twisted, my father knows how to adjust them."

"But what about your leg?" she insisted. "Is it all right?"

Luisito shook his head sadly. "It will never be all right," he declared and swiftly pushed down his pants.

He explained to her what poliomyelitis was. "I've been to many doctors," he continued. "Father has taken me to the United States and to Europe, but I will always be a cripple."

He shouted the word so many times he became exhausted by his effort, and broke into a fit of coughing.

He looked at her sheepishly. "I'll go with you anywhere you want me to," he said, pressing his head against her shoulder. "Clara, are you really my cousin?"

"Do you think I'm too dark to be your cousin?" she retorted.

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "You're too nice to be my cousin.

"You're the only one who doesn't make fun of me or look at me with pity and disdain."

He pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a triangle, then rolled it and fastened it around his forehead. "This will be the best summer I've ever had," he said happily. "Come on, cousin, let's find Grandfather."



Before opening the dining room door, Clara brushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ears: Since the aunts' arrival from Caracas, her grandfather and she no longer had breakfast in the kitchen.

Maria del Rosario sat at the far end of the table, arranging flowers in a vase, tweaking them here and there with impatient gestures.

Maria del Carmen, with her head buried in her missal, sat silently beside her sister.

Luisito's parents, who had only stayed for a few days at El Rincón, had left for Europe.

"Good morning," Clara mumbled, taking her seat at the long mahogany table next to Luisito.

Don Luis looked up from his plate, and winked at her impishly.

He was trying to provoke the twins; he went on dunking his roll in his coffee, slurping noisily: They never ate before going to mass.

From over the rim of her hot-chocolate cup, Clara stole a glance at the disapproving faces of the twins.

They no longer bore any resemblance to the oil paintings of the young beautiful girls hanging in the living room. With their sallow complexions, their sunken cheeks, and their dark hair pulled back in a small bun, they reminded her of the embittered nuns that taught catechism at school.

Of the two, Maria del Rosario was the most difficult. Clara felt anxious and uneasy in her presence.

Maria del Rosario had the nervous eyes of a person who does not sleep; eyes of impatience and alarm; eyes that were always watching and judging. She was only agreeable when she had her own way.

One hardly noticed Maria del Carmen, on the other hand. Her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be weighed down by some ancestral tiredness. She walked with noiseless steps and spoke in a voice so soft it seemed as though she was only moving her lips.

Maria del Rosario's sharp voice intruded on Clara's musings.

"Won't you convince Luisito that you two should go with us to mass this Sunday, Clara?" she addressed the child as if speaking to her was against her better judgment.

"No. She won't," Luisito answered for her. "We'll go in the evening, with Emilia."

Clara stuffed a fritter into her mouth to hide her smile.

She knew Maria del Rosario would not insist. She hated scenes on Sunday, and there was no one like Luisito to get his way.

Aside from his grandfather, Luisito never heeded anyone's advice.

He used and abused the terror he inspired by his rages whenever his aunts tried to oppose his wishes; rages expressed in such frantic banging of his crutches against any object in front of him, obscene gestures, and foul language that it put the women on the verge of fainting.

"Clara, finish your breakfast," Maria del Rosario ordered. "The maid wants to clear everything away before we leave. She, too, wants to go to church."

Clara gulped down the rest of her hot chocolate and handed the cup to the tall, grave-looking woman the twins had brought with them from Caracas. She was from the Canary Islands and had taken over the running of the house.

Emilia was not in the least upset, for all she had to do now was to prepare don Luis' food. He absolutely refused to eat the vegetarian dishes the aunts were so partial to.

"Not even dogs would eat this food," he would say each time they all sat down for a meal.

Clara wasn't particularly fond of vegetarian dishes either, but she thought it the height of elegance when Maria del Rosario had the chauffeur drive her each morning to the fields of the Portuguese farmers, so that she could pick the vegetables for that day's meal, and pay twice as much as Emilia would at the open market on Saturdays.

The instant Clara heard the light tap of Luisito's crutches coming down the corridor, she climbed out the window and ran halfway down the terraced slope to the mango tree growing by the wall.

Unconcerned about her yellow dress getting dirty, she stretched full length on the ground, and kicked off her shoes.

Unable to find a comfortable position she turned this way and that. She felt her blood hammering in her temples, in her breasts, in her thighs. It filled her with a strange desire she didn't understand.

She sat up abruptly upon hearing Luisito approach.

"Why didn't you answer?" he asked, easing himself down beside her. He placed the crutches within reach and added, "They have all gone to mass, including Grandfather."

Smiling, she searched his face with tender admiration. He had a dreamy, soft-edged look, sweet, yet daring.

She wanted to tell him so many things, but she could not express any of them. "Kiss me the way they do in the movies," she demanded.

"Yes," he whispered, and that one word answered all her turmoil, that strange desire she didn't understand. "Oh, Negrito," he mumbled, burying his face in her neck. She smelled of the earth and the sun.

Her lips moved, but there was no sound. Wide-eyed, she watched him open his pants. She couldn't shift her gaze away.

His face shone down on her with glowing animation: His eyes seemed to melt between his long lashes. Carefully, so his steel braces would not hurt her, he eased himself on top of her.

"We'll stay together forever," Luisito said. "I've convinced my parents that I'll be happier at El Rincón. They are going to send a tutor out here."

Clara closed her eyes. In the last three months her love for Luisito had taken on monumental proportions. Daily they lay together in the shade of the mango tree.

"Yes," she whispered. "We'll stay together forever." She wrapped her arms around him.

She didn't know what she heard first: Luisito's muffled sigh or Maria del Rosario's horrified scream.

The aunt shrieked. She moved closer and, lowering her voice, said, "Luisito, you are a disgrace to the family. What you have done is unspeakable."

Her hard, implacable eyes never wavered for an instant from the red and white blossoms hanging over the wall.

"And as for you, Clara," she went on, "your behavior comes as no surprise. No doubt you'll end up in the gutter, where you belong."

She hurried up the steps. At the top, she halted. "We'll be returning to Caracas this very day, Luis. And don't pull any of your tantrums. It won't work this time. No obscene gesture, no foul language, could be worse than what you have done."

Luisito began to cry.

Clara took his pale face in her hands and wiped the tears from his lashes with her fingers. "We'll love each other forever. We'll always be together," she said, and then she let him go.



Clara watched the evening shadows darken everything around her. Through a veil of tears she gazed up at the tree above her.

The leaves, outlined against the starlit sky, took on unexpected forms, shapes she did not quite recognize.

A swift breeze erased the patterns. All that remained was the sound of the wind; a desolate cry, bringing an end to the summer.

"Clara!" her grandfather called.

Torn between remorse and anxiety, she didn't answer.

The light shimmering among the fruit trees didn't waver. The certainty that her grandfather would wait for her, even if it took her the whole night to answer, filled her with gratitude.

Slowly, she rose and brushed the leaves and the dampness from her dress. "Grandfather," she called softly, climbing the steps toward the light, and the love and understanding that awaited her.

"Let's look at the apple tree," don Luis said. "Perhaps it'll bloom again next summer."






The Witch's Dream: Part 8 - Chapter 28.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Part 8 - Chapter 28.

Two weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, dona Mercedes announced that she had to go to El Rincón.

"Has Clara taken ill again?" I asked, alarmed.

"No," dona Mercedes said, rising from the hammock in her bedroom. "I want to make sure she follows my instructions: She's a willful patient."

Dona Mercedes rested her hands on my shoulders. "Today, you and I will help Clara. Together we'll move the wheel of chance for her."

She turned to the blue and pink painted wardrobe that blocked the door facing the street, and fumbled with the key.

Before unlocking it, she looked back at me and said, "Gather all your clothes and put them in your jeep.

"Seeing that you're packed, Clara will think you are leaving for Caracas. She may decide to take advantage of the ride.

"In the depths of her, she knows that she will be well only if she leaves El Rincón."



I was really surprised at the scarcity of my belongings. I had brought much more, but then I remembered that I had given away most of what I had to some of Agustin's young patients.

"Clara's story is a sort of bonus to you," dona Mercedes said as she helped me put my bag in the jeep. "At least I didn't expect it.

"It came out of nowhere, but it's very appropriate.

"I encouraged you to talk to Clara and to spend time with her. Under her shadow, I'm sure you have felt the turns of the wheel of chance in her life.

"She's another person with a natural gift; a natural control over the witch's shadow."

Definitely, Clara was a very strong person. I felt that her emotional conflicts made her rather somber: She seemed, at least to me, always preoccupied; reflecting on something unsaid.

Dona Mercedes agreed with my assessment of Clara, and added that Clara needed our combined help.

"Let me put it this way," she said.

"Clara is so strong that she has now engaged your witch's shadow and mine to move the wheel of chance for her."

"What is the meaning of that, dona Mercedes?"

"It means that you and I are going to help her leave, not so much because we're good Samaritans, but because she is forcing us to do it."

There was a strong compulsion in me to disagree with her or, rather, to set the record straight.

"Nobody is forcing me to do anything," I said.

Dona Mercedes peered at me quizzically, her glance half-pitying, half-mocking: Then she lifted my bag, and gently placed it on the back seat.

"You mean to say you wouldn't move a finger to help her?" she asked in a whisper.

"No. I didn't say that. I merely said that Clara is not forcing me at all. I'd gladly do it all by myself without her asking me."

"Ah, there is the link. Clara forces us without saying a word.

"Neither you nor I could remain impassive. In one way or another, we have been under her shadow too long."



Through the rearview mirror I could still see Candelaria, a hazy lonely figure waving farewell. She had fastened a yellow, blue, and red plastic pinwheel to the jeep's antenna. It whirled noisily in the wind.

"Do you think Candelaria wanted to come with us to Caracas?" I asked dona Mercedes.

"No," she mumbled: Dona Mercedes had already settled in her seat to doze. "Candelaria hates Caracas. She always gets a headache the moment she reaches the outskirts of the capital."

As soon as I brought the jeep to a full stop in front of El Rincón, dona Mercedes, not waiting for me to help her out, alighted from the car, and dashed into the house.

Swiftly, I caught up with her, and followed her toward the swishing sound of a broom.

It was Clara cleaning the patio.

She looked up. She smiled but did not speak to us.

She seemed to be sweeping the silence and the shadows, for there wasn't a single leaf on the ground.

Dona Mercedes lit two candles on the stone ledge circling the fountain.

She closed her eyes and waited for Clara to finish.



"I did all you told me to do," Clara said, sitting between the two lit candles.

Dona Mercedes did not look at her but began to sniff the air, trying to identify some elusive scent.

"Listen carefully, Clara," she said shortly. "The only thing that will keep you well is to leave this house."

"Why should I leave it?" Clara asked, alarmed. "Grandfather left it to me. He wanted me to stay here."

"He wanted you to have the house," dona Mercedes corrected her. "He did not want you to stay here. Don't you remember he said that to you before he died?"

Seemingly indifferent to Clara's mounting agitation, dona Mercedes lit a cigar.

She smoked with slow, even puffs and began to massage Clara's head and shoulders.

She blew the smoke around her, as if she were outlining her form against the air.

"This house is inhabited by ghosts and memories that don't belong to you, Clara," she went on. "You were only a guest in this house.

"You ruled this place from the moment you arrived because you had luck and strength. These two forces were disguised in you as affection and a great ease with people.

"But there's no one here anymore. It's time to leave.

"Only ghosts remain here: Ghosts and shadows that don't belong to you."

"But what can I do?" Clara asked tearfully.

"Go to Caracas!" dona Mercedes exclaimed. "Go and live with Luisito!"

"Really, dona Mercedes!" Clara retorted indignantly. "How can you suggest such a thing. It's downright indecent."

Dona Mercedes replied, "You sound like your aunts." and she regarded Clara cheerfully; then flung her head back and laughed. "Don't be an ass, Clara.

"What's indecent is to pretend to be prudish. Have you forgotten what you and Luisito have been doing since you were twelve years old?"

Clara remained silent, seemingly lost in thought. "I can't be rushed into a decision." She smiled, tracing the cement cracks on the ground with her toes. "I can't just leave all this."

"You can if you have guts," dona Mercedes said. "The musiua here is also leaving today. We will take you to Luisito."

"And what about Emilia?" Clara asked.

Dona Mercedes replied, "Emilia will be happy with your aunts.

"Your aunts have been wanting to come back to El Rincón for a long time. This place holds all their memories; all their feelings.

"Here, the three women can set back the clock to an ideal time that never was. The shadows of the past will dim the present, and erase their frustrations."

Dona Mercedes was silent for an instant, then she took Clara's hands in hers, perhaps to communicate the urgency of her words. "Put on your yellow dress. Yellow suits you. It'll give you strength.

"Change quickly. You need nothing else.

"When you came to El Rincón you had only one dress; you should leave the same way."

Seeing Clara's hesitation, Dona Mercedes pressed her point. "This is your last chance, girl.

"I've already told the musiua that the only way for you to keep well is to love Luisito with abandon and completeness, as you did when you were a child."

Clara's large eyes, bright with tears, closed in a hurt blink. "But I love him," she murmured. "You know that I have never loved anyone but him."

Dona Mercedes regarded her thoughtfully. "True," she admitted and, turning toward me, added, "She had dozens of rich suitors.

"She still does, and she still gets a malicious pleasure disappointing them. She's escaped from more sure engagements than I care to remember."

Clara's laughter rang out loud. She put her arm around dona Mercedes' shoulders and brushed her lips across her cheek.

"You always exaggerate everything," she said, her tone betraying how delighted she was. "But in spite of all my admirers, I never loved anyone but Luisito."

Dona Mercedes took her arm and guided her toward her room. "You have to love Luisito in the world the way you love him within the crumbling walls of El Rincón."

She pushed Clara inside, and said, "Go on and put on your yellow dress. We'll be waiting for you in the jeep."



Clara's description of Luisito had not prepared me for the astonishingly handsome man who greeted us at his apartment door in Caracas.

I knew that he was in his late twenties, but he looked like a teenager with black curly hair, green-yellow eyes, and smooth white skin.

When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.

In spite of his pronounced limp, there was nothing awkward about his movements.

His engaging personality and his self-sufficient manner did not allow for pity.

Luisito was not in the least surprised to see us; and when he served us a sumptuous meal, I knew that dona Mercedes had arranged things beforehand.

We stayed until late: It was an unforgettable night.

I had never seen dona Mercedes in such an expansive mood.

Her flawless mimicry of the people we all knew in Curmina, her knack for recalling the most absurd situations, her talent for dramatizing them, and her shameless exaggerations turned her anecdotes into memorable tales.

It was shortly before midnight when, declining Luisito's invitation to stay for the night, Mercedes Peralta rose and embraced both Clara and Luisito at the same time.

Then, with her arms wide open, she approached me with an exuberant gesture of affection.

I said, "Don't embrace me like that. You're not saying good-bye to me, too. I'm going back with you."

I laughed and returned her embrace.

I reached for the ignition. Wrapped around my keys was a chain.

With trembling fingers I untangled it. It was a long gold chain with a huge medal hanging from it.

"You better wear it," dona Mercedes said, looking at me. "It's Saint Christopher, the remarkable patron saint of travelers."

A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she settled back in her seat. "You'll be well protected. After all, you're a traveler who has stopped only for a moment."

Instead of heading for Curmina, dona Mercedes directed me along specific streets; clear across town.

I had the feeling we had been driving in circles, when she finally made me stop in front of an old, green colonial house.

"Who lives here?" I asked.

"My ancestors lived here," she replied. "It's their house. And I am just a leaf of an enormous tree."

She looked at me so intently she seemed to be imprinting my face in the depths of her eyes.

Leaning closer, she whispered in my ear. "A witch has to have luck and strength to move the wheel of chance.

"Strength can be groomed, but luck cannot be beckoned: It cannot be enticed. Luck, independent of witchcraft or human arrangements, makes its own choice."

She ran her fingers through my hair and over my face, feeling rather than seeing me, then added, "That's why witches are so attracted to it."

I was filled with an odd premonition.

I looked at her questioningly, but she reached for her basket and pulled out a reddish brown leaf shaped like a butterfly.

"Look at it carefully," she said, handing me the leaf. "The spirits of my ancestors told me to always carry a dry leaf.

"I am this leaf, and I want you to throw it through that window."

She pointed to the house in front of us. "As you throw it, recite an incantation. I want to know how powerful your incantations are."

Willing to humor her, I examined the leaf from every angle, turning it over and over. I surveyed its surface and searched its depths.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Throw it through the window," she repeated.

I climbed up the wrought-iron grill, pushed the heavy curtain aside, and threw the leaf inside as an incantation flowed out of me.

Instead of falling to the ground, the leaf fluttered upward toward the corner by the ceiling like a moth.

Alarmed, I jumped down.

Mercedes Peralta was no longer in the jeep. Certain that she had gone into the house, I knocked softly on the door.

It was open. "Dona Mercedes," I whispered and stepped inside.

The house, built around a patio and shadowy corridors, was like a silent dark cloister.

Long rain gutters dropped from the dark roof, and metal rings dangled from the ancient protruding eaves.

I walked to the center of the patio, toward a weeping willow shrouded in mist.

Like phantom beads, the tiny silvery dew-drops on its leaves slid soundlessly into the fountain beneath.

A gust of air shook the willow tree, scattering fresh dry leaves all around me.

Gripped by an irrational fear, I ran out into the street.

I sat in my jeep determined to wait for Mercedes Peralta. I reached under my seat for a box of tissue paper and felt my camera and tape recorder.

Puzzled, I turned around: I had no recollection of packing anything but my clothes.

To my utter astonishment, I discovered a box on the backseat. It contained my tapes and my diaries.

Stuck to the box was an unsigned note.

I recognized Candelaria's bold handwriting.

It read, "A witch's farewell is like dust from the road; it sinks in as one tries to slough it off."






The Witch's Dream: Epilogue - Chapter 29.

Version 2007.03.04


The Witch's Dream. ©1985 By Florinda Donner-Grau:

Epilogue - Chapter 29.

I returned to Los Angeles, and then I went to Mexico to face Florinda.

Upon hearing a detailed summary of my experiences, she found it quite extraordinary and inexplicable that my life in dona Mercedes' world began with her own handwritten note, hidden among my clothes, and ended with Candelaria's, hidden among my tapes.

Although Florinda made fun of what she called my compulsive thoroughness, she urged me to see if I could use my numerous tapes to write my dissertation.

Working with the material, I became aware that in spite of the fact that I had had no theoretical plan to organize my objectives, the events in dona Mercedes' house seemed prearranged to introduce me to spiritualists, witches, healers; and the people they deal with; and what they do in the context of their daily activities.

Having followed dona Mercedes' activities in healing, and having learned to use her own system of interpretation, I sincerely believed that I had mastered, at least intellectually, the way healers see themselves, each other, and their knowledge.

I was certain that my experience and the notes I had collected would suffice to write a dissertation.

However, after transcribing, translating, and analyzing my tapes and notes, I began to doubt my intellectual mastery of healing.

My attempt to organize the data to fit a meaningful framework proved to be futile: My notes were ridden with inconsistencies and contradictions, and my knowledge of healing could not fill in the gaps.

Florinda then made a cynical suggestion: Either alter the data to fit my theories, or forget about the dissertation altogether.

I forgot about the dissertation.

Florinda has always urged that I look beneath the surface of things.

In the case of my experience with dona Mercedes, she suggested that I look deeper than the possible academic value. She thought my academic bias blinded me to more important aspects.

I read and reread the stories dona Mercedes had selected for me and finally understood what Florinda wanted.

I realized that if I removed the academic emphasis from my own work, I would be left with a document about human values- human values definitely foreign to us, yet perfectly understandable, if we momentarily placed ourselves outside our usual frame of reference.

With those stories, dona Mercedes proposed to show me that witches, or even ordinary people, are capable of using extraordinary forces that exist in the universe to alter the course of events, or the course of their lives, or the lives of other people.

The course of events, she called 'the wheel of chance,' and the process of affecting it, she called 'the witch's shadow.'

She claimed that we can alter anything without directly intruding upon the process; and sometimes without even knowing that we are doing so.

For Westerners, this is an unthinkable proposition.

If we find ourselves affecting the course of events without directly intruding upon them, we think of coincidence as the only serious explanation; for we believe that direct intervention is the only way of altering anything.

For example, men of history affected events with complex social decisions.

Or in a more reduced scope, people directly intervene through their actions in the lives of others.

In contrast, the stories selected by dona Mercedes make us aware of something that we are not familiar with.

The stories point to the incomprehensible possibility that without direct mediating, we can be more influential than we think in shaping the course of events.

On the whole, Florinda was satisfied with the results of my journey to Venezuela.

She said that she had wanted me to get firsthand knowledge of my hidden resources.

Her idea was that I had to function effectively in an environment unknown to me, and that I had to learn to adapt quickly to situations outside the boundaries of what I know, accept, and can predict.

Florinda maintained that nothing could be more appropriate for bringing out those hidden resources than a confrontation with the social unknown.

My life in dona Mercedes' house, and my interaction with her patients and friends was that social unknown.

I admitted to Florinda that her admonitions about the woman-warrior philosophy- which were quite incomprehensible to me at the time- actually became the basis for all my acts while I stayed with dona Mercedes.

"There are many ways of behaving when one is in a normal setting," Florinda commented, "but when one is alone, in danger, or in darkness, there is only one way: the warrior's way."

Florinda said that I had discovered the value of the warrior's way and the meaning of all its premises.

Under the impact of an unfamiliar life situation, I had found out:..

.. that not surrendering means freedom;..

.. that not feeling self-important breeds an indomitable fierceness;..

.. and that vanquishing moral judgments brings an all-soothing humbleness that is not servitude.






The Fire From Within. ©1984 by Carlos Castaneda.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within - book cover.

The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.


Something was grabbing the edge of the mirror as if from the inside of the glass; as if the glass surface were an open window and something or somebody were just climbing through it.

Don Juan and I fought desperately. The loud thrashing continued unremittingly like an enormous fish in our bare hands. A strange shape was actually trying to climb up through the mirror.

I vacillated a second and the mirror flew out of my hands.

"Grab it! Grab it!" Don Juan yelled...


"A Vision of the sorcerer's world that is full of mind-spinning implications in the Castanedian tradition." - United Press International

"His stories of intiation into the world of magic and sorcery... can be both shocking and terrifying... "The Fire From Within" will facinate you." - The Nashville Tennessean

"One can't exaggerate the significance of what Castaneda has done." - The New York Times


BACK COVER

Each of Carlos Castaneda's books is a brilliant and tantalizing burst of illumination into the depths of our deepest mysteries, like a sudden flash of light, like a burst of lightning over the desert at night, which shows us a world that is both alien and totally familiar .. the landscape of our dreams.

THE FIRE FROM WITHIN is the author's most brilliant, thought-provoking and unusual book, one in which Castaneda, under the tutelage of don Juan and his "disciples," at last constructs, from the teachings of don Juan and his own experiences, a stunning portrait of the "sorcerer's world" that is crystal-clear and dizzying in its implications.

"It's impossible to view the world in quite the same way after reading THE FIRE FROM WITHIN." - Chicago Tribune



I want to express my admiration and gratitude to a masterful teacher, H. Y. L., for helping me restore my energy, and for teaching me an alternative way to plentitude and well-being. -CC



Contents


  • Foreword.

  • Chapter 01. The New Seers.
  • Chapter 02. Petty Tyrants.
  • Chapter 03. The Eagle's Emanations.
  • Chapter 04. The Glow of Awareness.
  • Chapter 05. The First Attention.
  • Chapter 06. Inorganic Beings.
  • Chapter 07. The Assemblage Point.
  • Chapter 08. The Position of the Assemblage Point.
  • Chapter 09. The Shift Below.
  • Chapter 10. Great Bands of Emanations.
  • Chapter 11. Stalking, Intent, and the Dreaming Position.
  • Chapter 12. The Nagual Julian.
  • Chapter 13. The Earth's Boost.
  • Chapter 14. The Rolling Force.
  • Chapter 15. The Death Defiers.
  • Chapter 16. The Mold of Man.
  • Chapter 17. The Journey of the Dreaming Body.
  • Chapter 18. Breaking the Barrier of Perception.

  • Epilogue.





The Fire From Within - Foreword.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

I have written extensive descriptive accounts of my apprentice relationship with a Mexican Indian sorcerer, don Juan Matus. Due to the foreignness of the concepts and practices don Juan wanted me to understand and internalize, I have had no other choice but to render his teachings in the form of a narrative; a narrative of what happened, as it happened.

The organization of don Juan's instruction was predicated on the idea that man has two types of awareness. He labeled them the right side and the left side. He described the first as the state of normal awareness necessary for everyday life. The second, he said, was the mysterious side of man; the state of awareness needed to function as sorcerer and seer. Don Juan divided his instruction, accordingly, into teachings for the right side and teachings for the left side.

He conducted his teachings for the right side when I was in my state of normal awareness, and I have described those teachings in all my accounts. In my state of normal awareness don Juan told me that he was a sorcerer. He even introduced me to don Genaro Flores, whom he also led me to believe was another sorcerer. Because of the nature of our association, I logically concluded that they had taken me as their sorcerers' apprentice.

That apprenticeship ended with an incomprehensible act that both don Juan and don Genaro led me to perform. They had me jump from the top of a flat mountain into an abyss.

I have described in one of my accounts what took place on that mountaintop. The last drama of don Juan's teachings for the right side was played there by don Juan himself; don Genaro; two apprentices, Pablito and Nestor; and me. Pablito, Nestor, and I jumped from that mountaintop into an abyss.

For years afterward I thought that just my total trust in don Juan and don Genaro had been sufficient to obliterate all my rational fears on facing actual annihilation. I know now that it wasn't so; I know that the secret was in don Juan's teachings for the left side, and that it took tremendous discipline and perseverance for don Juan, don Genaro, and their companions to conduct those teachings.

It has taken me nearly ten years to recollect what exactly took place in his teachings for the left side that led me to be so willing to perform such an incomprehensible act as jumping into an abyss.

It was in his teachings for the left side that don Juan let on what he, don Genaro, and their companions were really doing to me and who they were. They were not teaching me sorcery, but how to master three aspects of an ancient knowledge they possessed: awareness, stalking, and intent. And they were not sorcerers; they were seers. And don Juan was not only a seer, but also a nagual.

Don Juan had already explained to me, in his teachings for the right side, a great deal about the nagual and about seeing. I had understood seeing to be the capacity of human beings to enlarge their perceptual field until they are capable of assessing, not only the outer appearances, but the essence of everything. He had also explained that seers see man as a field of energy which looks like a luminous egg. The majority of people, he said, have their fields of energy divided into two parts. A few men and women have four or sometimes three parts. Because these people are more resilient than the average man, they can become naguals after learning to see.

In his teachings for the left side, don Juan explained to me the intricacies of seeing and of being a nagual. To be a nagual, he said, is something more complex and far-reaching than being merely a more resilient man who has learned to see. To be a nagual entails being a leader, being a teacher and a guide.

As a nagual, don Juan was the leader of a group of seers known as the nagual's party, which was composed of eight female seers: Cecilia, Delia, Hermelinda, Carmela, Nelida, Florinda, Zuleica, and Zoila; three male seers: Vicente, Silvio Manuel, and Genaro; and four couriers or messengers: Emilito, John Tuma, Marta, and Teresa.

In addition to leading the nagual's party, don Juan also taught and guided a group of apprentice seers known as the new nagual's party. It consisted of four young men: Pablito, Nestor, Eligio, and Benigno; along with five women: Soledad, la Gorda, Lidia, Josefina, and Rosa. I was the nominal leader of the new nagual's party together with the nagual woman Carol.

In order for don Juan to impart to me his teachings for the left side, it was necessary for me to enter into a unique state of perceptual clarity known as heightened awareness. Throughout the years of my association with him, he had me repeatedly shift into such a state by means of a blow that he delivered with the palm of his hand on my upper back.

Don Juan explained that in a state of heightened awareness apprentices can behave almost as naturally as in everyday life, but can bring their minds to focus on anything with uncommon force and clarity. Yet, an inherent quality of heightened awareness is that it is not susceptible to normal recall. What transpires in such a state becomes part of the apprentice's everyday awareness only through a staggering effort of recovery.

My interaction with the nagual's party was an example of this difficulty of recall. With the exception of don Genaro, I had contact with them only when I was in a state of heightened awareness. Hence, in my normal everyday life I could not remember them; not even as vague characters in dreams. The manner in which I met with them every time was almost a ritual. I would drive to don Genaro's house in a small town in the southern part of Mexico. Don Juan would join us immediately and the three of us would then get busy with don Juan's teachings for the right side. After that, don Juan would make me change levels of awareness and then we would drive to a larger, nearby town where he and the other fifteen seers were living.

Every time I entered into heightened awareness I could not cease marveling at the difference between my two sides. I always felt as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes; as if I had been partially blind before and now I could see. The freedom, the sheer joy that used to possess me on those occasions cannot be compared with anything else I have ever experienced. Yet at the same time, there was a frightening feeling of sadness and longing that went hand in hand with that freedom and joy. Don Juan had told me that there is no completeness without sadness and longing, for without them there is no sobriety, no kindness. Wisdom without kindness, he said, and knowledge without sobriety are useless.

The organization of his teachings for the left side also required that don Juan, together with some of his fellow seers, explain to me the three facets of their knowledge: the mastery of awareness, the mastery of stalking, and the mastery of intent.

This work deals with the mastery of awareness, which is part of his total set of teachings for the left side; the set he used in order to prepare me for performing the astonishing act of jumping into an abyss.

Due to the fact that the experiences I narrate here took place in heightened awareness, they cannot have the texture of daily life. They are lacking in worldly context, although I have tried my best to supply it without fictionalizing it. In heightened awareness one is minimally conscious of the surroundings, because one's total concentration is taken by the details of the action at hand.

In this case the action at hand was, naturally, the elucidation of the mastery of awareness. Don Juan understood the mastery of awareness as being the modern-day version of an extremely old tradition, which he called the tradition of the ancient Toltec seers.

Although he felt that he was inextricably linked to that old tradition, he considered himself to be one of the seers of a new cycle. When I asked him once what the essential character of the seers of the new cycle was, he said that they are the warriors of total freedom; that they are such masters of awareness, stalking, and intent that they are not caught by death like the rest of mortal men; but choose the moment and the way of their departure from this world. At that moment they are consumed by a fire from within and vanish from the face of the earth, free, as if they had never existed.





Re: I have described in one of my accounts what took place on that mountaintop.

Actually, Carlos describes his jump into the abyss in several of his earlier books.

The first occurrence is in the final chapter of his fourth book "Tales of Power". This description, although fairly detailed, is limited to Carlos' view of the event from his rational mind set as an average unenlightened man.

The jump is then brought up and discussed in several different places throughout Carlos' fifth book, "The Second Ring Of Power", but at no point in that book does the event become any clearer.

In Carlos' sixth book, "The Eagle's Gift", the jump is mentioned occasionally, although only briefly, throughout the book. In the final chapter of "The Eagle's Gift", however, the underlying reality of what is involved with that jump is explained by don Juan to Carlos clearly.






The Fire From Within: Chapter 01 - The New Seers.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

I had arrived in the city of Oaxaca in southern Mexico on my way to the mountains to look for don Juan. On my way out of town in the early morning, I had the good sense to drive by the main square, and there I found him sitting on his favorite bench, as if waiting for me to go by.

I joined him. He told me that he was in the city on business, that he was staying at a local boardinghouse, and that I was welcome to stay with him because he had to remain in town for two more days. We talked for a while about my activities and problems in the academic world.

As was customary with him, he suddenly hit me on my back when I least expected it, and the blow shifted me into a state of heightened awareness.

We sat in silence for a very long time. I anxiously waited for him to begin talking, yet when he did, he caught me by surprise.

"Ages before the Spaniards came to Mexico," he said, "there were extraordinary Toltec seers, men capable of inconceivable deeds. They were the last link in a chain of knowledge that extended over thousands of years.

"The Toltec seers were extraordinary men- powerful sorcerers, somber, driven men who unraveled mysteries and possessed secret knowledge that they used to influence and victimize people by fixating the awareness of their victims on whatever they chose."

He stopped talking and looked at me intently. I felt that he was waiting for me to ask a question, but I did not know what to ask.

"I have to emphasize an important fact," he continued, "the fact that those sorcerers knew how to fixate the awareness of their victims. You didn't pick up on that. When I mentioned it, it didn't mean anything to you. That's not surprising. One of the hardest things to acknowledge is that awareness can be manipulated."

I felt confused. I knew that he was leading me toward something. I felt a familiar apprehension; the same feeling I had whenever he began a new round of his teachings.

I told him how I felt. He smiled vaguely. Usually when he smiled he exuded happiness. This time he was definitely preoccupied. He seemed to consider for a moment whether or not to go on talking. He stared at me intently again, slowly moving his gaze over the entire length of my body. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded and said that I was ready for my final exercise, something that all warriors go through before considering themselves fit to be on their own. I was more mystified than ever.

"We are going to be talking about awareness," he continued. "The Toltec seers knew the art of handling awareness. As a matter of fact, they were the supreme masters of that art. When I say that they knew how to fixate the awareness of their victims, I mean that their secret knowledge and secret practices allowed them to pry open the mystery of being aware. Enough of their practices have survived to this day, but fortunately in a modified form. I say fortunately because those activities, as I will explain, did not lead the ancient Toltec seers to freedom, but to their doom."

"Do you know those practices yourself?" I asked.

"Why, certainly," he replied. "There is no way for us not to know those techniques, but that doesn't mean that we practice them ourselves. We have other views. We belong to a new cycle."

"But you don't consider yourself a sorcerer, don Juan, do you?" I asked.

"No, I don't," he said. "I am a warrior who sees. In fact, all of us are los nuevos videntes- the new seers. The old seers were the sorcerers.

"For the average man," he continued, "sorcery is a negative business, but it is fascinating all the same. That's why I encouraged you, in your normal awareness, to think of us as sorcerers. It's advisable to do so. It serves to attract interest. But for us to be sorcerers would be like entering a dead-end street."

I wanted to know what he meant by that, but he refused to talk about it. He said that he would elaborate on the subject as he proceeded with his explanation of awareness.

I asked him then about the origin of the Toltecs' knowledge.

"The way the Toltecs first started on the path of knowledge was by eating power plants," he replied. "Whether prompted by curiosity, or hunger, or error, they ate them. Once the power plants had produced their effects on them, it was only a matter of time before some of them began to analyze their experiences. In my opinion, the first men on the path of knowledge were very daring, but very mistaken."

"Is all this not a conjecture on your part, don Juan?"

"No, this is no conjecture of mine. I am a seer, and when I focus my seeing on that time I know everything that took place."

"Can you see the details of things of the past?" I asked.

"Seeing is a peculiar feeling of knowing," he replied, "of knowing something without a shadow of doubt. In this case, I know what those men did, not only because of my seeing, but because we are so closely bound together."

Don Juan explained then that his use of the term 'Toltec' did not correspond to what I understood it to mean. To me it meant a culture, the Toltec Empire. To him, the term Toltec meant 'man of knowledge'.

He said that in the time he was referring to, centuries or perhaps even millennia before the Spanish Conquest, all such men of knowledge lived within a vast geographical area, north and south of the valley of Mexico, and were employed in specific lines of work: curing, bewitching, storytelling, dancing, being an oracle, preparing food and drink. Those lines of work fostered specific wisdom, wisdom that distinguished them from average men. These Toltecs, moreover, were also people who fitted into the structure of everyday life, very much as doctors, artists, teachers, priests, and merchants in our own time do. They practiced their professions under the strict control of organized brotherhoods and became proficient and influential to such an extent that they even dominated groups of people who lived outside the Toltecs' geographical regions.

Don Juan said that after centuries of dealing with power plants, some of these men had finally learned to see. The most enterprising of them then began to teach other men of knowledge how to see. And that was the beginning of their end. As time passed, the number of seers increased, but their obsession with what they saw, which filled them with reverence and fear, became so intense that they ceased to be men of knowledge. They became extraordinarily proficient in seeing and could exert great control over the strange worlds they were witnessing. But it was to no avail. Seeing had undermined their strength and forced them to be obsessed with what they saw.

"There were seers, however, who escaped that fate," don Juan continued, "great men who, in spite of their seeing, never ceased to be men of knowledge. Some of them endeavored to use seeing positively, and to teach it to their fellow men. I'm convinced that under their direction, the populations of entire cities went into other worlds and never came back.

"But the seers who could only see were fiascos, and when the land where they lived was invaded by a conquering people, they were as defenseless as everyone else.

"Those conquerors," he went on, "took over the Toltec world. They appropriated everything, but they never learned to see."'

"Why do you think they never learned to see?" I asked.

"Because they copied the procedures of the Toltec seers without having the Toltecs' inner knowledge. To this day there are scores of sorcerers all over Mexico, descendants of those conquerors, who follow the Toltec ways but don't know what they're doing, or what they're talking about, because they're not seers."

"Who were those conquerors, don Juan?"

"Other Indians," he said. "When the Spaniards came, the old seers had been gone for centuries, but there was a new breed of seers who were starting to secure their place in a new cycle."

"What do you mean. a new breed of seers?"

"After the world of the first Toltecs was destroyed, the surviving seers retreated and began a serious examination of their practices. The first thing they did was to establish stalking, dreaming, and intent as the key procedures; and to deemphasize the use of power plants; perhaps that gives us a hint as to what really happened to them with power plants.

"The new cycle was just beginning to take hold when the Spanish conquerors swept the land. Fortunately, by that time the new seers were thoroughly prepared to face that danger. They were already consummate practitioners of the art of stalking."

Don Juan said that the subsequent centuries of subjugation provided for these new seers the ideal circumstances in which to perfect their skills. Oddly enough, it was the extreme rigor and coercion of that period that gave them the impetus to refine their new principles. And, owing to the fact that they never divulged their activities, they were left alone to map their findings.

"Were there a great many new seers during the Conquest?" I asked.

"At the beginning there were. Near the end there were only a handful. The rest had been exterminated."

"What about in our day, don Juan?" I asked.

"There are a few. They are scattered all over, you understand."

"Do you know them?" I asked.

"Such a simple question is the hardest one to answer," he replied. "There are some we know very well. But they are not exactly like us because they have concentrated on other specific aspects of knowledge, such as dancing, curing, bewitching, or talking; instead of what the new seers recommend- stalking, dreaming, and intent. Those who are exactly like us would not cross our path. The seers who lived during the Conquest set it up that way so as to avoid being exterminated in the confrontation with the Spaniards. Each of those seers founded a lineage. And not all of them had descendants, so the lines are few."

"Do you know any who are exactly like us?" I asked.

"A few," he replied laconically.

I asked him then to give me all the information he could, for I was vitally interested in the topic. To me it was of crucial importance to know names and addresses for purposes of validation and corroboration.

Don Juan did not seem inclined to oblige me.

"The new seers went through that bit of corroboration," he said. "Half of them left their bones in the corroborating room. So now they are solitary birds. Let's leave it that way. All we can talk about is our line. About that, you and I can say as much as we please."

He explained that all the lines of seers were started at the same time and in the same fashion. Around the end of the sixteenth century every nagual deliberately isolated himself and his group of seers from any overt contact with other seers. The consequence of that drastic segregation, he said, was the formation of the individual lineages. Our lineage consisted of fourteen naguals and one hundred and twenty-six seers, he said. Some of those fourteen naguals had as few as seven seers with them. others had eleven, and some up to fifteen.

He told me that his teacher- or his benefactor, as he called him- was the nagual Julian, and the one who came before Julian was the nagual Ellas. I asked him if he knew the names of all fourteen naguals. He named and enumerated them for me so I could learn who they were. He also said that he had personally known the fifteen seers who formed his benefactor's group and that he had also known his benefactor's teacher, the nagual Elias, and the eleven seers of his party.

Don Juan assured me that our line was quite exceptional because it underwent a drastic change in the year 1723 as a result of an outside influence that came to bear on us and inexorably altered our course. He did not want to discuss the event itself at the moment, but he said that a new beginning is counted from that time; and that the eight naguals who have ruled the line since then are considered intrinsically different from the six who preceded them.

Don Juan must have had business to take care of the next day, for I did not see him until around noon. In the meantime, three of his apprentices had come to town, Pablito, Nestor, and la Gorda. They were shopping for tools and materials for Pablito's carpentry business. I accompanied them and helped them to complete all their errands. Then all of us went back to the boardinghouse.

All four of us were sitting around talking when don Juan came into my room. He announced that we were leaving after lunch, but that before we went to eat he still had something to discuss with me in private. He wanted the two of us to take a stroll around the main square and then all of us would meet at a restaurant.

Pablito and Nestor stood up and said that they had some errands to run before meeting us. La Gorda seemed very displeased.

"What are you going to talk about?" she blurted out, but quickly realized her mistake and giggled.

Don Juan gave her a strange look but did not say anything.

Encouraged by his silence, la Gorda proposed that we take her along. She assured us that she would not bother us in the least.

"I'm sure you won't bother us," don Juan said to her, "but I really don't want you to hear anything of what I have to say to him."

La Gorda's anger was very obvious. She blushed, and as don Juan and I walked out of the room her entire face clouded with anxiety and tension; becoming instantly distorted. Her mouth was open and her lips were dry.

La Gorda's mood made me very apprehensive. I felt an actual discomfort. I didn't say anything, but don Juan seemed to notice my feelings.

"You should thank la Gorda day and night," he said all of a sudden. "She's helping you destroy your self-importance. She's the petty tyrant in your life, but you still haven't caught on to that."

We strolled around the plaza until all my nervousness had vanished. Then we sat down on his favorite bench again.

"The ancient seers were very fortunate indeed," don Juan began, "because they had plenty of time to learn marvelous things. Let me tell you, they knew wonders that we can't even imagine today."

"Who taught them all that?" I asked.

"They learned everything by themselves through seeing," he replied. "Most of the things we know in our lineage were figured out by them. The new seers corrected the mistakes of the old seers, but the basis of what we know and do is lost in Toltec time."

He explained. One of the simplest and yet most important findings from the point of view of instruction, he said, is the knowledge that man has two types of awareness. The old seers called them the right and the left side of man.

"The old seers figured out," he went on, "that the best way to teach their knowledge was to make their apprentices shift to their left side to a state of heightened awareness. Real learning takes place there.

"Very young children were given to the old seers as apprentices," don Juan continued, "so that they wouldn't know any other way of life. Those children, in turn, when they came of age, took other children as apprentices. Imagine the things they must have uncovered in their shifts to the left and to the right after centuries of that kind of concentration."

I remarked how disconcerting those shifts were to me. He said that my experience was similar to his own. His benefactor, the nagual Julian, had created a profound schism in him, by making him shift back and forth from one type of awareness to the other. He said that the clarity and freedom he experienced in heightened awareness were in total contrast to the rationalizations, the defenses, the anger, and the fear of his normal state of awareness.

The old seers used to create this polarity to suit their own particular purposes; with it, they forced their apprentices to achieve the concentration needed to learn sorcery techniques. But the new seers, he said, use it to lead their apprentices to the conviction that there are unrealized possibilities in man.

"The best effort of the new seers," don Juan continued, "is their explanation of the mystery of awareness. They condensed it all into some concepts and actions which are taught while the apprentices are in heightened awareness."

He said that the value of the new seers' method of teaching is that it takes advantage of the fact that no one can remember anything that happens while being in a state of heightened awareness. This inability to remember sets up an almost insurmountable barrier for warriors who have to recollect all the instruction given to them if they are to go on. Only after years of struggle and discipline can warriors recollect their instruction. By then the concepts and the procedures that were taught to them have been internalized, and have thus acquired the force the new seers meant them to have.






The Fire From Within: Chapter 02 - Petty Tyrants.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 02 - Petty Tyrants.

Don Juan did not discuss the mastery of awareness with me until months later. We were at that time in the house where the nagual's party lived.

"Let's go for a walk," don Juan said to me, placing his hand on my shoulder. "Or better yet, let's go to the town's square, where there are a lot of people, and sit down and talk."

I was surprised when he spoke to me, as I had been in the house for a couple of days by then and he had not said so much as "hello".

As don Juan and I were leaving the house, la Gorda intercepted us, and demanded that we take her along. She seemed determined not to take no for an answer. Don Juan in a very stern voice told her that he had to discuss something in private with me.

"You're going to talk about me," la Gorda said, her tone and gestures betraying both suspicion and annoyance.

"You're right," don Juan replied dryly. He moved past her without turning to look at her.

I followed him, and we walked in silence to the town's square. When we sat down I asked him what on earth we would find to discuss about la Gorda. I was still smarting from her look of menace when we left the house.

"We have nothing to discuss about la Gorda or anybody else," he said. "I told her that just to provoke her enormous self-importance. And it worked. She is furious with us. If I know her, by now she will have talked to herself long enough to have built up her confidence and her righteous indignation at having been refused and made to look like a fool. I wouldn't be surprised if she barges in on us here at the park bench."

"If we're not going to talk about la Gorda, what are we going to discuss?" I asked.

"We're going to continue the discussion we started in Oaxaca," he replied. "To understand the explanation of awareness will require your utmost effort and your willingness to shift back and forth between levels of awareness. While we are involved in our discussion, I will demand your total concentration and patience."

Half-complaining, I told him that he had made me feel very uncomfortable by refusing to talk to me for the past two days. He looked at me and arched his brows. A smile played on his lips and vanished. I realized that he was letting me know I was no better than la Gorda.

"I was provoking your self-importance," he said with a frown. "Self-importance is our greatest enemy. Think about it. What weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellow men. Our self-importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.

"The new seers recommended that every effort should be made to eradicate self-importance from the lives of warriors. I have followed that recommendation, and much of my endeavors with you has been geared to show you that without self-importance we are invulnerable."

As I listened, his eyes suddenly became very shiny. I was thinking to myself that he seemed to be on the verge of laughter, and there was no reason for it, when I was startled by an abrupt, painful slap on the right side of my face.

I jumped up from the bench. La Gorda was standing behind me, her hand still raised. Her face was flushed with anger.

"Now you can say what you like about me and with more justification," she shouted. "If you have anything to say, however, say it to my face!"

Her outburst appeared to have exhausted her because she sat down on the cement and began to weep. Don Juan was transfixed with inexpressible glee. I was frozen with sheer fury. La Gorda glared at me, and then turned to don Juan and meekly told him that we had no right to criticize her.

Don Juan laughed so hard he doubled over almost to the ground. He couldn't even speak. He tried two or three times to say something to me, then finally got up and walked away; his body still shaking with spasms of laughter.

I was about to run after him, still glowering at la Gorda- at that moment I found her despicable- when something extraordinary happened to me. I realized what don Juan had found so hilarious. La Gorda and I were horrendously alike. Our self-importance was monumental. My surprise and fury at being slapped were just like la Gorda's feelings of anger and suspicion. Don Juan was right. The burden of self-importance is a terrible encumbrance.

I ran after him then, elated, the tears flowing down my cheeks. I caught up with him and told him what I had realized. His eyes were shining with mischievousness and delight.

"What should I do about la Gorda?" I asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "Realizations are always personal."

He changed the subject and said that the omens were telling us to continue our discussion back at his house, either in a large room with comfortable chairs, or in the back patio which had a roofed corridor around it. He said that whenever he conducted his explanation inside the house, those two areas would be off limits to everyone else.

We went back to the house. Don Juan told everyone what la Gorda had done. The delight all the seers showed in taunting her made la Gorda's position extremely uncomfortable.

"Self-importance can't be fought with niceties," don Juan commented when I expressed my concern about la Gorda.

He then asked everyone to leave the room. We sat down and don Juan began his explanations.

He said that seers, old and new, are divided into two categories. The first one is made up of those who are willing to exercise self-restraint and can channel their activities toward pragmatic goals which would benefit other seers and man in general. The other category consists of those who don't care about self-re-straint or about any pragmatic goals. It is the consensus among seers that the latter have failed to resolve the problem of self-importance.

"Self-importance is not something simple and naive," he explained. "On the one hand, it is the core of everything that is good in us; and on the other hand, the core of everything that is rotten. To get rid of the self-importance that is rotten requires a masterpiece of strategy. Seers through the ages have given the highest praise to those who have accomplished it."

I complained that the idea of eradicating self-importance, although very appealing to me at times, was really incomprehensible. I told him that I found his directives for getting rid of it so vague I could not follow them.

"I've said to you many times," he said, "that in order to follow the path of knowledge, one has to be very imaginative. You see, in the path of knowledge nothing is as clear as we'd like it to be."

My discomfort made me argue that his admonitions about self-importance reminded me of Catholic postulates. After a lifetime of being told about the evils of sin, I had become callous.

"Warriors fight self-importance as a matter of strategy, not principle," he replied. "Your mistake is to understand what I say in terms of morality."

"I see you as a highly moral man, don Juan," I insisted.

"You've noticed my impeccability, that's all," he said.

"Impeccability, as well as getting rid of self-importance, is too vague a concept to be of any value to me," I remarked.

Don Juan choked with laughter, and I challenged him to explain impeccability.

"Impeccability is nothing else but the proper use of energy," he said. "My statements have no inkling of morality. I've saved energy and that makes me impeccable. To understand this, you have to save enough energy yourself."

We were quiet for a long time. I wanted to think about what he had said. Suddenly, he started talking again.

"Warriors take strategic inventories," he said. "They list everything they do. Then they decide which of those things can be changed in order to allow themselves a respite in terms of expending their energy."

I argued that their list would have to include everything under the sun. He patiently answered that the strategic inventory he was talking about covered only behavioral patterns that were not essential to our survival and well-being.

I jumped at the opportunity to point out that survival and well-being were categories that could be interpreted in endless ways, hence, there was no way of agreeing what was or was not essential to survival and well-being.

As I kept on talking I began to lose momentum. Finally, I stopped because I realized the futility of my arguments.

Don Juan said then that in the strategic inventories of warriors, self-importance figures as the activity that consumes the greatest amount of energy, hence, their effort to eradicate it.

"One of the first concerns of warriors is to free that energy in order to face the unknown with it," don Juan went on. "The action of rechanneling that energy is impeccability."

He said that the most effective strategy was worked out by the seers of the Conquest- the unquestionable masters of stalking. It consists of six elements that interplay with one another. Five of them are called the attributes of warriorship: control, discipline, forbearance, timing, and will. They pertain to the world of the warrior who is fighting to lose self-importance. The sixth element, which is perhaps the most important of all, pertains to the outside world and is called the petty tyrant.

He looked at me as if silently asking me whether or not I had understood.

"I'm really mystified," I said. "You keep on saying that la Gorda is the petty tyrant of my life. Just what is a petty tyrant?"

"A petty tyrant is a tormentor," he replied. "Someone who either holds the power of life and death over warriors, or simply annoys them to distraction."

Don Juan had a beaming smile as he spoke to me. He said that the new seers developed their own classification of petty tyrants. Although the concept is one of their most serious and important findings, the new seers had a sense of humor about it. He assured me that there was a tinge of malicious humor in every one of their classifications because humor was the only means of counteracting the compulsion of human awareness to take inventories and to make cumbersome classifications.

The new seers, in accordance with their practice, saw fit to head their classification with the primal source of energy- the one and only ruler in the universe- and they called it simply 'the tyrant'. The rest of the despots and authoritarians were found to be, naturally, infinitely below the category of the tyrant. Compared to the source of everything, the most fearsome and tyrannical men are buffoons. Consequently, they were classified as petty tyrants, pinches tiranos.

He said that there were two subclasses of minor petty tyrants. The first subclass consisted of the petty tyrants who persecute and inflict misery but without actually causing anybody's death. They were called little petty tyrants, pinches tiranitos. The second consisted of the petty tyrants who are only exasperating and bothersome to no end. They were called small-fry petty tyrants, repinches tiranitos, or teensy-weensy petty tyrants, pinches tiranitos chiquititos.

I thought his classifications were ludicrous. I was sure that he was improvising the Spanish terms. I asked him if that was so.

"Not at all," he replied with an amused expression. "The new seers were great ones for classifications. Genaro is doubtless one of the greatest. If you'd observe him carefully, you'd realize exactly how the new seers feel about their classifications."

He laughed uproariously at my confusion when I asked him if he was pulling my leg.

"I wouldn't dream of doing that," he said, smiling. "Genaro may do that, but not I, especially when I know how you feel about classifications. It's just that the new seers were terribly irreverent."

He added that the little petty tyrants are further divided into four categories: one that torments with brutality and violence, another that does it by creating unbearable apprehension through deviousness, another which oppresses with sadness, and the last which torments by making warriors rage.

"La Gorda is in a class of her own," he added. "She is an acting, small-fry petty tyrant. She annoys you to pieces and makes you rage. She even slaps you. With all that she is teaching you detachment."

"That's not possible!" I protested.

"You haven't yet put together all the ingredients of the new seers' strategy," he said. "Once you do that, you'll know how efficient and clever is the device of using a petty tyrant. I would certainly say that the strategy not only gets rid of self-importance, it also prepares warriors for the final realization that impeccability is the only thing that counts in the path of knowledge."

He said that what the new seers had in mind was a deadly maneuver in which the petty tyrant is like a mountain peak and the attributes of warriorship are like climbers who meet at the summit.

"Usually, only four attributes are played," he went on. "The fifth, will, is always saved for an ultimate confrontation when warriors are facing the firing squad, so to speak."

"Why is it done that way?"

"Because will belongs to another sphere, the 'unknown'. The other four belong to the 'known'; which is exactly where the petty tyrants are lodged. In fact, what turns human beings into petty tyrants is precisely the obsessive manipulation of the known."

Don Juan explained that the interplay of all the five attributes of warriorship is done only by seers who are also impeccable warriors, and who have mastery over will. Such an interplay is a supreme maneuver that cannot be performed on the daily human stage.

"Four attributes are all that is needed to deal with the worst of petty tyrants," he continued. "Provided, of course, that a petty tyrant has been found. As I said, the petty tyrant is the outside element; the one we cannot control, and the element that is perhaps the most important of them all. My benefactor used to say that the warrior who stumbles on a petty tyrant is a lucky one. He meant that you're fortunate if you come upon one in your path; because if you don't, you have to go out and look for one."

He explained that one of the greatest accomplishments of the seers of the Conquest was a construct he called the three phase progression. By understanding the nature of man, they were able to reach the incontestable conclusion that if seers can hold their own in facing petty tyrants, they can certainly face the unknown with impunity; and then they can even stand the presence of the unknowable.

"The average man's reaction is to think that the order of that statement should be reversed," he went on. "A seer who can hold his own in the face of the unknown can certainly face petty tyrants. But that's not so. What destroyed the superb seers of ancient times was that assumption. We know better now. We know that nothing can temper the spirit of a warrior as much as the challenge of dealing with impossible people in positions of power. Only under those conditions can warriors acquire the sobriety and serenity to stand the pressure of the unknowable."

I vociferously disagreed with him. I told him that in my opinion tyrants can only render their victims helpless, or make them as brutal as they themselves are. I pointed out that countless studies had been done on the effects of physical and psychological torture on such victims.

"The difference is in something you just said," he retorted. "They are victims, not warriors. Once I felt just as you do. I'll tell you what made me change, but first let's go back again to what I said about the Conquest. The seers of that time couldn't have found a better ground. The Spaniards were the petty tyrants who tested the seers' skills to the limit. After dealing with the conquerors, the seers were capable of facing anything. They were the lucky ones. At that time there were petty tyrants everywhere.

"After all those marvelous years of abundance things changed a great deal. Petty tyrants never again had that scope. It was only during those times that the petty tyrants' authority was unlimited. The perfect ingredient for the making of a superb seer is a petty tyrant with unlimited prerogatives.

"In our times, unfortunately, seers have to go to extremes to find a worthy one. Most of the time they have to be satisfied with very small fry."

"Did you find a petty tyrant yourself, don Juan?"

"I was lucky. A king-size one found me. At the time, though, I felt like you. I couldn't consider myself fortunate."

Don Juan said that his ordeal began a few weeks before he met his benefactor. He was barely twenty years old at the time. He had gotten a job at a sugar mill working as a laborer. He had always been very strong, so it was easy for him to get jobs that required muscle.

One day when he was moving some heavy sacks of sugar a woman came by. She was very well dressed, and seemed to be a woman of means. She was perhaps in her fifties, don Juan said, and very domineering. She looked at don Juan and then spoke to the foreman and left. Don Juan was then approached by the foreman who told him that, for a fee, he would recommend him for a job in the boss's house. Don Juan told the man that he had no money. The foreman smiled and said not to worry because he would have plenty on payday. He patted don Juan's back, and assured him it was a great honor to work for the boss.

Don Juan said that being a lowly ignorant Indian living hand-to-mouth, not only did he believe every word, he thought a good fairy had touched him. He promised to pay the foreman anything he wished. The foreman named a large sum which had to be paid in installments.

Immediately thereafter the foreman himself took don Juan to the house, which was quite a distance from the town, and left him there with another foreman; a huge, somber, ugly man who asked a lot of questions. He wanted to know about don Juan's family. Don Juan answered that he didn't have any. The man was so pleased that he even smiled through his rotten teeth.

He promised don Juan that they would pay him plenty, and that he would even be in a position to save money, because he didn't have to spend any, for he was going to live and eat in the house.

The way the man laughed was terrifying. Don Juan knew that he had to escape immediately. He ran for the gate, but the man cut in front of him with a revolver in his hand. He cocked it and rammed it into don Juan's stomach.

"You're here to work yourself to the bone," he said. "And don't you forget it." He shoved don Juan around with a billy club.

Then he took him to the side of the house and, after observing that he worked his men every day from sunrise to sunset without a break, he put don Juan to work digging out two enormous tree stumps. He also told don Juan that if he ever tried to escape or went to the authorities he would shoot him dead- and that if don Juan should ever get away, he would swear in court that don Juan had tried to murder the boss.

"You'll work here until you die," he said. "Another Indian will get your job then, just as you're taking a dead Indian's place."

Don Juan said that the house looked like a fortress, with armed men with machetes everywhere. So he got busy working and tried not to think about his predicament. At the end of the day, the man came back and kicked him all the way to the kitchen, because he did not like the defiant look in don Juan's eyes. He threatened to cut the tendons of don Juan's arms if he didn't obey him.

In the kitchen an old woman brought food, but don Juan was so upset and afraid that he couldn't eat. The old woman advised him to eat as much as he could. He had to be strong, she said, because his work would never end. She warned him that the man who had held his job had died just a day earlier. He was too weak to work and had fallen from a second-story window.

Don Juan said that he worked at the boss's place for three weeks and that the man bullied him every moment of every day. He made him work under the most dangerous conditions doing the heaviest work imaginable under the constant threat of his knife, gun, or billy club. He sent don Juan daily to the stables to clean the stalls while the nervous stallions were in them. At the beginning of every day, don Juan thought it would be his last one on earth. And surviving meant only that he had to go through the same hell again the next day.

What precipitated the end was don Juan's request to have some time off. The pretext was that he needed to go to town to pay the foreman of the sugar mill the money that he owed him. The other foreman retorted that don Juan could not stop working, not even for a minute, because he was in debt up to his ears just for the privilege of working there.

Don Juan knew that he was done for. He understood the man's maneuvers. Both he and the other foreman were in cahoots to get lowly Indians from the mill, work them to death, and divide their salaries. That realization angered him so intensely that he ran through the kitchen screaming and got inside the main house. The foreman and the other workers were caught totally by surprise. He ran out the front door and almost got away, but the foreman caught up with him on the road and shot him in the chest. He left him for dead.

Don Juan said that it was not his destiny to die. His benefactor found him there and tended him until he got well.

"When I told my benefactor the whole story," don Juan said, "he could hardly contain his excitement.

"That foreman is really a prize," my benefactor said. "He is too good to be wasted. Someday you must go back to that house."

"He raved about my luck in finding a 'one in a million' petty tyrant with almost unlimited power. I thought the old man was nuts. It was years before I fully understood what he was talking about."

"That is one of the most horrible stories I have ever heard," I said. "Did you really go back to that house?"

"I certainly did, three years later. My benefactor was right. A petty tyrant like that one was one in a million and couldn't be wasted."

"How did you manage to go back?"

"My benefactor developed a strategy using the four attributes of warriorship: control, discipline, forbearance, and timing."

Don Juan said that his benefactor, in explaining to him what he had to do to profit from facing that ogre of a man, also told him what the new seers considered to be the four steps on the path of knowledge.

The first step is the decision to become apprentices. After the apprentices change their views about themselves and the world, they take the second step and become warriors, which is to say, beings capable of the utmost discipline and control over themselves. The third step, after acquiring forbearance and timing, is to become men of knowledge. When men of knowledge learn to see they have taken the fourth step and have become seers.

His benefactor stressed the fact that don Juan had been on the path of knowledge long enough to have acquired a minimum of the first two attributes: control and discipline. Don Juan emphasized that both of these attributes refer to an inner state. A warrior is self-oriented, not in a selfish way, but in the sense of a total and continuous examination of the self.

"At that time, I was barred from the other two attributes," don Juan went on. "Forbearance and timing are not quite an inner state. They are in the domain of the man of knowledge. My benefactor showed them to me through his strategy."

"Does this mean that you couldn't have faced the petty tyrant by yourself?" I asked.

"I'm sure that I could have done it myself, although I have always doubted that I would have carried it off with flair and joyfulness. My benefactor was simply enjoying the encounter by directing it. The idea of using a petty tyrant is not only for perfecting the warrior's spirit, but also for enjoyment and happiness."

"How could anyone enjoy the monster you described?"

"He was nothing in comparison to the real monsters that the new seers faced during the Conquest. By all indications those seers enjoyed themselves blue dealing with them. They proved that even the worst tyrants can bring delight, provided of course, that one is a warrior."

Don Juan explained that the mistake average men make in confronting petty tyrants is not to have a strategy to fall back on. The fatal flaw is that average men take themselves too seriously: Their actions and feelings, as well as those of the petty tyrants, are all-important.

Warriors, on the other hand, not only have a well thought out strategy, but are free from self-importance. What restrains their self-importance is that they have understood that reality is an interpretation we make. That knowledge was the definitive advantage that the new seers had over the simple-minded Spaniards.

He said that he became convinced he could defeat the foreman using only the single realization that petty tyrants take themselves with deadly seriousness while warriors do not.

Following his benefactor's strategic plan, therefore, don Juan got a job in the same sugar mill as before. Nobody remembered that he had worked there in the past: Peons came to that sugar mill and left it without leaving a trace.

His benefactor's strategy specified that don Juan had to be solicitous of whoever came to look for another victim. As it happened, the same woman came and spotted him as she had done years ago. This time he was physically even stronger than before.

The same routine took place. The strategy, however, called for refusing payment to the foreman from the outset. The man had never been turned down and was taken aback. He threatened to fire don Juan from the job. Don Juan threatened him back, saying that he would go directly to the lady's house and see her.

Don Juan knew that the woman, who was the wife of the owner of the mill, did not know what the two foremen were up to. He told the foreman that he knew where she lived because he had worked in the surrounding fields cutting sugar cane. The man began to haggle, and don Juan demanded money from him before he would accept going to the lady's house. The foreman gave in and handed him a few bills. Don Juan was perfectly aware that the foreman's acquiescence was just a ruse to get him to go to the house.

"He himself once again took me to the house," don Juan said. "It was an old hacienda owned by the people of the sugar mill: rich men who either knew what was going on and didn't care, or were too indifferent even to notice.

"As soon as we got there, I ran into the house to look for the lady. I found her and dropped to my knees and kissed her hand to thank her. The two foremen were livid.

"The foreman at the house followed the same pattern as before. But I had the proper equipment to deal with him. I had control, discipline, forbearance, and timing. It turned out as my benefactor had planned it. My control made me fulfill the man's most asinine demands. What usually exhausts us in a situation like that is the wear and tear on our self-importance. Any man who has an iota of pride is ripped apart by being made to feel worthless.

"I gladly did everything he asked of me. I was joyful and strong, and I didn't give a fig about my pride or my fear. I was there as an impeccable warrior. To tune the spirit when someone is trampling on you is called control."

Don Juan explained that his benefactor's strategy required that instead of feeling sorry for himself as he had done before, he immediately go to work mapping the man's strong points, his weaknesses, and his quirks of behavior.

He found that the foreman's strongest points were his violent nature and his daring. He had shot don Juan in broad daylight and in sight of scores of onlookers. His great weakness was that he liked his job and did not want to endanger it. Under no circumstances could he attempt to kill don Juan inside the compound in the daytime. His other weakness was that he was a family man. He had a wife and children who lived in a shack near the house.

"To gather all this information while they are beating you up is called discipline," don Juan said. "The man was a regular fiend. He had no saving grace. According to the new seers, a perfect petty tyrant has no redeeming feature."

Don Juan said that the other two attributes of warriorship, forbearance and timing, which he did not yet have, had been automatically included in his benefactor's strategy. Forbearance is to wait patiently- no rush, no anxiety- a simple, joyful holding back of what is due.

"I groveled daily," don Juan continued, "sometimes crying under the man's whip. And yet I was happy. My benefactor's strategy was what made me go from day to day without hating the man's guts. I was a warrior. I knew that I was waiting and I knew what I was waiting for. Right there is the great joy of warriorship."

He added that his benefactor's strategy called for a systematic harassment of the man by taking cover with a higher order, just as the seers of the new cycle had done during the Conquest by shielding themselves with the Catholic church. A lowly priest was sometimes more powerful than a nobleman.

Don Juan's shield was the lady who got him the job. He kneeled in front of her and called her a saint every time he saw her. He begged her to give him the medallion of her patron saint so he could pray to him for her health and well-being.

"She gave me one," don Juan went on, "and that rattled the foreman to pieces. And when I got the servants to pray at night he nearly had a heart attack. I think he decided then to kill me. He couldn't afford to let me go on.

"As a countermeasure, I organized a rosary among all the servants of the house. The lady thought I had the makings of a most pious man.

"I didn't sleep soundly after that, nor did I sleep in my bed. I climbed to the roof every night. From there I saw the man twice looking for me in the middle of the night with murder in his eyes.

"Daily he shoved me into the stallions' stalls hoping that I would be crushed to death, but I had a plank of heavy boards that I braced against one of the corners and protected myself behind it. The man never knew because he was nauseated by the horses- another of his weaknesses, the deadliest of all, as things turned out."

Don Juan said that timing is the quality that governs the release of all that is held back. Control, discipline, and forbearance are like a dam behind which everything is pooled. Timing is the gate in the dam.

The man knew only the violence with which he terrorized. If his violence was neutralized, he was rendered nearly helpless. Don Juan knew that the man would not dare to kill him in view of the house, so one day, in the presence of the other workers, but in sight of his lady as well, don Juan insulted the man. He called him a coward who was mortally afraid of the boss's wife.

His benefactor's strategy had called for being on the alert for a moment like that, and using it to turn the tables on the petty tyrant. Unexpected things always happen that way. The lowest of the slaves suddenly makes fun of the tyrant, taunts him, makes him feel ridiculous in front of significant witnesses, and then rushes away without giving the tyrant time to retaliate.

"A moment later, the man went crazy with rage, but I was already solicitously kneeling in front of the lady," he continued.

Don Juan said that when the lady went inside the house, the man and his friends called him to the back, allegedly to do some work. The man was very pale, white with anger. From the sound of his voice don Juan knew what the man was really planning to do. Don Juan pretended to acquiesce, but instead of heading for the back, he ran for the stables. He trusted that the horses would make such a racket that the owners would come out to see what was wrong. He knew that the man would not dare shoot him. That would have been too noisy, and the man's fear of endangering his job was too overpowering. Don Juan also knew that the man would not go where the horses were- that is, unless he had been pushed beyond his endurance.

"I jumped inside the stall of the wildest stallion," don Juan said, "and the petty tyrant, blinded by rage, took out his knife and jumped in after me. I went instantly behind my planks. The horse kicked him once and it was all over.

"I had spent six months in that house and in that period of time I had exercised the four attributes of warriorship. Thanks to them, I had succeeded. Not once had I felt sorry for myself or wept in impotence. I had been joyful and serene. My control and discipline were as keen as they'd ever been, and I had had a firsthand view of what forbearance and timing did for impeccable warriors. And I had not once wished the man to die.

"My benefactor explained something very interesting. Forbearance means holding back with the spirit something that the warrior knows is rightfully due. It doesn't mean that a warrior goes around plotting to do anybody mischief, or planning to settle past scores. Forbearance is something independent. As long as the warrior has control, discipline, and timing, forbearance assures giving whatever is due to whoever deserves it."

"Do petty tyrants sometimes win, and destroy the warrior facing them?" I asked.

"Of course. There was a time when warriors died like flies at the beginning of the Conquest. Their ranks were decimated. The petty tyrants could put anyone to death simply acting on a whim. Under that kind of pressure seers reached sublime states."

Don Juan said that that was the time when the surviving seers had to exert themselves to the limit to find new ways.

"The new seers used petty tyrants," don Juan said, staring at me fixedly, "not only to get rid of their self-importance, but to accomplish the very sophisticated maneuver of moving themselves out of this world. You'll understand that maneuver as we keep on discussing the mastery of awareness."

I explained to don Juan that what I had wanted to know was whether, in the present, in our times, the petty tyrants he had called small fry could ever defeat a warrior.

"All the time," he replied. "The consequences aren't as dire as those in the remote past. Today it goes without saying that warriors always have a chance to recuperate, or to retrieve and come back later. But there is another side to this problem. To be defeated by a small-fry petty tyrant is not deadly, but devastating. The degree of mortality, in a figurative sense, is almost as high. By that I mean that warriors who succumb to a small-fry petty tyrant are obliterated by their own sense of failure and unworthiness. That spells high mortality to me."

"How do you measure defeat?"

"Anyone who joins the petty tyrant is defeated. To act in anger, without control and discipline, to have no forbearance, is to be defeated."

"What happens after warriors are defeated?"

"They either regroup themselves, or they abandon the quest for knowledge and join the ranks of the petty tyrants for life."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 03 - The Eagle's Emanations.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 03 - The Eagle's Emanations.

The next day, don Juan and I went for a walk along the road to the city of Oaxaca. The road was deserted at that hour. It was 2:00 p.m.

As we strolled leisurely, don Juan suddenly began to talk. He said that our discussion about the petty tyrants had been merely an introduction to the topic of awareness. I remarked that it had opened a new view for me. He asked me to explain what I meant.

I told him that it had to do with an argument we had had some years before about the Yaqui Indians. In the course of his teachings for the right side, he had tried to tell me about the advantages that the Yaquis could find in being oppressed. I had passionately argued that there were no possible advantages in the wretched conditions in which they lived. And I had told him that I could not understand how, being a Yaqui himself, he did not react against such a flagrant injustice.

He had listened attentively. Then, when I was sure he was going to defend his point, he agreed that the conditions of the Yaqui Indians were indeed wretched. But he pointed out that it was useless to single out the Yaquis when life conditions of man in general were horrendous.

"Don't just feel sorry for the poor Yaqui Indians," he had said. "Feel sorry for mankind. In the case of the Yaqui Indians, I can even say they're the lucky ones. They are oppressed, and because of that, some of them may come out triumphant in the end. But the oppressors, the petty tyrants that tread upon them, they don't have a chance in hell."

I had immediately answered him with a barrage of political slogans. I had not understood his point at all. He again tried to explain to me the concept of petty tyrants, but the whole idea bypassed me. It was only now that everything fit into place.

"Nothing has fit into place yet," he said, laughing at what I had told him. "Tomorrow, when you are in your normal state of awareness, you won't even remember what you've realized now."

I felt utterly depressed, for I knew he was right.

"What's going to happen to you is what happened to me," he continued. "My benefactor, the nagual Julian, made me realize in heightened awareness what you have realized yourself about petty tyrants. And I ended up, in my daily life, changing my opinions without knowing why.

"I had always been oppressed, so I had real venom toward my oppressors, imagine my surprise when I found myself seeking the company of petty tyrants. I thought I had lost my mind."

We came to a place on the side of the road where some large boulders were half buried by an old landslide. Don Juan headed for them and sat down on a flat rock. He signaled me to sit down, facing him. And then without further preliminaries, he started his explanation of the mastery of awareness.

He said that there were a series of truths that seers, old and new, had discovered about awareness, and that such truths had been arranged in a specific sequence for purposes of comprehension.

He explained that the mastery of awareness consisted in internalizing the total sequence of such truths. The first truth, he said, was that our familiarity with the world we perceive compels us to believe that we are surrounded by objects, existing by themselves and as themselves, just as we perceive them, whereas, in fact, there is no world of objects, but a universe of the Eagle's emanations.

He told me then that before he could explain the Eagle's emanations, he had to talk about the known, the unknown, and the unknowable. Most of the truths about awareness were discovered by the old seers, he said. But the order in which they were arranged had been worked out by the new seers. And without that order those truths were nearly incomprehensible.

He said that 'not to seek order' was one of the great mistakes that the ancient seers made. A deadly consequence of that mistake was their assumption that the unknown and the unknowable are the same thing. It was up to the new seers to correct that error. They set up boundaries and defined the unknown as something that is veiled from man, shrouded perhaps by a terrifying context, but which, nonetheless, is within man's reach. The unknown becomes the known at a given time. The unknowable, on the other hand, is the indescribable, the unthinkable, and the unrealizable. It is something that will never be known to us, and yet it is there; dazzling and at the same time horrifying in its vastness.

"How can seers make the distinction between the two?" I asked.

"There is a simple rule of thumb," he said. "In the face of the unknown, man is adventurous. It is a quality of the unknown to give us a sense of hope and happiness. Man feels robust, exhilarated. Even the apprehension that it arouses is very fulfilling. The new seers saw that man is at his best in the face of the unknown."

He said that whenever what is taken to be the unknown turns out to be the unknowable the results are disastrous. Seers feel drained, confused. A terrible oppression takes possession of them. Their bodies lose tone, their reasoning and sobriety wander away aimlessly. For the unknowable has no energizing effects whatsoever. It is not within human reach; therefore, it should not be intruded upon foolishly or even prudently. The new seers realized that they had to be prepared to pay exorbitant prices for the faintest contact with it.

Don Juan explained that the new seers had had formidable barriers of tradition to overcome. At the time when the new cycle began, none of them knew for certain which procedures of their immense tradition were the right ones and which were not. Obviously, something had gone wrong with the ancient seers, but the new seers did not know what. They began by assuming that everything their predecessors had done was erroneous. Those ancient seers had been the masters of conjecture. They had, for one thing, assumed that their proficiency in seeing was a safeguard. They thought that they were untouchable- that is until the invaders smashed them, and put most of them to horrendous deaths. The ancient seers had no protection whatsoever despite their total certainty that they were invulnerable.

The new seers did not waste their time in speculations about what went wrong. Instead, they began to map the unknown in order to separate it from the unknowable.

"How did they map the unknown, don Juan?" I asked.

"Through the controlled use of seeing," he replied.

I said that what I had meant to ask was, what was entailed in mapping the unknown?

He answered that mapping the unknown means making it available to our perception. By steadily practicing seeing, the new seers found that the unknown and the known are really on the same footing because both are within the reach of human perception. Seers, in fact, can leave the known at a given moment and enter into the unknown.

Whatever is beyond our capacity to perceive is the unknowable. And the distinction between it and the knowable is crucial. Confusing the two would put seers in a most precarious position whenever they are confronted with the unknowable.

"When this happened to the ancient seers," don Juan went on, "they thought their procedures had gone haywire. It never occurred to them that most of what's out there is beyond our comprehension. It was a terrifying error of judgment on their part for which they paid dearly."

"What happened after the distinction between the unknown and the unknowable was realized?" I asked.

"The new cycle began," he replied. "That distinction is the frontier between the old and the new. Everything that the new seers have done stems from understanding that distinction."

Don Juan said that seeing was the crucial element in both the destruction of the ancient seers' world and in the reconstruction of the new view. It was through seeing that the new seers discovered certain undeniable facts which they used to arrive at certain conclusions, revolutionary to them, about the nature of man and the world. These conclusions, which made the new cycle possible, were the truths about awareness he was explaining to me.

Don Juan asked me to accompany him to the center of town for a stroll around the square. On our way, we began to talk about machines and delicate instruments. He said that instruments are extensions of our senses, and I maintained that there are instruments that are not in that category because they perform functions that we are not physiologically capable of performing.

"Our senses are capable of everything," he asserted.

"I can tell you offhand," I said, "that there are instruments that can detect radio waves that come from outer space. Our senses cannot detect radio waves."

"I have a different idea," he said. "I think our senses can detect everything we are surrounded by."

"What about the case of ultrasonic sounds?" I insisted. "We don't have the organic equipment to hear them."

"It is the seers' conviction that we've tapped a very small portion of ourselves," he replied.

He immersed himself in thought for a while as if he were trying to decide what to say next. Then he smiled.

"The first truth about awareness, as I have already told you," he began, "is that the world out there is not really as we think it is. We think it is a world of objects and it's not."

He paused as if to measure the effect of his words. I told him that I agreed with his premise because everything could be reduced to being a field of energy. He said that I was merely intuiting a truth, and that to reason it out was not to verify it. He said he was not interested in my agreement or disagreement, but rather in my attempt to comprehend what was involved in that truth.

"You cannot witness fields of energy," he went on. "Not as an average man, that is. Now, if you were able to see them, you would be a seer, in which case you would be explaining the truths about awareness. Do you understand what I mean?"

He went on to say that conclusions arrived at through reasoning had very little or no influence in altering the course of our lives. Hence, the countless examples of people who have the clearest convictions, and yet act diametrically against them time and time again; and they have, as the only explanation for their behavior, the idea that to err is human.

"The first truth is that the world is as it looks and yet it isn't," he went on. "It's not as solid and real as our perception has been led to believe.

"But it isn't a mirage either. The world is not an illusion, as it has been said to be. It's real on the one hand, and unreal on the other. Pay close attention to this, for it must be understood, not just accepted. We perceive. This is a hard fact. But what we perceive is not a fact of the same kind, because we learn what to perceive.

"Something out there is affecting our senses. This is the part that is real. The unreal part is what our senses tell us is there. Take a mountain, for instance. Our senses tell us that it is an object. It has size, color, form. We even have categories of mountains, and they are downright accurate. Nothing wrong with that. The flaw is simply that it has never occurred to us that our senses play only a superficial role. Our senses perceive the way they do because a specific feature of our awareness forces them to do so."

I began to agree with him again, but not because I wanted to, for I had not quite understood his point. Rather, I was reacting to a threatening situation. He made me stop.

"I've used the term 'the world'," don Juan went on, "to mean everything that surrounds us. I have a better term, of course, but it would be quite incomprehensible to you. Seers say that we think there is a world of objects out there only because of our awareness. But what's really out there are the Eagle's emanations, fluid, forever in motion, and yet unchanged; eternal."

He stopped me with a gesture of his hand just as I was about to ask him what the Eagle's emanations were. He explained that one of the most dramatic legacies the old seers had left us was their discovery that the reason for the existence of all sentient beings is to enhance awareness. Don Juan called it a colossal discovery.

In a half-serious tone he asked me if I knew of a better answer to the question that has always haunted man: the reason for our existence. I immediately took a defensive position and began to argue about the meaninglessness of the question because it cannot be logically answered. I told him that in order to discuss that subject we would have to talk about religious beliefs and turn it all into a matter of faith.

"The old seers were not just talking about faith," he said. "Although they were not as practical as the new seers, they were practical enough to know what they were seeing.

"What I was trying to point out to you with that question, which has rattled you so badly, is that our rationality alone cannot come up with an answer about the reason for our existence. Every time it tries, the answer turns into a matter of beliefs. The old seers took another road, and they did find an answer which doesn't involve faith alone."

He said that the old seers, risking untold dangers, actually saw the indescribable force which is the source of all sentient beings. They called it the Eagle because in the few glimpses that they could sustain, they saw it as something that resembled a black-and-white eagle of infinite size.

They saw that it is the Eagle who bestows awareness. The Eagle creates sentient beings so that they will live and enrich the awareness it gives them with life. They also saw that it is the Eagle who devours that same enriched awareness after making sentient beings relinquish it at the moment of death.

"For the old seers," don Juan went on, "to say that the reason for existence is to enhance awareness is not a matter of faith or deduction. They saw it.

"They saw that the awareness of sentient beings flies away at the moment of death and floats like a luminous cotton puff right into the Eagle's beak to be consumed. For the old seers that was the evidence that sentient beings live only to enrich the awareness that is the Eagle's food."


Don Juan's elucidation was interrupted because he had to leave on a short business trip. Nestor drove him to Oaxaca. As I saw them off, I remembered that at the beginning of my association with don Juan, every time he mentioned a business trip I thought he was employing a euphemism for something else.

I eventually realized that he meant what he said. Whenever such a trip was about to take place, he would put on one of his many immaculately tailored three-piece suits and would look like anything but the old Indian I knew. I had commented to him about the sophistication of his metamorphosis.

"A nagual is someone flexible enough to be anything," he had said. "To be a nagual, among other things, means to have no points to defend. Remember this- we'll come back to it over and over."

We had come back to it over and over, in every possible way. He did indeed seem to have no points to defend, but during his absence in Oaxaca, I was given to just a shadow of doubt. Suddenly I realized that a nagual did have one point to defend. The 'description of the Eagle', and 'what the Eagle does' required, in my opinion, a passionate defense.

I tried to pose that question to some of don Juan's companions, but they eluded my probings. They told me that I was in quarantine from that kind of discussion until don Juan had finished his explanation.

The moment he returned, we sat down to talk and I asked him about it.


"Those truths are not something to defend passionately," he replied. "If you think that I'm trying to defend them, you are mistaken. Those truths were put together for the delight and enlightenment of warriors, not to engage any proprietary sentiments. When I told you that a nagual has no points to defend, I meant, among other things, that a nagual has no obsessions."

I told him that I was not following his teachings, for I had become obsessed with his description of the Eagle and what it does. I remarked over and over about the awesomeness of such an idea.

"It is not just an idea," he said. "It is a fact. And a darn scary one if you ask me. The new seers were not simply playing with ideas."

"But what kind of a force would the Eagle be?"

"I wouldn't know how to answer that. The Eagle is as real for the seers as gravity and time are for you, and just as abstract and incomprehensible."

"Wait a minute, don Juan. Those are abstract concepts, but they do refer to real phenomena that can be corroborated. There are whole disciplines dedicated to that."

"The Eagle and its emanations are equally corroboratable," don Juan retorted. "And the discipline of the new seers is dedicated to doing just that."

I asked him to explain what the Eagle's emanations are.

He said that the Eagle's emanations are an immutable thing-in-itself, which engulfs everything that exists; the knowable and the unknowable.

"There is no way to describe in words what the Eagle's emanations really are," don Juan continued. "A seer must witness them."

"Have you witnessed them yourself, don Juan?"

"Of course I have, and yet I can't tell you what they are. They are a presence; almost a mass of sorts; a pressure that creates a dazzling sensation. One can catch only a glimpse of them, as one can catch only a glimpse of the Eagle itself."

"Would you say, don Juan, that the Eagle is the source of the emanations?"

"It goes without saying that the Eagle is the source of its emanations."

"I meant to ask if that is so visually."

"There is nothing visual about the Eagle. The entire body of a seer senses the Eagle. There is something in all of us that can make us witness with our entire body. Seers explain the act of seeing the Eagle in very simple terms: because man is composed of the Eagle's emanations, man need only revert back to his components.

"The problem arises with man's awareness. It is his awareness that becomes entangled and confused. At the crucial moment when it should be a simple case of the emanations acknowledging themselves, man's awareness is compelled to interpret. The result is a vision of the Eagle and the Eagle's emanations. But there is no Eagle and no Eagle's emanations. What is out there is something that no living creature can grasp."

I asked him if the source of the emanations was called the Eagle because eagles in general have important attributes.

"This is simply the case of something unknowable vaguely resembling something known," he replied. "On account of that, there have certainly been attempts to imbue eagles with attributes they don't have. But that always happens when impressionable people learn to perform acts that require great sobriety. Seers come in all sizes and shapes."

"Do you mean to say that there are different kinds of seers?"

"No. I mean that there are scores of imbeciles who become seers. Seers are human beings full of foibles, or rather, human beings full of foibles are capable of becoming seers. Just as in the case of miserable people who become superb scientists.

"The characteristic of miserable seers is that they are willing to forget the wonder of the world. They become overwhelmed by the fact that they see and believe that it's their genius that counts. A seer must be a paragon in order to override the nearly invincible laxness of our human condition. More important than seeing itself is what seers do with what they see."

"What do you mean by that, don Juan?"

"Look at what some seers have done to us. We are stuck with their vision of an Eagle that rules us and devours us at the moment of our death."

He said that there is a definite laxness in that version, and that personally he did not appreciate the idea of something devouring us. For him, it would be more accurate to say that there is a force that attracts our consciousness, much as a magnet attracts iron shavings. At the moment of dying, all of our being disintegrates under the attraction of that immense force.

That such an event was interpreted as the Eagle devouring us he found grotesque, because it turns an indescribable act into something as mundane as eating.

"I'm a very average man," I said. "The description of an Eagle that devours us had a great impact on me."

"The real impact can't be measured until the moment when you see it yourself," he said. "But you must bear in mind that our flaws remain with us even after we become seers. So when you see that force, you may very well agree with the lax seers who called it the Eagle, as I did myself. On the other hand, you may not. You may resist the temptation to ascribe human attributes to what is incomprehensible, and actually improvise a new name for it; a more accurate one."

"Seers who see the Eagle's emanations often call them commands," don Juan said. "I wouldn't mind calling them commands myself if I hadn't got used to calling them emanations. It was a reaction to my benefactor's preference; for him they were commands. I thought that term was more in keeping with his forceful personality than with mine. I wanted something impersonal. 'Commands' sounds too human to me, but that's what they really are, commands."

Don Juan said that to see the Eagle's emanations is to court disaster. The new seers soon discovered the tremendous difficulties involved, and only after great tribulations in trying to map the unknown and separate it from the unknowable did they realize that everything is made out of the Eagle's emanations. Only a small portion of those emanations is within reach of human awareness, and that small portion is still further reduced, to a minute fraction, by the constraints of our daily lives.

That minute fraction of the Eagle's emanations is the known. The small portion within possible reach of human awareness is the unknown. The incalculable rest is the unknowable.

He went on to say that the new seers, being pragmatically oriented, became immediately cognizant of the compelling power of the emanations. They realized that all living creatures are forced to employ the Eagle's emanations without ever knowing what they are. They also realized that organisms are constructed to grasp a certain range of those emanations and that every species has a definite range. The emanations exert great pressure on organisms, and through that pressure organisms construct their perceivable world.

"In our case, as human beings," don Juan said, "we employ those emanations and interpret them as reality. But what man senses is such a small portion of the Eagle's emanations that it's ridiculous to put much stock in our perceptions, and yet it isn't possible for us to disregard our perceptions. The new seers found this out the hard way after courting tremendous dangers."


Don Juan was sitting where he usually sat in the large room. Ordinarily there was no furniture in that room- people sat on mats on the floor- but Carol, the nagual woman, had managed to furnish it with very comfortable armchairs for the sessions when she and I took turns reading to don Juan from the works of Spanish-speaking poets.

"I want you to be very aware of what we are doing," he said as soon as I sat down. "We are discussing the mastery of awareness. The truths we're discussing are the principles of that mastery."

He added that in his teachings for the right side, he had demonstrated those principles to my normal awareness with the help of one of his seer companions, Genaro, and that Genaro had played around with my awareness with all the humor and irreverence for which the new seers were known.

"Genaro is the one who should be here telling you about the Eagle," he said, "except that his versions are too irreverent. He thinks that the seers who called that force the Eagle were either very stupid or were making a grand joke, because eagles not only lay eggs, they also lay turds."

Don Juan laughed and said that he found Genaro's comments so appropriate that he couldn't resist laughter. He added that if the new seers had been the ones to describe the Eagle the description would certainly have been made half in fun.

I told don Juan that on one level I took the Eagle as a poetic image, and as such it delighted me; but on another level I took it literally, and that terrified me.

"One of the greatest forces in the lives of warriors is fear," he said. "It spurs them to learn."

He reminded me that the description of the Eagle came from the ancient seers. The new seers were through with description, comparison, and conjecture of any sort. They wanted to get directly to the source of things and consequently risked unlimited danger to get to it.

They did see the Eagle's emanations, but they never tampered with the description of the Eagle. They felt that it took too much energy to see the Eagle, and that the ancient seers had already paid heavily for their scant glimpse of the unknowable.

"How did the old seers come around to describing the Eagle?" I asked.

"They needed a minimal set of guidelines about the unknowable for purposes of instruction," he replied. "They resolved it with a sketchy description of the force that rules all there is, but not of its emanations, because the emanations cannot be rendered at all in a language of comparisons. Individual seers may feel the urge to make comments about certain emanations, but that will remain personal. In other words, there is no pat version of the emanations, as there is of the Eagle."

"The new seers seem to have been very abstract," I commented. "They sound like modern-day philosophers."

"No. The new seers were terribly practical men," he replied. "They weren't involved in concocting rational theories."

He said that the ancient seers were the ones who were the abstract thinkers. They built monumental edifices of abstractions proper to them and their time. And just like the modern-day philosophers, they were not at all in control of their concatenations.

The new seers, on the other hand, imbued with practicality, were able to see a flux of emanations and to see how man and other living beings utilize them to construct their perceivable world.

"How are those emanations utilized by man, don Juan?"

"It's so simple it sounds idiotic. For a seer, men are luminous beings. Our luminosity is made up of that portion of the Eagle's emanations which is encased in our egglike cocoon. That particular portion- that handful of emanations that is encased, is what makes us men. To perceive is to match the emanations contained inside our cocoon with those that are outside.

"Seers can see, for instance, the emanations inside any living creature and can tell which of the outside emanations would match them."

"Are the emanations like beams of light?" I asked.

"No. Not at all. That would be too simple. They are something indescribable. And yet, my personal comment would be to say that they are like filaments of light.

"What's incomprehensible to normal awareness is that the filaments are aware. I can't tell you what that means, because I don't know what I am saying. All I can tell you with my personal comments is that the filaments are aware of themselves, alive and vibrating; that there are so many of them that numbers have no meaning and that each of them is an eternity in itself."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 04 - The Glow of Awareness.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 04 - The Glow of Awareness.

Don Juan, don Genaro, and I had just returned from gathering plants in the surrounding mountains. We were at don Genaro's house, sitting around the table, when don Juan made me change levels of awareness. Don Genaro had been staring at me and began to chuckle. He remarked how odd he thought it was that I had two completely different standards for dealing with the two sides of awareness.

My relation with him was the most obvious example. On my right side, he was the respected and feared sorcerer don Genaro, a man whose incomprehensible acts delighted me and at the same time filled me with mortal terror. On my left side, he was plain Genaro, or Genarito, with no don attached to his name; a charming and kind seer whose acts were thoroughly comprehensible and coherent with what I myself did or tried to do.

I agreed with him and added that on my left side, the man whose mere presence made me shake like a leaf was Silvio Manuel, the most mysterious of don Juan's companions. I also said that don Juan, being a true nagual, transcended arbitrary standards and was respected and admired by me in both states.

"But is he feared?" Genaro asked in a quivering voice.

"Very feared," don Juan interjected in a falsetto voice.

We all laughed, but don Juan and Genaro laughed with such abandon that I immediately suspected they knew something they were holding back.

Don Juan was reading me like a book. He explained that in the intermediate stage, before one enters fully into the left-side awareness, one is capable of tremendous concentration; but one is also susceptible to every conceivable influence. I was being influenced by suspicion.

"La Gorda is always in this stage," he said. "She learns beautifully, but she's a royal pain in the neck. She can't help being driven by anything that comes her way, including, of corse, very good things like keen concentration."

Don Juan explained that the new seers discovered that the transition period is the time when the deepest learning takes place, and that it is also the time when warriors must be supervised; and explanations must be given to them so they can evaluate them properly. If no explanations are given to them before they enter into the left side, they will be great sorcerers but poor seers, as the ancient Toltecs were.

Female warriors in particular fall prey to the lure of the left side, he said. They are so nimble that they can go into the left side with no effort; often too soon for their own good.

After a long silence, Genaro fell asleep. Don Juan began to speak. He said that the new seers had had to invent a number of terms in order to explain the second truth about awareness. His benefactor had changed some of those terms to suit himself, and he himself had done the same, guided by the seers' belief that it does not make any difference what terms are used as long as the truths have been verified by seeing.

I was curious to know what terms he had changed, but I didn't know quite how to word my question. He took it that I was doubting his right or his ability to change them and explained that if the terms we propose originate in our reason they can only communicate the mundane agreement of everyday life. When seers propose a term, on the other hand, it is never a figure of speech because it stems from seeing and embraces everything that seers can attain.

I asked him why he had changed the terms.

"It's a nagual's duty always to look for better ways to explain," he replied. "Time changes everything, and every new nagual has to incorporate new words and new ideas to describe his seeing."

"Do you mean that a nagual takes ideas from the world of every day life?" I asked.

"No. I mean that a nagual talks about seeing in ever new ways," he said. "For instance, as the new nagual, you'd have to say that awareness gives rise to perception. You'd be saying the same thing my benefactor said, but in a different way."

"What do the new seers say perception is, don Juan?"

"They say that perception is a condition of alignment. The emanations inside the cocoon become aligned with those outside that fit them. Alignment is what allows awareness to be cultivated by every living creature. Seers make these statements because they see living creatures as they really are: luminous beings that look like bubbles of whitish light."

I asked him how the emanations inside the cocoon fit those outside so as to accomplish perception.

"The emanations inside and the emanations outside," he said, "are the same filaments of light. Sentient beings are minute bubbles made out of those filaments; microscopic points of light, attached to the infinite emanations."

He went on to explain that the luminosity of living beings is made by the particular portion of the Eagle's emanations they happen to have inside their luminous cocoons. When seers see perception, they witness that the luminosity of the Eagle's emanations outside those creatures' cocoons brightens the luminosity of the emanations inside their cocoons. The outside luminosity attracts the inside one. It traps it, so to speak, and fixes it. That fixation is the awareness of every specific being.

Seers can also see how the emanations outside the cocoon exert a particular pressure on the portion of emanations inside. This pressure determines the degree of awareness that every living being has.

I asked him to clarify how the Eagle's emanations outside the cocoon exert pressure on those inside.

"The Eagle's emanations are more than filaments of light," he replied. "Each one of them is a source of boundless energy. Think of it this way: Since some of the emanations outside the cocoon are the same as the emanations inside, their energies are like a continuous pressure. But the cocoon isolates the emanations that are inside its web and thereby directs the pressure.

"I've mentioned to you that the old seers were masters of the art of handling awareness," he went on. "What I can add now is that they were the masters of that art because they learned to manipulate the structure of man's cocoon. I've said to you that they unraveled the mystery of being aware. By that I meant that they saw and realized that awareness is a glow in the cocoon of living beings. They rightly called it the glow of awareness."

He explained that the old seers saw that man's awareness is a glow of amber luminosity more intense than the rest of the cocoon. That glow is on a narrow, vertical band on the extreme right side of the cocoon, running along its entire length. The mastery of the old seers was to move that glow, to make it spread from its original setting on the surface of the cocoon inward across its width.

He stopped talking and looked at Genaro, who was still sound asleep.

"Genaro doesn't give a fig about explanations," he said. "He's a doer. My benefactor pushed him constantly to face insoluble problems. So he entered into the left side proper and never had a chance to ponder and wonder."

"Is it better to be that way, don Juan?"

"It depends. For him, it's perfect. For you and for me, it wouldn't be satisfactory because in one way or another we are called upon to explain. Genaro or my benefactor are more like the old than the new seers. They can control and do what they want with the glow of awareness."

He stood up from the mat where we were sitting and stretched his arms and legs. I pressed him to continue talking. He smiled and said that I needed to rest, that my concentration was waning.


There was a knock at the door. I woke up. It was dark. For a moment I could not remember where I was. There was something in me that was far away, as if part of me were still asleep, yet I was fully awake. Enough moonlight came through the open window so that I could see.

I saw don Genaro get up and go to the door. I realized then that I was at his house. Don Juan was sound asleep on a mat on the floor. I had the distinct impression that the three of us had fallen asleep after returning dead tired from a trip to the mountains.

Don Genaro lit his kerosene lantern. I followed him into the kitchen. Someone had brought him a pot of hot stew and a stack of tortillas.

"Who brought you food?" I asked him. "Do you have a woman around here that cooks for you?"

Don Juan had come into the kitchen. Both of them looked at me, smiling. For some reason their smiles were terrifying to me. I was about to scream in terror, in fact, when don Juan hit me on the back and made me shift into a state of heightened awareness. I realized then that perhaps during my sleep, or as I woke up, I had drifted back to everyday awareness.

The sensation I experienced then, once I was back in heightened awareness, was a mixture of relief and anger and the most acute sadness. I was relieved that I was myself again- for I had come to regard those incomprehensible states as being my true self. There was one simple reason for that. In those states I felt complete. Nothing was missing from me. The anger and the sadness were a reaction to impotence. I was more aware than ever of the limitations of my being.

I asked don Juan to explain to me how it was possible for me to do what I was doing. In states of heightened awareness I could look back and remember everything about myself. I could give an account of everything I had done in either state. I could even remember my incapacity to recollect.

But once I had returned to my normal, everyday level of awareness I could not recall anything I had done in heightened awareness, even if my life depended on it.

"Hold it, hold it there," he said. "You haven't remembered anything yet. Heightened awareness is only an intermediate state. There is infinitely more beyond that, and you have been there many, many times. Right now you can't remember, even if your life depends on it."

He was right. I had no idea what he was talking about. I pleaded for an explanation.

"The explanation is coming," he said. "It's a slow process, but we'll get to it. It is slow because I am just like you. I like to understand. I am the opposite of my benefactor who was not given to explaining. For him there was only action. He used to put us squarely against incomprehensible problems and let us resolve them for ourselves. Some of us never did resolve anything, and we ended up very much in the same boat with the old seers: all action and no real knowledge."

"Are those memories trapped in my mind?" I asked.

"No. That would make it too simple," he replied. "The actions of seers are more complex than dividing a man into mind and body. You have forgotten what you've done, or what you've witnessed, because when you were performing what you've forgotten you were seeing."

I asked don Juan to reinterpret what he had just said.

Patiently, he explained that everything I had forgotten had taken place in states in which my everyday awareness had been enhanced and intensified; a condition that meant that other areas of my total being were used.

"Whatever you've forgotten is trapped in those areas of your total being," he said. "To be using those other areas is to see."

"I'm more confused than ever, don Juan," I said.

"I don't blame you," he said. "Seeing is to lay bare the core of everything; to witness the unknown and to glimpse into the unknowable. As such, it doesn't bring one solace. Seers ordinarily go to pieces on finding out that existence is incomprehensibly complex, and that our normal awareness maligns it with its limitations."

He reiterated that my concentration had to be total; that to understand was of crucial importance; that the new seers placed the highest value on deep, unemotional realizations.

"For instance, the other day," he went on, "when you understood about la Gorda's and your self-importance, you didn't understand anything really. You had an emotional outburst. That was all. I say this because the next day you were back on your high horse of self-importance as if you never had realized anything.

"The same thing happened to the old seers. They were given to emotional reactions. But when the time came for them to understand what they had seen, they couldn't do it. To understand one needs sobriety, not emotionality. Beware of those who weep with realization, for they have realized nothing.

"There are untold dangers in the path of knowledge for those without sober understanding," he continued. "I am outlining the order in which the new seers arranged the truths about awareness so it will serve you as a map; a map that you have to corroborate with your seeing, but not with your eyes."

There was a long pause. He stared at me. He was definitely waiting for me to ask him a question.

"Everybody falls prey to the mistake that seeing is done with the eyes," he continued. "But don't be surprised that after so many years you haven't realized yet that seeing is not a matter of the eyes. It's quite normal to make that mistake."

"What is seeing, then?" I asked.

He replied that seeing is alignment. And I reminded him that he had said that perception is alignment. He explained then that the alignment of emanations used routinely is the perception of the day-to-day world, but the alignment of emanations that are never used ordinarily is seeing. When such an alignment occurs one sees. Seeing, therefore, being produced by alignment out of the ordinary, cannot be something one could merely look at. He said that in spite of the fact that I had seen countless times, it had not occurred to me to disregard my eyes. I had succumbed to the way seeing is labeled and described.

"When seers see, something explains everything as the new alignment takes place," he continued. "It's a voice that tells them in their ear what's what. If that voice is not present, what the seer is engaged in isn't seeing."

After a moment's pause, he continued explaining the voice of seeing. He said that it was equally fallacious to say that seeing was hearing, because it was infinitely more than that, but that seers had opted for using sound as a gauge of a new alignment.

He called the voice of seeing a most mysterious inexplicable thing.

"My personal conclusion is that the voice of seeing belongs only to man," he said. "The voice may happen because talking is something that no other being besides man talks.

The old seers believed it was the voice of an overpowering entity intimately related to mankind; a protector of man. The new seers found out that that entity, which they called the mold of man, doesn't have a voice. The voice of seeing for the new seers is something quite incomprehensible. They say it's the glow of awareness playing on the Eagle's emanations as a harpist plays on a harp."

He refused to explain it any further, arguing that later on, as he proceeded with his explanation, everything would become clear to me.


My concentration had been so total while don Juan spoke that I actually did not remember sitting down at the table to eat. When don Juan stopped talking, I noticed that his plate of stew was nearly finished.

Genaro was staring at me with a beaming smile. My plate was in front of me on the table, and it too was empty. There was only a tiny residue of stew left in it as if I had just finished eating. I did not remember eating it at all, but neither did I remember walking to the table or sitting down.

"Did you like the stew?" Genaro asked me and looked away.

I said I did, because I did not want to admit that I was having problems recollecting.

"It had too much chile for my taste," Genaro said. "You never eat hot food yourself, so I'm sort of worried about what it will do to you. You shouldn't have eaten two servings. I suppose you're a little more piggish when you're in heightened awareness, eh?"

I admitted that he was probably right. He handed me a large pitcher of water to quench my thirst and soothe my throat. When I eagerly drank all of it, both of them broke into howling laughter.

Suddenly, I realized what was going on. My realization was physical. It was a flash of yellowish light that hit me as if a match had been struck right between my eyes. I knew then that Genaro was joking. I had not eaten. I had been so absorbed in don Juan's explanation that I had forgotten about everything else. The plate in front of me was Genaro's.

After dinner don Juan went on with his explanation about the glow of awareness. Genaro sat by me, listening as if he had never heard the explanation before.


Don Juan said that the pressure that the emanations outside the cocoon, which are called emanations at large, exert on the emanations inside the cocoon is the same in all sentient beings. Yet the results of that pressure are vastly different among them because their cocoons react to that pressure in every conceivable way. There are, however, degrees of uniformity within certain boundaries.

"Now," he went on, "when seers see that the pressure of the emanations at large bears down on the emanations inside which are always in motion, and makes them stop moving, they know that the luminous being at that moment is fixated by awareness.

"To say that the emanations at large bear down on those inside the cocoon and make them stop moving means that seers see something indescribable, the meaning of which they know without a shadow of doubt. It means that the voice of seeing has told them that the emanations inside the cocoon are completely at rest and match some of those which are outside."

He said that seers maintain, naturally, that awareness always comes from outside ourselves, that the real mystery is not inside us. Since by nature the emanations at large are made to fixate what is inside the cocoon, the trick of awareness is to let the fixating emanations merge with what is inside us. Seers believe that if we let that happen we become what we really are- fluid, forever in motion, eternal.

There was a long pause. Don Juan's eyes had an intense shine. They seemed to be looking at me from a great depth. I had the feeling that each of his eyes was an independent point of brilliance. For an instant he appeared to be struggling against an invisible force; a fire from within that intended to consume him. It passed and he went on talking.

"The degree of awareness of every individual sentient being," he continued, "depends on the degree to which it is capable of letting the pressure of the emanations at large carry it."

After a long interruption, don Juan continued explaining. He said that seers saw that from the moment of conception awareness is enhanced; enriched by the process of being alive. He said that seers saw, for instance, that the awareness of an individual insect or that of an individual man grows from the moment of conception in astoundingly different ways, but with equal consistency.

"Is it from the moment of conception or from the moment of birth that awareness develops?" I asked.

"Awareness develops from the moment of conception," he replied. "I have always told you that sexual energy is something of ultimate importance and that it has to be controlled and used with great care. But you have always resented what I said, because you thought I was speaking of control in terms of morality. I always meant it in terms of saving and rechanneling energy."

Don Juan looked at Genaro. Genaro nodded his head in approval.

"Genaro is going to tell you what our benefactor, the nagual Julian, used to say about saving and rechanneling sexual energy," don Juan said to me.

"The nagual Julian used to say that to have sex is a matter of energy," Genaro began. "For instance, he never had any problems having sex because he had bushels of energy. But he took one look at me and prescribed right away that my peter was just for peeing. He told me that I didn't have enough energy to have sex. He said that my parents were too bored and too tired when they made me. He said that I was the result of very boring sex, cojida aburrida. I was born like that, bored and tired. The nagual Julian recommended that people like me should never have sex. This way we can store the little energy we have.

"He said the same thing to Silvio Manuel and to Emilito. He saw that the others had enough energy. They were not the result of bored sex. He told them that they could do anything they wanted with their sexual energy, but he recommended that they control themselves; and understand the Eagle's command that sex is for bestowing the glow of awareness. We all said we had understood.

"One day, without any warning at all, he opened the curtain of the other world with the help of his own benefactor, the nagual Elias, and pushed all of us inside with no hesitation whatsoever. All of us, except Silvio Manuel, nearly died in there. We had no energy to withstand the impact of the other world. None of us, except Silvio Manuel, had followed the nagual's recommendation."

"What is the curtain of the other world?" I asked don Juan.

"What Genaro said. It is a curtain," don Juan replied. "But you're getting off the subject. You always do.

"We're talking about the Eagle's command about sex. It is the Eagle's command that sexual energy be used for creating life. Through sexual energy, the eagle bestows awareness. So when sentient beings are engaged in sexual intercourse, the emanations inside their cocoons do their best to bestow awareness to the new sentient being they are creating."

Don Juan said that during the sexual act, the emanations encased inside the cocoon of both partners undergo a profound agitation. The culminating point is a merging; a fusing of two pieces of the glow of awareness, one from each partner, that separate from their cocoons.

"Sexual intercourse is always a bestowal of awareness even though the bestowal may not be consolidated," don Juan went on. "The emanations inside the cocoon of human beings don't know of intercourse for fun."

Genaro leaned over toward me from his chair across the table and talked to me in a low voice, shaking his head for emphasis.

"The nagual is telling you the truth," he said and winked at me. "Those emanations really don't know."

Don Juan fought not to laugh and added that the fallacy of man is to act with total disregard for the mystery of existence, and to believe that such a sublime act of bestowing life and awareness is merely a physical drive that one can twist at will.

Genaro made obscene sexual gestures, twisting his pelvis around, on and on. Don Juan nodded and said that that was exactly what he meant. Genaro thanked him for acknowledging his one and only contribution to the explanation of awareness.

Both of them laughed like idiots, saying that if I had known how serious their benefactor was about the explanation of awareness, I would be laughing with them.

I earnestly asked don Juan what all this meant for an average man in the day-to-day world.

"You mean what Genaro is doing?" he asked me in mock seriousness.

Their glee was always contagious. It took a long time for them to calm down. Their level of energy was so high, that next to them I seemed old and decrepit.

"I really don't know," don Juan finally answered me. "All I know is what it means to warriors. They know that the only real energy we possess is a life-bestowing sexual energy. This knowledge makes them permanently conscious of their responsibility.

"If warriors want to have enough energy to see, they must become misers with their sexual energy. That was the lesson the nagual Julian gave us. He pushed us into the unknown, and we all nearly died. Since everyone of us wanted to see, we, of course, abstained from wasting our glow of awareness."

I had heard him voice that belief before. Every time he did we got into an argument. I always felt compelled to protest, and raise objections to what I thought was a puritanical attitude toward sex.

I again raised my objections. Both of them laughed to tears.

"What can be done with man's natural sensuality?" I asked don Juan.

"Nothing," he replied. "There is nothing wrong with man's sensuality. It's man's ignorance of and disregard for his magical nature that is wrong. It's a mistake to waste recklessly the life-bestowing force of sex and not have children, but it's also a mistake not to know that in having children one taxes the glow of awareness."

"How do seers know that having children taxes the glow of awareness?" I asked.

"They see that on having a child, the parents' glow of awareness diminishes and the child's increases. In some supersensitive, frail parents, the glow of awareness almost disappears. As children enhance their awareness, a big dark spot develops in the luminous cocoon of the parents on the very place from which the glow was taken away. It is usually on the midsection of the cocoon. Sometimes those spots can even be seen superimposed on the body itself."

I asked him if there was anything that could be done to give people a more balanced understanding of the glow of awareness.

"Nothing," he said. "At least, there is nothing that seers can do. Seers aim to be free- to be unbiased witnesses incapable of passing judgment. Otherwise they would have to assume the responsibility for bringing about a more adjusted cycle. No one can do that. The new cycle, if it is to come, must come of itself."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 05 - The First Attention.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 05 - The First Attention.

The following day we ate breakfast at dawn. Then don Juan made me shift levels of awareness.

"Today, let's go to an original setting," don Juan said to Genaro.

"By all means," Genaro said gravely. He glanced at me, and then added in a low voice as if not wanting me to overhear him, "Does he have to... perhaps it's too much..."

In a matter of seconds my fear and suspicion escalated to unbearable heights. I was sweating and panting. Don Juan came to my side and, with an expression of almost uncontrollable amusement he assured me that Genaro was just entertaining himself at my expense.

Don Juan said that we were going to a place where the original seers had lived thousands of years ago. As don Juan was speaking to me, I happened to glance at Genaro.

He slowly shook his head from side to side. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, as if he were letting me know that don Juan was not telling the truth. I went into a state of nervous frenzy, near hysteria- and stopped only when Genaro burst into laughter.

I marveled how easily my emotional states could escalate to nearly unmanageable heights or drop to nothing.


Don Juan, Genaro, and I left Genaro's house in the early morning and traveled a short distance into the surrounding eroded hills. Presently we stopped and sat down on top of an enormous flat rock, on a gradual slope, in a corn field that seemed to have been recently harvested.

"This is the original setting," don Juan said to me. "We'll come back here a couple of more times during the course of my explanation."

"Very weird things happen here at night," Genaro said. "The nagual Julian actually caught an ally here. Or rather, the ally..."

Don Juan made a noticeable gesture with his eyebrows, and Genaro stopped in midsentence. He smiled at me.

"It's too early in the day for scary stories," Genaro said. "Let's wait until dark."

He stood up and began creeping all around the rock, tiptoeing with his spine arched backward.

"What was he saying about your benefactor's catching an ally here?" I asked don Juan.

He did not answer right away. He was ecstatic, watching Genaro's antics.

"He was referring to some sophisticated use of awareness," he finally replied, still staring at Genaro.

Genaro completed a circle around the rock and came back and sat down by me. He was panting heavily, almost wheezing, out of breath.

Don Juan seemed fascinated by what Genaro had done. Again I had the feeling that they were amusing themselves at my expense; that both of them were up to something I knew nothing about.

Suddenly, don Juan began his explanation. His voice soothed me. He said that after much toiling, seers arrived at the conclusion that the consciousness of adult human beings, matured by the process of growth, can no longer be called awareness because it has been modified into something more intense and complex which seers call attention.

"How do seers know that man's awareness is being cultivated and that it grows?" I asked.

He said that at a given time in the growth of human beings, a band of the emanations inside their cocoons becomes very bright. As human beings accumulate experience, it begins to glow. In some instances, the glow of this band of emanations increases so dramatically that it fuses with the emanations from the outside. Seers, witnessing an enhancement of this kind, had to surmise that awareness is the raw material and attention the end product of maturation.

"How do seers describe attention?" I asked.

"They say that attention is the harnessing and enhancing of awareness through the process of being alive," he replied.

He said that the danger of definitions is that they simplify matters to make them understandable. In this case, in defining attention one runs the risk of transforming a magical, miraculous accomplishment into something commonplace.

"Attention is man's greatest single accomplishment. It develops from raw animal awareness until it covers the entire gamut of human alternatives. Seers perfect it even further until it covers the whole scope of human possibilities."

I wanted to know if in the seers' view there was a special significance of our normal alternatives versus our other human possibilities.

Don Juan replied that human alternatives are everything we are capable of choosing as persons. They have to do with the level of our day-to-day range, the known; and owing to that fact, they are quite limited in number and scope.

Human possibilities belong to the unknown. They are not what we are capable of choosing but what we are capable of attaining.

He said that an example of human alternatives is our choice to believe that the human body is an object among objects. An example of human possibilities is the seers' achievement in viewing man as an egglike luminous being. With the body as an object one tackles the known, with the body as a luminous egg one tackles the unknown. Human possibilities have, therefore, nearly an inexhaustible scope.

"Seers say that there are three types of attention," don Juan went on. "When they say that, they mean it just for human beings, not for all the sentient beings in existence. But the three are not just types of attention, they are rather three levels of attainment. They are the first, second, and third attention; each of them an independent domain; complete in itself."

He explained that the first attention in man is animal awareness which has been developed through the process of experience into a complex, intricate, and extremely fragile faculty that takes care of the day-to-day world in all its innumerable aspects. In other words, everything that one can think about is part of the first attention.

"The first attention is everything we are as average men," he continued. "By virtue of such an absolute rule over our lives, the first attention is the most valuable asset that the average man has. Perhaps it is even our only asset.

"Taking into account its true value, the new seers started a rigorous examination of the first attention through seeing. Their findings molded their total outlook; and the outlook of all their descendants even though most of their descendants do not understand what those seers really saw."

He emphatically warned me that the conclusions of the new seers' rigorous examination had very little to do with reason or rationality because in order to examine and explain the first attention, one must see it. Only seers can do that.

Yet, to examine what seers see in the first attention is essential. It allows the first attention the only opportunity it will ever have to realize its own workings.

"In terms of what seers see, the first attention is the glow of awareness developed to an ultra shine," he continued. "But it is a glow fixed on the surface of the cocoon, so to speak. It is a glow that covers the known.

"The second attention, on the other hand, is a more complex and specialized state of the glow of awareness. It has to do with the unknown. It comes about when unused emanations inside man's cocoon are utilized.

"The reason I called the second attention specialized is that in order to utilize those unused emanations, one needs uncommon, elaborate tactics that require supreme discipline and concentration."

He said that he had told me before when he was teaching me the art of dreaming, that the concentration needed to be aware that one is having a dream is the forerunner of the second attention. That concentration is a form of consciousness that is not in the same category as the consciousness needed to deal with the daily world.

He said that the second attention is also called the left-side awareness; and it is the vastest field that one can imagine, so vast in fact, that it seems limitless.

"I wouldn't stray into it for anything in this world," he went on. "It is a quagmire so complex and bizarre that sober seers go into it only under the strictest conditions.

"The great difficulty is that the entrance into the second attention is utterly easy, and its lure is nearly irresistible."

He said that the old seers, being the masters of awareness, applied their expertise to their own glows of awareness and made them expand to inconceivable limits. They actually aimed at lighting up all the emanations inside their cocoons one band at a time. They succeeded, but oddly enough the accomplishment of lighting up one band at a time was instrumental in their becoming imprisoned in the quagmire of the second attention.

"The new seers corrected that error," he continued, "and let the mastery of awareness develop to its natural end; which is to extend the glow of awareness beyond the bounds of the luminous cocoon in one single stroke.

"The third attention is attained when the glow of awareness turns into the fire from within; a glow that kindles, not one band at a time, but all the Eagle's emanations inside man's cocoon."

Don Juan expressed his awe for the new seers' deliberate effort to attain the third attention while they are alive and conscious of their individuality.

Don Juan did not consider it worthwhile to discuss the random cases of men and other sentient beings who enter into the unknown and the unknowable without being aware of it.

He referred to these cases as the Eagle's gift.

He asserted that for the new seers to enter into the third attention is also a gift, but has a different meaning. It is more like a reward for an attainment.

He added that at the moment of dying all human beings enter into the unknowable and some of them do attain the third attention; but altogether too briefly and only to purify the food for the Eagle.

"The supreme accomplishment of human beings," he said, "is to attain that level of attention while retaining the life-force; without becoming a disembodied awareness moving like a flicker of light up to the Eagle's beak to be devoured."

While listening to don Juan's explanation I had again completely lost sight of everything that surrounded me. Genaro apparently had gotten up and left us, and was nowhere in sight.

Strangely, I found myself crouching on the rock with don Juan squatting by me holding me down by gently pushing on my shoulders. I reclined on the rock and closed my eyes. There was a soft breeze blowing from the west.

"Don't fall asleep," don Juan said. "Not for any reason should you fall asleep on this rock."

I sat up. Don Juan was staring at me.

"Just relax," he went on. "Let the internal dialogue die out."

All my concentration was involved in following what he was saying when I got a jolt of fright. I did not know what it was at first. I thought I was going through another attack of distrust.

But then it struck me, like a bolt, that it was very late in the afternoon. What I had thought was an hour's conversation had consumed an entire day.

I jumped up, fully aware of the incongruity, although I could not conceive what had happened to me. I felt a strange sensation that made my body want to run. Don Juan jumped me, restraining me forcefully. We fell to the soft ground, and he held me there with an iron grip. I had had no idea that don Juan was so strong.

My body shook violently. My arms flew every which way as they shook. I was having something like a seizure. Yet some part of me was detached to the point of becoming fascinated with watching my body vibrate, twist, and shake.

The spasms finally died out and don Juan let go of me. He was panting with the exertion. He recommended that we climb back up on the rock and sit there until I was all right.

I could not help pressing him with my usual question: What had happened to me? He answered that as he talked to me I had pushed beyond a certain limit, and had entered very deeply into the left side. He and Genaro had followed me in there. And then I had rushed out in the same fashion I had rushed in.

"I caught you right on time," he said. "Otherwise you would have gone straight out to your normal self."

I was totally confused. He explained that the three of us had been playing with awareness. I must have gotten scared and run out on them.

"Genaro is the master of awareness," don Juan went on. "Silvio Manuel is the master of will. The two of them were mercilessly pushed into the unknown. My benefactor did to them what his benefactor did to him. Genaro and Silvio Manuel are very much like the old seers in some respects. They know what they can do, but they don't care to know how they do it. Today, Genaro seized the opportunity to push your glow of awareness and we all ended up in the weird confines of the unknown."

I begged him to tell me what had happened in the unknown.

"You'll have to remember that yourself," a voice said just by my ear.

I was so convinced that it was the voice of seeing that it did not frighten me at all. I did not even obey the impulse to turn around.

"I am the voice of seeing and I tell you that you are a peckerhead," the voice said again and chuckled.

I turned around. Genaro was sitting behind me. I was so surprised that I laughed perhaps a bit more hysterically than they did.

"It's getting dark now," Genaro said to me. "As I promised you earlier today, we are going to have a ball here."

Don Juan intervened and said that we should stop for the day, because I was the kind of nincompoop who could die of fright.

"Nah, he's all right," Genaro said, patting me on the shoulder.

"You'd better ask him," don Juan said to Genaro. "He himself will tell you that he's that kind of nincompoop."

"Are you really that kind of nincompoop?" Genaro asked me with a frown.

I didn't answer him. And that made them roll around laughing. Genaro rolled all the way to the ground.

Don Juan swiftly jumped down, and helped him to stand up.

Genaro, referring to me, said to don Juan, "He's caught. He'll never say he's a nincompoop. He's too self-important for that, but he's shivering in his pants with fear of what might happen because he didn't confess he's a nincompoop."

Watching them laugh, I was convinced that only Indians could laugh with such joyfulness. But I also became convinced that there was a mile-wide streak of maliciousness in them. They were poking fun at a non-Indian.

Don Juan immediately caught my feelings.

"Don't let your self-importance run rampant," he said. "You're not special by any standards. None of us are, Indians and non-Indians. The nagual Julian and his benefactor added years of enjoyment to their lives laughing at us."

Genaro nimbly climbed back onto the rock and came to my side.

"If I were you, I'd feel so frigging embarrassed I'd cry," he said to me. "Cry, cry. Have a good cry and you'll feel better."

To my utter amazement I began to weep softly. Then I got so angry that I roared with fury. Only then I felt better.

Don Juan patted my back gently. He said that usually anger is very sobering; or sometimes fear is, or humor. My violent nature made me respond only to anger.

He added that a sudden shift in the glow of awareness makes us weak. They had been trying to reinforce me, to bolster me. Apparently Genaro had succeeded by making me rage.

It was twilight by then. Suddenly Genaro pointed to a flicker in midair at eye level in the twilight. It appeared to be a large moth flying around the place where we sat.

"Be very gentle with your exaggerated nature," don Juan said to me. "Don't be eager. Just let Genaro guide you. Don't take your eyes from that spot."

The flickering point was definitely a moth. I could clearly distinguish all its features. I followed its convoluted, tired flight, until I could see every speck of dust on its wings.

Something got me out of my total absorption. I sensed a flurry of soundless noise, if that could be possible, just behind me. I turned around and caught sight of an entire row of people on the other edge of the rock; an edge that was a bit higher than the one on which we were sitting. I supposed that the people who lived nearby must have gotten suspicious of us hanging around all day and had climbed onto the rock intending to harm us. I knew about their intentions instantly.

Don Juan and Genaro slid down from the rock and told me to hurry down. We left immediately without turning back to see if the men were following us. Don Juan and Genaro refused to talk while we walked back to Genaro's house. Don Juan even made me hush with a fierce grunt, putting his finger to his lips. Genaro did not come into the house, but kept on walking as don Juan dragged me inside.

"Who were those people, don Juan?" I asked him, when the two of us were safely inside the house and he had lit the lantern.

"They were not people," he replied.

"Come on, don Juan, don't mystify me," I said. "They were men. I saw them with my own eyes."

"Of course, you saw them with your own eyes," he retorted, "but that doesn't say anything. Your eyes misled you. Those were not people, and they were following you. Genaro had to draw them away from you."

"What were they, then, if not people?"

"Oh, there is the mystery," he said. "It's a mystery of awareness and it can't be solved rationally by talking about it. The mystery can only be witnessed."

"Let me witness it then." I said.

"But you already have twice in one day," he said. "You don't remember now. You will, however, when you rekindle the emanations that were glowing when you witnessed the mystery of awareness I'm referring to. In the meantime, let's go back to our explanation of awareness."

He reiterated that awareness begins with the permanent pressure that the emanations at large exert on the ones trapped inside the cocoon. This pressure produces the first act of consciousness. It stops the motion of the trapped emanations which are fighting to break the cocoon; fighting to die.

"For a seer, the truth is that all living beings are struggling to die," he went on. "What stops death is awareness."

Don Juan said that the new seers were profoundly disturbed by the fact that awareness forestalls death, while at the same time awareness induces it by being food for the Eagle. Since they could not explain it, for there is no rational way to understand existence, seers realized that their knowledge is composed of contradictory propositions.

"Why did they develop a system of contradictions?" I asked.

"They didn't develop anything," he said. "They found unquestionable truths by means of their seeing. Those truths are arranged in terms of supposedly blatant contradictions, that's all.

"For example, seers have to be methodical, rational beings, paragons of sobriety; and at the same time they must shy away from all of those qualities in order to be completely free and open to the wonders and mysteries of existence."

His example left me baffled, but not to the extreme. I understood what he meant. He himself had sponsored my rationality only to crush it and demand a total absence of it. I told him how I understood his point.

"Only a feeling of supreme sobriety can bridge the contradictions," he said.

"Could you say, don Juan, that art is that bridge?"

"You may call the bridge between contradictions anything you want- art, affection, sobriety, love, or even kindness."

Don Juan continued his explanation and said that in examining the first attention, the new seers realized that all organic beings, except man, quiet down their agitated trapped emanations so that those emanations can align themselves with their matching ones outside.

Human beings do not do that. Instead, their first attention lakes an inventory of the Eagle's emanations inside their cocoons.

"What is an inventory, don Juan?" I asked.

"Human beings take notice of the emanations they have inside their cocoons," he replied. "No other creatures do that. In humans, the moment the pressure from the emanations at large fixates the emanations inside, the first attention begins to watch itself. It notes everything about itself, or at least it tries to, in whatever aberrant ways it can. This is the process seers call taking an inventory.

"I don't mean to say that human beings choose to take an inventory, or that they can refuse to take it. To take an inventory is the Eagle's command. What is subject to volition, however, is the manner in which the command is obeyed."

He said that although he disliked calling the emanations commands, that is what they are; commands that no one can disobey. Yet the way out of obeying the commands is in obeying them.

"In the case of the inventory of the first attention," he went on, "seers take it, for they can't disobey. But once they have taken it they throw it away. The Eagle doesn't command us to worship our inventory. It commands us to take it, that's all."

"How do seers see that man takes an inventory?" I asked.

"The emanations inside the cocoon of man are not quieted down for purposes of matching them with those outside," he replied. "This is evident after seeing what other creatures do. On quieting down, some of the other creatures actually merge themselves with the emanations at large and move with them. Seers can see, for instance, the light of the scarabs' emanations expanding to great size.

"But human beings quiet down their emanations and then reflect on them. The emanations focus on themselves."

He said that human beings carry the command of taking an inventory to its logical extreme and disregard everything else. Once they are deeply involved in the inventory, one of two things normally happens. They may ignore the impulses of the emanations at large, or they may use them in a very specialized way.

The end result of ignoring those impulses after taking an inventory is a unique state known as reason. The result of using every impulse in a specialized way is known as self-absorption.

Human reason appears to a seer as an unusually homogeneous dull glow that rarely if ever responds to the constant pressure from the emanations at large- a glow that makes the egglike shell become tougher, but more brittle.

Don Juan remarked that reason in the human species should be bountiful, but that in actuality it is very rare. The majority of human beings turn to self-absorption.

He asserted that the awareness of all living beings has a degree of self-reflection in order for them to interact. But none except man's first attention has such a degree of self-absorption. Contrary to men of reason who ignore the impulse of the emanations at large, the self-absorbed individuals use every impulse and turn them all into a force to stir the trapped emanations inside their cocoons.

Observing all this, seers arrived at a practical conclusion. They saw that men of reason are bound to live longer, because by disregarding the impulse of the emanations at large, they quiet down the natural agitation inside their cocoons. The self-absorbed individuals, on the other hand, by using the impulse of the emanations at large to create more agitation, shorten their lives.

"What do seers see when they gaze at self-absorbed human beings?" I asked.

"They see them as intermittent bursts of white light, followed by long pauses of dullness," he said.

Don Juan stopped talking. I had no more questions to ask, or perhaps I was too tired to ask about anything. There was a loud bang that made me jump. The front door flew open and Genaro came in, out of breath. He slumped on the mat. He was actually covered with perspiration.

"I was explaining about the first attention," don Juan said to him.

"The first attention works only with the known," Genaro said. "it isn't worth two plugged nickels with the unknown."

"That is not quite right," don Juan retorted. "The first attention works very well with the unknown. It blocks it. It denies it so fiercely that in the end, the unknown doesn't exist for the first attention.

"Taking an inventory makes us invulnerable. That is why the inventory came into existence in the first place."

"What are you talking about?" I asked don Juan.

He didn't reply. He looked at Genaro as if waiting for an answer.

"But if I open the door," Genaro said, "would the first attention be capable of dealing with what will come in?"

"Yours and mine wouldn't, but his will," don Juan said, pointing at me. "Let's try it."

"Even though he's in heightened awareness?" Genaro asked don Juan.

"That won't make any difference," don Juan answered.

Genaro got up and went to the front door and threw it open. He instantly jumped back. A gust of cold wind came in. Don Juan came to my side, and so did Genaro. Both of them looked at me in amazement.

I wanted to close the front door. The cold was making me uncomfortable. But as I moved toward the door, don Juan and Genaro jumped in front of me and shielded me.

"Do you notice anything in the room?" Genaro asked me.

"No, I don't," I said, and I really meant it.

Except for the cold wind pouring in through the open door, there was nothing to notice in there.

"Weird creatures came in when I opened the door," he said. "Don't you notice anything?"

There was something in his voice that told me he was not joking this time.

The three of us, with both of them flanking me, walked out of the house. Don Juan picked up the kerosene lantern, and Genaro locked the front door. We got inside the car, through the passenger's side. They pushed me in first. And then we drove to don Juan's house in the next town.






The Fire From Within: Chapter 06 - Inorganic Beings.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 06 - Inorganic Beings.

The next day I repeatedly asked don Juan to explain our hasty departure from Genaro's house. He refused even to mention the incident. Genaro was no help either. Every time I asked him he winked at me, grinning like a fool.

In the afternoon, don Juan came to the back patio of his house where I was talking with his apprentices. As if on cue, all the young apprentices left instantly.

Don Juan took me by the arm, and we began to walk along the corridor. He did not say anything. For a while we just strolled around, very much as if we were in the public square.

Don Juan stopped walking and turned to me. He circled me, looking over my entire body. I knew that he was seeing me. I felt a strange fatigue, a laziness I had not felt until his eyes swept over me. He began to talk all of a sudden.

"The reason Genaro and I didn't want to focus on what happened last night," he said, "was that you had been very frightened during the time you were in the unknown. Genaro pushed you, and things happened to you in there."

"What things, don Juan?"

"Things that are still difficult if not impossible to explain to you now," he said. "You don't have enough surplus energy to enter into the unknown and make sense of it. When the new seers arranged the order of the truths about awareness, they saw that the first attention consumes all the glow of awareness that human beings have, and not an iota of energy is left free. That's your problem now. So, the new seers proposed that warriors, since they have to enter into the unknown, have to save their energy. But where are they going to get energy, if all of it is taken? They'll get it, the new seers say, from eradicating unnecessary habits."

He stopped talking and solicited questions. I asked him what eradicating unnecessary habits did to the glow of awareness.

He replied that it detaches awareness from self-reflection and allows it the freedom to focus on something else.

"The unknown is forever present," he continued, "but it is outside the possibility of our normal awareness. The unknown is the superfluous part of the average man. And it is superfluous because the average man doesn't have enough free energy to grasp it.

"After all the time you've spent in the warrior's path, you have enough free energy to grasp the unknown, but not enough energy to understand it or even to remember it."

He explained that at the site of the flat rock, I had entered very deeply into the unknown. But I indulged in my exaggerated nature and became terrified; which was about the worst thing anyone can do. So I had rushed out of the left side, like a bat out of hell; unfortunately, taking a legion of strange things with me.

I told don Juan that he was not getting to the point; that he should come out and tell me exactly what he meant by a legion of strange things.

He took me by the arm and continued strolling around with me.

"In explaining awareness," he said, "I am presumably fitting everything or nearly everything into place. Let's talk a little bit about the old seers. Genaro, as I've told you, is very much like them."

He led me then to the big room. We sat down there and he began his elucidation.

"The new seers were simply terrified by the knowledge that the old seers had accumulated over the years," don Juan said. "It's understandable. The new seers knew that that knowledge leads only to total destruction. Yet they were also fascinated by it, especially by the practices."

"How did the new seers know about those practices?" I asked.

"They are the legacy of the old Toltecs," he said. "The new seers learn about them as they go along. They hardly ever use them, but the practices are there as part of their knowledge."

"What kind of practices are they, don Juan?"

"They are very obscure formulas, incantations, lengthy procedures that have to do with the handling of a very mysterious force. At least it was mysterious to the ancient Toltecs who masked it and made it more horrifying than it really is."

"What is that mysterious force?" I asked.

"It's a force that is present throughout everything there is," he said. "The old seers never attempted to unravel the mystery of the force that made them create their secret practices. They simply accepted it as something sacred. But the new seers took a close look and called it will; the will of the Eagle's emanations, or intent."

Don Juan went on explaining that the ancient Toltecs had divided their secret knowledge into five sets of two categories each: the earth and the dark regions, fire and water, the above and the below, the loud and the silent, the moving and the stationary. He speculated that there must have been thousands of different techniques which became more and more intricate as time passed.

"The secret knowledge of the earth," he went on, "had to do with everything that stands on the ground. There were particular sets of movements, words, unguents, and potions that were applied to people, animals, insects, trees, small plants, rocks, or soil.

"These were techniques that made the old seers into horrid beings. And their secret knowledge of the earth was employed either to groom or to destroy anything that stands on the ground.

"The counterpart of the earth was what they knew as the dark regions. These practices were by far the most dangerous. They dealt with entities without organic life. Living creatures that are present on the earth and populate it together with all organic beings.

"Doubtlessly, one of the most worthwhile findings of the ancient seers, especially for them, was the discovery that organic life is not the only form of life present on this earth."

I did not quite comprehend what he had said. I waited for him to clarify his statements.

"Organic beings are not the only creatures that have life," he said and paused again as if to allow me time to think his statements over.

I countered with a long argument about the definition of life and being alive. I talked about reproduction, metabolism, and growth, the processes that distinguish live organisms from inanimate things.

"You're drawing from the organic," he said. "But that's only one instance. You shouldn't draw all you have to say from one category alone."

"But how else can it be?" I asked.

"For seers, to be alive means to be aware," he replied. "For the average man, to be aware means to be an organism. This is where seers are different. For them, to be aware means that the emanations that cause awareness are encased inside a receptacle.

"Organic living beings have a cocoon that encloses the emanations. But there are other creatures whose receptacles don't look like a cocoon to a seer. Yet they have the emanations of awareness in them and characteristics of life other than reproduction and metabolism."

"Such as what, don Juan?"

"Such as emotional dependency, sadness, joy, wrath, and so forth and so on. And I forgot the best yet, love; a kind of love man can't even conceive."

"Are you serious, don Juan?" I asked in earnest.

"Inanimately serious," he answered with a deadpan expression and then broke into laughter.

"If we take as our clue what seers see," he continued, "life is indeed extraordinary."

"If those beings are alive, why don't they make themselves known to man?" I asked.

"They do, all the time. And not only to seers but also to the average man. The problem is that all the energy available to the average man is consumed by the first attention. A man's inventory not only takes it all, but it also toughens the cocoon to the point of making it inflexible. Under those circumstances there is no possible interaction."

He reminded me of the countless times in the course of my apprenticeship with him when I had had a firsthand view of inorganic beings. I retorted that I had explained away nearly every one of those instances.

I had even formulated the hypothesis that his teachings, through the use of hallucinogenic plants, were geared to force an agreement on the part of the apprentice about a primitive interpretation of the world.

I told him that I had not formally called it a primitive interpretation, but in anthropological terms I had labeled it a 'world view more proper to hunting and gathering societies'.

Don Juan laughed until he was out of breath.

"I really don't know whether you're worse in your normal state of awareness or in a heightened one," he said. "In your normal state you're not suspicious, but boringly reasonable. I think I like you best when you are way inside the left side, in spite of the fact that you are terribly afraid of everything, as you were yesterday."

Before I had time to say anything at all, he stated that he was pitting what the old seers did against the accomplishments of the new seers as a sort of counterpoint with which he intended to give me a more inclusive view of the odds I was up against.

He continued then with his elucidation of the practices of the old seers. He said that another of their great findings had to do with the next category of secret knowledge: fire and water. They discovered that flames have a most peculiar quality. They can transport man bodily, just as water does.

Don Juan called it a brilliant discovery. I remarked that there are basic laws of physics that would prove that to be impossible. He asked me to wait until he had explained everything before drawing any conclusions. He remarked that I had to check my excessive rationality, because it constantly affected my states of heightened awareness. It was not a case of reacting every which way to external influences, but of succumbing to my own devices.

He went on explaining that the ancient Toltecs, although they obviously saw, did not understand what they saw. They merely used their findings without bothering to relate them to a larger picture. In the case of their category of fire and water, they divided fire into heat and flame, and water into wetness and fluidity. They correlated heat and wetness and called them lesser properties. They considered flames and fluidity to be higher, magical properties, and they used them as a means for bodily transportation to the realm of nonorganic life.

Between their knowledge of that kind of life and their fire and water practices, the ancient seers became bogged down in a quagmire with no way out.

Don Juan assured me that the new seers agreed that the discovery of nonorganic living beings was indeed extraordinary, but not in the way the old seers believed it to be. To find themselves in a one-to-one relation with another kind of life gave the ancient seers a false feeling of invulnerability which spelled their doom.

I wanted him to explain the fire and water techniques in greater detail. He said that the old seers' knowledge was as intricate as it was useless and that he was only going to outline it.

Then he summarized the practices of the above and the below. The above dealt with secret knowledge about wind, rain, sheets of lightning, clouds, thunder, daylight, and the sun. The knowledge of the below had to do with fog, water of underground springs, swamps, lightning bolts, earthquakes, the night, moonlight, and the moon.

The loud and the silent were a category of secret knowledge that had to do with the manipulation of sound and quiet. The moving and the stationary were practices concerned with mysterious aspects of motion and motionlessness.

I asked him if he could give me an example of any of the techniques he had outlined. He replied that he had already given me dozens of demonstrations over the years. I insisted that I had rationally explained away everything he had done to me.

He did not answer. He seemed to be either angry at me for asking questions or seriously involved in searching for a good example. After a while he smiled and said that he had visualized the proper example.

"The technique I have in mind has to be put in action in the shallow depths of a stream," he said. "There is one near Genaro's house."

"What will I have to do?"

"You'll have to get a medium-size mirror."

I was surprised at his request. I remarked that the ancient Toltecs did not know about mirrors.

"They didn't," he admitted, smiling. "This is my benefactor's addition to the technique. All the ancient seers needed was a reflecting surface."

He explained that the technique consisted of submerging a shiny surface into the shallow water of a stream. The surface could be any flat object that had some capacity to reflect images.

"I want you to construct a solid frame made of sheet metal for a medium-size mirror," he said. "it has to be waterproof, so you must seal it with tar. You must make it yourself with your own hands. When you have made it, bring it over and we'll proceed."

"What's going to happen, don Juan?"

"Don't be apprehensive. You yourself have asked me to give you an example of an ancient Toltec practice. I asked the same thing of my benefactor. I think everybody asks for one at a certain moment. My benefactor said that he did the same thing himself. His benefactor, the nagual Elias, gave him an example. My benefactor in turn gave the same one to me, and now I am going to give it to you.

"At the time my benefactor gave me the example I didn't know how he did it. I know now. Someday you yourself will also know how the technique works and you will understand what's behind all this."

I thought that don Juan wanted me to go back home to Los Angeles and construct the frame for the mirror there. I commented that it would be impossible for me to remember the task if I did not remain in heightened awareness.

"There are two things out of kilter with your comment," he said. "One is that there is no way for you to remain in heightened awareness and still function unless I, or Genaro, or any of the warriors in the nagual's party nurse you every minute of the day as I am now. The other is that Mexico is not the moon. There are hardware stores here. We can go to Oaxaca and buy anything you need."

We drove to the city the next day and I bought all the pieces for the frame. I assembled it myself in a mechanic's shop for a minimal fee. Don Juan told me to put it in the trunk of my car. He did not so much as glance at it.

We drove back to Genaro's house in the late afternoon and arrived there in the early morning. I looked for Genaro. He was not there. The house seemed deserted.

"Why does Genaro keep this house?" I asked don Juan. "He lives with you, doesn't he?"

Don Juan did not answer. He gave me a strange look and went to light the kerosene lantern. I was alone in the room in total darkness. I felt a great tiredness that I attributed to the long, tortuous drive up the mountains. I wanted to lie down. In the darkness, I could not see where Genaro had put the mats. I stumbled over a pile of them.

And then I knew why Genaro kept that house. He took care of the male apprentices Pablito, Nestor, and Benigno who lived there when they were in their state of normal awareness.

I felt exhilarated. I was no longer tired. Don Juan came in with a lantern. I told him about my realization, but he said that it did not matter; that I would not remember it for too long.

He asked me to show him the mirror. He seemed pleased, and remarked about its being light yet solid. He noticed that I had used metal screws to affix an aluminum frame to a piece of sheet metal that I had used as a backing for a mirror eighteen inches long by fourteen inches wide.

"I made a wooden frame for my mirror," he said. "This looks much better than mine. My frame was too cumbersome and at the same time frail.

"Let me explain what we're going to do," he continued after he had finished examining the mirror. "Or perhaps I should say, what we're going to attempt to do. The two of us together are going to place this mirror on the surface of the stream near the house. It is wide enough and shallow enough to serve our purposes.

"The idea is to let the fluidity of the water exert pressure on us and transport us away."

Before I could make any remarks or ask any questions, he reminded me that in the past I had utilized the water of a similar stream and accomplished extraordinary feats of perception. He was referring to the aftereffects of ingesting hallucinogenic plants; effects which I had experienced various times while being submerged in the irrigation ditch behind his house in northern Mexico.

"Save any questions until I explain to you what the seers knew about awareness," he said. "Then you'll understand everything we're doing in a different light. But first let's go on with our procedure."


We walked to the nearby stream, and he selected a place with flat, exposed rocks. He said that there the water was shallow enough for our purposes.

"What do you expect to happen?" I asked in the midst of a gripping apprehension.

"I don't know. All I know is what we are going to attempt. We will hold the mirror very carefully, but very firmly. We will gently place it on the surface of the water and then let it submerge. We will then hold it on the bottom. I've checked it. There is enough silt there to allow us to dig our fingers underneath the mirror to hold it firmly."

He asked me to squat on a flat rock above the surface in the middle of the gentle stream and made me hold the mirror with both hands, almost at the corners on one side. He squatted facing me and held the mirror the same way I did. We let the mirror sink, and then we held it by plunging our arms in the water almost to our elbows.

He commanded me to empty myself of thoughts and stare at the surface of the mirror. He repeated over and over that the trick was not to think at all. I looked intently into the mirror. The gentle current mildly disarranged the reflection of don Juan's face and mine.

After a few minutes of steady gazing into the mirror it seemed to me that gradually the image of his face and mine became much clearer. And the mirror grew in size until it was at least a yard square. The current seemed to have stopped, and the mirror looked as clear as if it were placed on top of the water. Even more odd was the crispness of our reflections, it was as if my face had been magnified, not in size but in focus. I could see the pores in the skin of my forehead.

Don Juan gently whispered not to stare at my eyes or his, but to let my gaze wander around without focusing on any part of our reflections.

"Gaze fixedly without staring!" he repeatedly ordered in a forceful whisper.

I did what he said without stopping to ponder about the seeming contradiction. At that moment something inside me was caught in that mirror, and the contradiction actually made sense. "It is possible to gaze fixedly without staring," I thought, and the instant that thought was formulated another head appeared next to don Juan's and mine. It was on the lower side of the mirror, to my left.

My whole body trembled. Don Juan whispered to calm down and not show fear or surprise. He again commanded me to gaze without staring at the newcomer. I had to make an unimaginable effort not to gasp and release the mirror. My body was shaking from head to toe. Don Juan whispered again to get hold of myself. He nudged me repeatedly with his shoulder.

Slowly I got my fear under control. I gazed at the third head and gradually realized that it was not a human head, or an animal head either. In fact, it was not a head at all. It was a shape that had no inner mobility. As the thought occurred to me, I instantly realized that I was not thinking it myself. The realization was not a thought either. I had a moment of tremendous anxiety and then something incomprehensible became known to me. The thoughts were a voice in my ear!

"I am seeing!" I yelled in English, but there was no sound.

"Yes, you're seeing," the voice in my ear said in Spanish.

I felt that I was encased in a force greater than myself. I was not in pain or even anguished. I felt nothing. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, because the voice was telling me so, that I could not break the grip of that force by an act of will or strength. I knew I was dying.

I lifted my eyes automatically to look at don Juan, and at the instant our eyes met the force let go of me. I was free. Don Juan was smiling at me as if he knew exactly what I had gone through.

I realized that I was standing up. Don Juan was holding the mirror edgewise to let the water drip off.

We walked back to the house in silence.

"The ancient Toltecs were simply mesmerized by their findings," don Juan said.

"I can understand why," I said.

"So can I," don Juan retorted.

The force that had enveloped me had been so powerful as to incapacitate me for speech, or even for thought for hours afterward. It had frozen me with a total lack of volition. And I had thawed out only by tiny degrees.

"Without any deliberate intervention on our part," don Juan continued, "this ancient Toltec technique has been divided into two parts for you. The first was just enough to familiarize you with what takes place. In the second, we will try to accomplish what the old seers pursued."

"What really took place out there, don Juan?" I asked.

"There are two versions. I'll give you the old seers' version first. They thought that the reflecting surface of a shiny object submerged in water enlarges the power of the water. What they used to do was gaze into bodies of water, and the reflecting surface served them as an aid to accelerate the process. They believed that our eyes are the keys to entering into the unknown. By gazing into water, they were allowing the eyes to open the way."

Don Juan said that the old seers observed that the wetness of water only dampens or soaks, but that the fluidity of water moves. It runs, they surmised, in search of other levels underneath us. They believed that water had been given to us not only for life, but also as a link; a road to the other levels below.

"Are there many levels below?" I asked.

"The ancient seers counted seven levels," he replied.

"Do you know them yourself, don Juan?"

"I am a seer of the new cycle, and consequently I have a different view," he said. "I am just showing you what the old seers did and I'm telling you what they believed."

He asserted that just because he had different views did not mean the old seers' practices were invalid. Their interpretations were wrong, but their truths had practical value for them.

In the instance of the water practices, they were convinced that it was humanly possible to be transported bodily by the fluidity of water anywhere between this level of ours and the other seven levels below; or to be transported in essence anywhere on this level, along the watercourse of a river in either direction. They used, accordingly, running water to be transported on this level of ours and the water of deep lakes or that of waterholes to be transported to the depths.

"What they pursued with the technique I'm showing you was twofold," he went on. "On the one hand, they used the fluidity of the water to be transported to the first level below. On the other, they used it to have a face-to-face meeting with a living being from that first level. The headlike shape in the mirror was one of those creatures that came to look us over."

"So, they really exist!" I exclaimed.

"They certainly do," he retorted.

He said that ancient seers were damaged by their aberrant insistence on staying glued to their procedures, but that whatever they found was valid. They found out that the surest way to meet one of those creatures is through a body of water. The size of the body of water is not relevant. An ocean or a pond serves the same purpose. He had chosen a small stream because he hated to get wet. We could have gotten the same results in a lake or a large river.

"The other life comes to find out what's going on when human beings call," he continued. "That Toltec technique is like a knock on their door. The old seers said the shiny surface on the bottom of the water served as a bait and a window. So humans and those creatures meet at a window."

"Is that what happened to me there?" I asked.

"The old seers would've said that you were being pulled by the power of the water and the power of the first level, plus the magnetic influence of the creature at the window."

"But I heard a voice in my ear saying that I was dying," I said.

"The voice was right. You were dying, and you would have if I hadn't been there. That is the danger of practicing the Toltecs' techniques. They are extremely effective, but most of the time they are deadly."

I told him that I was ashamed to confess that I was terrified. Seeing that shape in the mirror, and having the sensation of an enveloping force around me had proved too much for me the day before.

"I don't want to alarm you," he said, "but nothing has happened to you yet. If what happened to me is going to be the guideline of what will happen to you, you'd better prepare yourself for the shock of your life. It's better to shake in your boots now than to die of fright tomorrow."

My fear was so terrifying that I couldn't even voice the questions that came to my mind. I had a hard lime swallowing. Don Juan laughed until he was coughing. His face got purple. When I got my voice back, every one of my questions prompted another attack of coughing laughter.

"You have no idea how funny this all is to me," he finally said. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just the situation. My benefactor made me go through the same motions, and looking at you I can't help seeing myself."

I told him that I felt sick to my stomach. He said that that was fine, that it was natural to be scared, and that to control fear was wrong and senseless. The ancient seers got trapped by suppressing their terror when they should have been scared out of their wits. Since they did not want to stop their pursuits or abandon their comforting constructs, they controlled their fear instead.

"What else are we going to do with the mirror?" I asked.

"That mirror is going to be used for a face-to-face meeting between you and that creature you only gazed at yesterday."

"What happens in a face-to-face meeting?"

"What happens is that one form of life, the human form, meets another form of life. The old seers said that in this case, it is a creature from the first level of the fluidity of water."

He explained that the ancient seers surmised that the seven levels below ours were levels of the fluidity of water. For them a spring had untold significance because they thought that in such a case the fluidity of water is reversed and goes from the depth to the surface. They took that to be the means whereby creatures from other levels, these other forms of life, come to our plane to peer at us, to observe us.

"In this respect those old seers were not mistaken," he went on. "They hit the nail right on the head. Entities that the new seers call allies do appear around waterholes."

"Was the creature in the mirror an ally?" I asked.

"Of course. But not one that can be utilized. The tradition of the allies, which I have acquainted you with in the past, comes directly from the ancient seers. They did wonders with allies, but nothing they did was worth anything when the real enemy came along: their fellow men."

"Since those creatures are allies, they must be very dangerous," I said.

"As dangerous as we men are, no more, no less."

"Can they kill us?"

"Not directly, but they certainly can frighten us to death. They can cross the boundaries themselves, or they can just come to the window. As you may have realized by now, the ancient Toltecs didn't stop at the window, either. They found weird ways to go beyond it."


The second stage of the technique proceeded very much as had the first except that it took perhaps twice as long for me to relax and stop my internal turmoil. When that was done, the reflection of don Juan's face and mine became instantly clear. I gazed from his reflection to mine for perhaps an hour.

I expected the ally to appear any moment, but nothing happened. My neck hurt. My back was stiff and my legs were numb. I wanted to kneel on the rock to relieve the pain in my lower back. Don Juan whispered that the moment the ally showed its shape my discomfort would vanish.

He was absolutely right. The shock of witnessing a round shape appear on the edge of the mirror dispelled every discomfort of mine.

"What do we do now?" I whispered.

"Relax and don't focus your gaze on anything, not even for an instant," he replied. "Watch everything that appears in the mirror. Gaze without staring."

I obeyed him. I glanced at everything within the frame of the mirror. There was a peculiar buzzing in my ears. Don Juan whispered that I should move my eyes in a clockwise direction if I felt that I was being enveloped by an unusual force; but under no circumstances, he stressed, should I lift my head to look at him.

After a moment I noticed that the mirror was reflecting more than the reflection of our faces and the round shape. Its surface had become dark. Spots of an intense violet light appeared. They grew large. There were also spots of jet blackness. Then it turned into something like a flat picture of a cloudy sky at night, in the moonlight. Suddenly, the whole surface came into focus, as if it were a moving picture. The new sight was a three-dimensional, breathtaking view of the depths.

I knew that it was absolutely impossible for me to fight off the tremendous attraction of that sight. It began to pull me in.

Don Juan whispered forcefully that I should roll my eyes for dear life. The movement brought immediate relief. I could again distinguish our reflections and that of the ally. Then the ally disappeared and reappeared again on the other end of the mirror.

Don Juan commanded me to grip the mirror with all my might. He warned me to be calm and not make any sudden movements.

"What's going to happen?" I whispered.

"The ally will try to come out," he replied.

As soon as he had said that I felt a powerful tug. Something jerked my arms. The tug was from underneath the mirror. It was like a suction force that created a uniform pressure all around the frame.

"Hold the mirror tightly but don't break it," don Juan ordered. "Fight the suction. Don't let the ally sink the mirror too deep."

The force pulling down on us was enormous. I felt that my fingers were going to break or be crushed against the rocks on the bottom. Don Juan and I both lost our balance at one point and had to step down from the flat rocks into the stream. The water was quite shallow, but the thrashing of the ally's force around the frame of the mirror was as frightening as if we had been in a large river. The water around our feet was being swirled around madly, but the images in the mirror were undisturbed.

"Watch out!" don Juan yelled. "Here it comes!"

The tugging changed into a thrust from underneath. Something was grabbing the edge of the mirror; not the outer edge of the frame where we were holding it, but from the inside of the glass. It was as if the glass surface were indeed an open window and something or somebody were just climbing through it.

Don Juan and I fought desperately either to push the mirror down when it was being thrust up or pull it up when it was being tugged downward. In a stooped-over position we slowly moved downstream from the original spot. The water was deeper and the bottom was covered with slippery rocks.

"Let's lift the mirror out of the water and shake him loose," don Juan said in a harsh voice.

The loud thrashing continued unremittingly. It was as if we had caught an enormous fish with our bare hands and it was swimming around wildly.

It occurred to me that the mirror was in essence a hatch. A strange shape was actually trying to climb up through it. It was leaning on the edge of the hatch with a mighty weight and was big enough to displace the reflection of don Juan's face and mine. I could not see us anymore. I could only distinguish a mass trying to push itself up.

The mirror was not resting on the bottom anymore. My fingers were not compressed against the rocks. The mirror was in mid-depth, held by the opposing forces of the ally's tugs and ours. Don Juan said he was going to extend his hands underneath the mirror and that I should very quickly grab them in order to have a better leverage to lift the mirror with our forearms. When he let go it tilled to his side. I quickly reached for his hands but there was nothing underneath. I vacillated a second too long and the mirror flew out of my hands.

"Grab it! Grab it!" don Juan yelled.

I caught the mirror just as it was going to land on the rocks. I lifted it out of the water, but not quickly enough. The water seemed to be like glue. As I pulled the mirror out, I also pulled a portion of a heavy rubbery substance that simply pulled the mirror out of my hands and back into the water.

Don Juan, displaying extraordinary nimbleness, caught the mirror and lifted it up edgewise without any difficulty.


Never in my life had I had such an attack of melancholy. It was a sadness that had no precise foundation. I associated it with the memory of the depths I had seen in the mirror. It was a mixture of pure longing for those depths, plus an absolute fear of their chilling solitude.

Don Juan remarked that in the life of warriors it was extremely natural to be sad for no overt reason. Seers say that the luminous egg, as a field of energy, senses its final destination whenever the boundaries of the known are broken. A mere glimpse of the eternity outside the cocoon is enough to disrupt the coziness of our inventory. The resulting melancholy is sometimes so intense that it can bring about death.

He said that the best way to get rid of melancholy is to make fun of it. He commented in a mocking tone that my first attention was doing everything to restore the order that had been disrupted by my contact with the ally. Since there was no way of restoring it by rational means, my first attention was doing it by focusing all its power on sadness.

I told him that the fact remained the melancholy was real. Indulging in it, moping around, and being gloomy were not part of the feeling of aloneness that I had felt upon remembering those depths.

"Something is finally getting through to you," he said. "You're right. There is nothing more lonely than eternity. And nothing is more cozy for us than to be a human being. This indeed is another contradiction: How can man keep the bonds of his humanness and still venture gladly and purposefully into the absolute loneliness of eternity? Whenever you resolve this riddle, you'll be ready for the definitive journey."

I knew then with total certainty the reason for my sadness. It was a recurrent feeling with me, one that I would always forget until I again realized the same thing: the puniness of humanity against the immensity of that thing-in-itself which I had seen reflected in the mirror.

"Human beings are truly nothing, don Juan," I said.

"I know exactly what you're thinking," he said. "Sure, we're nothing, but that's exactly what makes it the ultimate challenge; that we nothings could actually face the loneliness of eternity."

He abruptly changed the subject, leaving me with my mouth open, my next question unsaid. He began to discuss our bout with the ally. He said that first of all, the struggle with the ally had been no joke. It had not really been a matter of life or death, but it had not been a picnic either.

"I chose that technique," he went on, "because my benefactor showed it to me. When I asked him to give me an example of the old seers' techniques, he nearly split a gut laughing. My request reminded him so much of his own experience. His benefactor, the nagual Elias, had also given him a harsh demonstration of the same technique."

Don Juan said that as he had made the frame for his mirror out of wood, he should have asked me to do the same, but he wanted to know what would happen if the frame was sturdier than his or his benefactor's. Both of their frames broke, and both times the ally came out.

He explained that during his own bout the ally ripped the frame apart. He and his benefactor were left holding two pieces of wood while the mirror sank and the ally climbed out of it.

His benefactor knew what kind of trouble to expect. In the reflection of mirrors, allies are not really frightening because one sees only a shape, a mass of sorts. But when they are out, besides being truly fearsome-looking things, they are a pain in the neck. He remarked that once the allies get out of their level, it is very difficult for them to go back. The same prevails for man. If seers venture into a level of those creatures, chances are they are never heard of again.

"My mirror was shattered with the ally's force," he said. "There was no more window and the ally couldn't go back, so it came after me. It actually ran after me, rolling on itself. I scrambled on all fours at top speed, screaming with terror. I went up and down hills like a possessed man. The ally was inches away from me the whole time."

Don Juan said that his benefactor ran after him, but he was too old and could not move fast enough. His benefactor he had the good sense, however, to tell don Juan to back-track, and in that way was able to take measures to get rid of the ally. He shouted that he was going to build a fire and that don Juan should run in circles until everything was ready. He went ahead to gather dry branches while don Juan ran around a hill, driven mad with fear.

Don Juan confessed that the thought had occurred to him, as he ran around in circles, that his benefactor was actually enjoying the whole thing. He knew that his benefactor was a warrior capable of finding delight in any conceivable situation. Why not also in this one?

For a moment he got so angry at his benefactor that the ally stopped chasing him, and don Juan, in no uncertain terms, accused his benefactor of malice. His benefactor didn't answer, but made a gesture of genuine horror as he looked past don Juan at the ally, which was looming over the two of them. Don Juan forgot his anger and began running around in circles again.

"My benefactor was indeed a devilish old man," don Juan said, laughing. "He had learned to laugh internally. It wouldn't show on his face, so he could pretend to be weeping or raging when he was really laughing. That day, as the ally chased me in circles, my benefactor stood there and defended himself from my accusations.

"I only heard bits of his long speech every time I ran by him. When he was through with that, I heard bits of another long explanation: that he had to gather a great deal of wood, that the ally was big, that the fire had to be as big as the ally itself, that the maneuver might not work.

"Only my maddening fear kept me going. Finally he must have realized that I was about to drop dead from exhaustion; he built the fire and with the flames he shielded me from the ally."

Don Juan said that they stayed by the fire for the entire night. The worst time for him was when his benefactor had to go away to look for more dry branches and left him alone. He was so afraid that he promised to God that he was going to leave the path of knowledge and become a farmer.

"In the morning, after I had exhausted all my energy, the ally managed to shove me into the fire, and I was badly burned," don Juan added.

"What happened to the ally?" I asked.

"My benefactor never told me what happened to it," he replied. "But I have the feeling that it is still running around aimlessly, trying to find its way back."

"And what happened to your promise to God?"

"My benefactor said not to worry, that it had been a good promise, but that I didn't know yet that there is no one to hear such promises, because there is no God. All there is is the Eagle's emanations, and there is no way to make promises to them."

"What would have happened if the ally had caught you?" I asked.

"I might have died of fright," he said. "If I had known what was entailed in being caught I would've let it catch me. At that time I was a reckless man. Once an ally catches you, you either have a heart attack and die, or you wrestle with it. Then after a moment of thrashing around in sham ferocity, the ally's energy wanes. There is nothing that an ally can do to us, or vice versa. We are separated by an abyss.

"The ancient seers believed that at the moment the ally's energy dwindles the ally surrenders its power to man. Power, my eye! The old seers had allies coming out of their ears and their allies' power didn't mean a thing."

Don Juan explained that once again it had been up to the new seers to straighten out this confusion. They had found that the only thing that counts is impeccability, that is, freed energy. There were indeed some among the ancient seers who were saved by their allies, but that had had nothing to do with the allies' power to fend off anything. Rather, it was the men's impeccability that had permitted them to use the energy of those other forms of life.

The new seers also found out the most important thing yet about the allies: what makes them useless or usable to man. Useless allies, of which there are staggering numbers, are those that have emanations inside them for which we have no match inside ourselves. They are so different from us as to be thoroughly unusable. Other allies, which are remarkably few in number, are akin to us, meaning that they possess occasional emanations that match ours.

"How is that kind utilized by man?" I asked.

"We should use another word instead of 'utilize'," he replied. "I'd say that what takes place between seers and allies of this kind is a fair exchange of energy."

"How does the exchange take place?" I asked.

"Through their matching emanations. Those emanations are, naturally, on the left-side awareness of man; the side that the average man never uses. For this reason, allies are totally barred from the world of the right-side awareness, or the side of rationality."

He said that the matching emanations give both a common ground. Then, with familiarity, a deeper link is established which allows both forms of life to profit. Seers seek the allies' ethereal quality. They make fabulous scouts and guardians. Allies seek the greater energy field of man, and with it they can even materialize themselves.

He assured me that experienced seers play those shared emanations until they bring them into total focus. The exchange takes place at that time. The ancient seers did not understand this process, and they developed complex techniques of gazing in order to descend into the depths that I had seen in the mirror.

"The old seers had a very elaborate tool to help them in their descent," he went on. "It was a rope of special twine that they tied around their waist. It had a soft butt soaked in resin which fitted into the navel itself, like a plug. The seers had an assistant or a number of them who held them by the rope while they were lost in their gazing. Naturally, to gaze directly into the reflection of a deep, clear pond or lake is infinitely more overwhelming and dangerous than what we did with the mirror."

"But did they actually descend bodily?" I asked.

"You'd be surprised what men are capable of, especially if they control awareness," he replied. "The old seers were aberrant. In their excursions to the depths they found marvels. It was routine for them to encounter allies.

"Of course, by now you realize that to say the depths is a figure of speech. There are no depths, there is only the handling of awareness. Yet the old seers never made that realization."

I told don Juan that from what he had said about his experience with the ally, plus my own subjective impression on feeling the ally's thrashing force in the water, I had concluded that allies are very aggressive.

"Not really," he said. "It is not that they don't have enough energy to be aggressive, but rather that they have a different kind of energy. They are more like an electric current. Organic beings are more like heat waves."

"But why did it chase you for such a long time?" I asked.

"That's no mystery," he said. "They are attracted to emotions. Animal fear is what attracts them the most; it releases the kind of energy that suits them. The emanations inside them are rallied by animal fear. Since my fear was relentless the ally went after it, or rather, my fear hooked the ally and didn't let it go."

He said that it was the old seers who found out that allies enjoy animal fear more than anything else. They even went to the extreme of purposely feeding it to their allies by actually scaring people to death. The old seers were convinced that the allies had human feelings, but the new seers saw it differently. They saw that allies are attracted to the energy released by emotions. Love is equally effective, as well as hatred, or sadness.

Don Juan added that if he had felt love for that ally, the ally would have come after him anyway, although the chase would have had a different mood.

I asked him whether the ally would have stopped going after him if he had controlled his fear. He answered that controlling fear was a trick of the old seers. They learned to control it to the point of being able to parcel it out. They hooked their allies with their own fear, and by gradually doling it out like food they actually held the allies in bondage.

"Those old seers were terrifying men," don Juan continued. "I shouldn't use the past tense- they are terrifying even today. Their bid is to dominate; to master everybody and everything."

"Even today, don Juan?" I asked, trying to get him to explain further.

He changed the subject by commenting that I had missed the opportunity of being really scared beyond measure. He said that doubtless the way I had sealed the frame of the mirror with tar had prevented the water from seeping behind the glass. He counted that as the deciding factor that had kept the ally from smashing the mirror.

"Too bad," he said. "You might even have liked that ally. By the way, it was not the same one that came the day before. The second one was perfectly akin to you."

"Don't you have some allies yourself, don Juan?" I asked.

"As you know, I have my benefactor's allies," he said. "I can't say that I have the same feeling for them that my benefactor did. He was a serene, but thoroughly passionate man who lavishly gave away everything he possessed, including his energy. He loved his allies. To him it was no sweat to allow the allies to use his energy and materialize themselves. There was one in particular that could even take a grotesque human form."

Don Juan went on to say that since he was not partial to allies, he had never given me a real taste of them as his benefactor had done to him while he was still recovering from the wound in his chest.

It all began with the thought that his benefactor was a strange man. Having barely escaped from the clutches of the petty tyrant, don Juan suspected that he had fallen into another trap. His intention was to wait a few days to get his strength back and then run away when the old man was not home.

But the old man must have read his thoughts, because one day, in a confidential tone, he whispered to don Juan that he ought to get well as quickly as possible so that the two of them could escape from his captor and tormentor. Then, shaking with fear and impotence, the old man flung the door open and a monstrous fish-faced man came into the room, as if he had been listening behind the door. He was a grayish-green, had only one huge unblinking eye, and was as big as a door.

Don Juan said that he was so surprised and terrified that he passed out, and it took him years to get out from under the spell of that fright.

"Are your allies useful to you, don Juan?" I asked.

"That's a very difficult thing to decide," he said.

"In some way, I love the allies my benefactor gave me. They are capable of giving back inconceivable affection. But they are incomprehensible to me. They were given to me for companionship in case I am ever stranded alone in that immensity that is the Eagle's emanations."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 07 - The Assemblage Point.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 07 - The Assemblage Point.

Don Juan discontinued his explanation of the mastery of awareness for several months after my bout with the allies. One day he started it again. A strange event triggered it.

Don Juan was in northern Mexico. It was late afternoon. I had just arrived at the house he kept there, and he immediately had me shift into heightened awareness. And I had instantly remembered that don Juan always came back to Sonora as means of renewal. He had explained that a nagual, being a leader who has tremendous responsibilities, has to have a physical point of reference, a place where an amenable confluence of energies occurs. The Sonoran desert was such a place for him.

On entering into heightened awareness, I had noticed that there was another person hiding in the semidarkness inside the house. I asked don Juan if Genaro was with him. He replied that he was alone, that what I had noticed was one of his allies, the one that guarded the house.

Don Juan then made a strange gesture. He contorted his face as if he were surprised or terrified. And instantly the frightening shape of a strange man appeared at the door of the room where we were.

The presence of the strange man scared me so much that I actually felt dizzy. And before I could recuperate from my fright, the man lurched at me with a chilling ferocity. As he grabbed my forearms, I felt ajolt of something quite like a discharge of an electric current.

I was speechless, caught in a terror I could not dispel. Don Juan was smiling at me. I mumbled and groaned, trying to voice a plea for help, while I felt an even greater jolt.

The man tightened his grip and tried to throw me backward on the ground. Don Juan, with no hurry in his voice, urged me to pull myself together and not fight my fear, but roll with it.

"Be afraid without being terrified," he said. Don Juan came to my side and, without intervening in my struggle, whispered in my ear that I should put all my concentration on the midpoint of my body.

Over the years, he had insisted that I measure my body to the hundredth of an inch and establish its exact midpoint, lengthwise as well as in width. He had always said that such a point is a true center of energy in all of us.

As soon as I had focused my attention on that midpoint, the man let go of me. At that instant I became aware that what I had thought was a human being was something that only looked like one. The moment it lost its human shape to me, the ally became an amorphous blob of opaque light. It moved away. I went after it, moved by a great force that made me follow that opaque light.

Don Juan stopped me. He gently walked me to the porch of his house and made me sit down on a sturdy crate he used as a bench.

I was terribly disturbed by the experience, but even more disturbed by the fact that my paralyzing fear had disappeared so fast and so completely.

I commented on my abrupt change of mood. Don Juan said that there was nothing strange about my volatile change, and that fear did not exist as soon as the glow of awareness moved beyond a certain threshold inside man's cocoon.

He then began his explanation. He briefly outlined the truths about awareness he had discussed:

...that there is no objective world, but only a universe of energy fields which seers call the Eagle's emanations;

...that human beings are made of the Eagle's emanations and are in essence bubbles of luminescent energy- each of us wrapped in a cocoon that encloses a small portion of these emanations;

...that awareness is achieved by the constant pressure that the emanations outside our cocoons, which are called emanations at large, exert on those inside our cocoons;

....and that that awareness gives rise to perception which happens when the emanations inside our cocoons align themselves with the corresponding emanations at large.


"The next truth," he went on, "is that perception takes place because there is in each of us an agent called the assemblage point that selects internal and external emanations for alignment. The particular alignment that we perceive as the world is the product of the specific spot where our assemblage point is located on our cocoon."

He repeated this several times, allowing me time to grasp it. Then he said that in order to corroborate the truths about awareness, I needed energy.

"I've mentioned to you," he continued, "that dealing with petty tyrants helps seers accomplish a sophisticated maneuver: that maneuver is to move their assemblage points."

He said that for me to have perceived an ally meant that I had moved my assemblage point away from its customary position. In other words, my glow of awareness had moved beyond a certain threshold, also erasing my fear. And all this had happened because I had enough surplus energy.


Later that night, after we had returned from a trip into the surrounding mountains which had been part of his teachings for the right side, don Juan had me shift again into heightened awareness and then continued his explanation. He told me that in order to discuss the nature of the assemblage point, he had to start with a discussion of the first attention.

He said that the new seers looked into the unnoticed ways in which the first attention functions. Then, as they tried to explain them to others, they devised an order for the truths about awareness.

He assured me that not every seer is given to explaining. For instance, his benefactor, the nagual Julian, could not have cared less about explanations. But the nagual Julian's benefactor, the nagual Elias, whom don Juan was fortunate enough to meet, did care. Between the nagual Elias's detailed, lengthy explanations, the nagual Julian's scanty ones, and his own personal seeing, don Juan came to understand and to corroborate those truths.

Don Juan explained that in order for our first attention to bring into focus the world that we normally perceive, it has to emphasize certain emanations selected from the narrow band of emanations where mankind-in-general's awareness is located.

The discarded emanations are still within our reach, but remain dormant; and typically unknown to us for the duration of our lives.

The new seers call the emphasized emanations: the right side, normal awareness, the tonal, this world, the known, the first attention. The average man calls it: reality, rationality, common sense.

The emphasized emanations compose a large portion of man's band of awareness, but a very small piece of the total spectrum of emanations present inside the cocoon of man.

The disregarded emanations within man's band are thought of as a sort of preamble to the unknown; with the unknown proper consisting of the bulk of our emanations which are not part of the human band and which are never emphasized by the average person. Seers call them the left-side awareness, the nagual, the other world, the unknown, the second attention.

"This process of emphasizing certain emanations," don Juan went on, "was discovered and practiced by the old seers. They realized that a nagual man or a nagual woman, by the fact that they have extra strength, can push the emphasis away from the usual emanations and make it shift to neighboring ones. That push is known as the nagual's blow."

Don Juan said that the shift was utilized by the old seers in practical ways to keep their apprentices in bondage. With that blow they made their apprentices enter into a state of the keenest, most impressionable heightened awareness. Then while they were helplessly pliable, the old seers taught them aberrant techniques that made the apprentices into sinister men, just like their teachers.

The new seers employ the same technique of a shift in emanation emphasis, but instead of using it for sordid purposes, they use it to guide their apprentices to learn about man's possibilities.

Don Juan explained that the nagual's blow has to be delivered on a precise spot on the assemblage point which varies minutely from person to person. Also, the blow has to be delivered by a nagual who sees.

He assured me that it is equally useless to have the strength of a nagual and not see, as it is to see and not have the strength of a nagual. In either case, the results are just blows. A seer could strike on the precise spot over and over without the strength to move awareness; and a non-seeing nagual would not be able to strike the precise spot.

He also said that the old seers discovered that the assemblage point is not in the physical body, but in the luminous shell; in the cocoon itself. The nagual identifies that spot by its intense luminosity and pushes it, rather than striking it. The force of the push creates a dent in the cocoon and it is felt like a blow to the right shoulder blade, a blow that knocks all the air out of the lungs.

"Are there different types of dents?" I asked.

"There are only two types," he responded. "One is a concavity and the other is a crevice; each has a distinct effect. The concavity is a temporary feature and produces a temporary shift- but the crevice is a profound and permanent feature of the cocoon and produces a permanent shift."

He explained that usually a luminous cocoon hardened by self-reflection is not affected at all by the nagual's blow. Sometimes, however, the cocoon of man is very pliable and the smallest force creates a bowl-like dent ranging in size from a small depression to one that is a third the size of the total cocoon; or it creates a crevice that may run across the width of the egglike shell, or along its length, making the cocoon look as if it has curled in on itself.

Some luminous shells, after being dented, go back to their original shape instantly. Others remain dented for hours or even days at a time, but they revert back by themselves. Still others get a firm, impervious dent that requires another blow from the nagual on a bordering area to restore the original shape of the luminous cocoon. And a few never lose their indentation once they get it. No matter how many blows they get from a nagual they never revert back to their egglike shapes.

Don Juan further said that the dent acts on the first attention by displacing the glow of awareness. The dent presses the emanations inside the luminous shell, and the seers witness how the first attention shifts its emphasis under the force of that pressure. The dent, by displacing the Eagle's emanations inside the cocoon, makes the glow of awareness fall on other emanations from areas that are ordinarily inaccessible to the first attention.

I asked him if the glow of awareness is seen only on the surface of the luminous cocoon. He did not answer me right away. He seemed to immerse himself in thought. After perhaps ten minutes he answered my question.

He said that normally the glow of awareness is seen on the surface of the cocoon of all sentient beings. After man develops attention, however, the glow of awareness acquires depth. In other words, it is transmitted from the surface of the cocoon to quite a number of emanations inside the cocoon.

"The old seers knew what they were doing when they handled awareness," he went on. "They realized that by creating a dent in the cocoon of man, they could force the glow of awareness, since it is already glowing on the emanations inside the cocoon, to spread to other neighboring ones."

"You make it all sound as if it's a physical affair," I said. "How can dents be made in something that is just a glow?"

"In some inexplicable way, it is a matter of a glow that creates a dent in another glow," he replied. "Your flaw is to remain glued to the inventory of reason. Reason doesn't deal with man as energy. Reason deals with instruments that create energy, but it has never seriously occurred to reason that we are better than instruments.

"We are organisms that create energy. We are a bubble of energy. It isn't farfetched, then, that a bubble of energy would make a dent in another bubble of energy."

He said that the glow of awareness created by the dent should rightfully be called temporary heightened attention, because it emphasizes emanations that are so proximal to the habitual ones that the change is minimal, yet the shift produces a greater capacity to understand and to concentrate and, above all, a greater capacity to forget.

Seers knew exactly how to use this upshift in the scale of quality. They saw that only the emanations surrounding those we use daily suddenly become bright after the nagual's blow. The more distant ones remain unmoved, which meant to them that while being in a state of heightened attention, human beings could work as if they were in the world of everyday life. The need of a nagual man and a nagual woman became paramount to them, because that state lasts only for as long as the depression remains, after which the experiences are immediately forgotten.

"Why does one have to forget?" I asked.

"Because the emanations that account for greater clarity cease to be emphasized once warriors are out of heightened awareness," he replied. "Without that emphasis whatever they experience or witness vanishes."

Don Juan said that one of the tasks the new seers had devised for their students was to force them to remember, that is, to re-emphasize by themselves at a later time those emanations used during states of heightened awareness.

He reminded me that Genaro was always recommending to me that I learn to write with the tip of my finger instead of a pencil so as not to accumulate notes. Don Juan said that what Genaro had actually meant was that while I was in states of heightened awareness I should utilize some unused emanations for storage of dialogue and experience, and someday recall it all by reemphasizing the emanations that were used.

He went on to explain that a state of heightened awareness is seen not only as a glow that goes deeper inside the egglike shape of human beings, but also as a more intense glow on the surface of the cocoon.

Yet it is nothing in comparison to the glow produced by a state of total awareness which is seen as a burst of incandescence in the entire luminous egg. It is an explosion of light of such a magnitude that the boundaries of the shell are diffused and the inside emanations extend themselves beyond anything imaginable.

"Are those special cases, don Juan?"

"Certainly. They happen only to seers. No other men or any other living creatures brighten up like that. Seers who deliberately attain total awareness are a sight to behold. That is the moment when they burn from within. The fire from within consumes them, and in full awareness they fuse themselves to the emanations at large, and glide into eternity."


After a few days in Sonora, I drove don Juan back to the town in the southern part of Mexico where he and his party of warriors lived.

The next day was hot and hazy. I felt lazy and somehow annoyed. In midafternoon, there was a most unpleasant quietude in that town. Don Juan and I were sitting on the comfortable chairs in the big room.

I told him that life in rural Mexico was not my cup of tea. I disliked the feeling I had that the silence of that town was forced. The only noise I ever heard was the sound of children's voices yelling in the distance. I was never able to find out whether they were playing or yelling in pain.

"When you're here, you're always in a state of heightened awareness," don Juan said. "That makes a great difference. But no matter what, you should be getting used to living in a town like this. Someday you will live in one."

"Why should I have to live in a town like this, don Juan?"

"I've explained to you that the new seers aim to be free. And freedom has the most devastating implications. Among them is the implication that warriors must purposely seek change.

"Your predilection is to live the way you do. You stimulate your reason by running through your inventory and pitting it against your friends' inventories. Those maneuvers leave you very little time to examine yourself and your fate.

"You will have to give up all that. Likewise, if all you knew were the dead calm of this town, you'd have to seek, sooner or later, the other side of the coin."

"Is that what you're doing here, don Juan?"

"Our case is a little bit different, because we are at the end of our trail. We are not seeking anything. What all of us do here is something comprehensible only to a warrior. We go from day to day doing nothing. We are waiting. I will not tire of repeating this: we know that we are waiting and we know what we are waiting for. We are waiting for freedom!

"And now that you know that," he added with a grin, "let's get back to our discussion of awareness."

Usually, when we were in that room we were never interrupted by anyone and don Juan would always decide on the length of our discussions. But this time there was a polite knock on the door and Genaro walked in and sat down. I had not seen Genaro since the day after we had run out of his house in a great hurry. I embraced him.

"Genaro has something to tell you," don Juan said. "I've told you that he is the master of awareness. Now I can tell you what all that means. He can make the assemblage point move deeper into the luminous egg after that point has been jolted out of its position by the nagual's blow."

He explained that Genaro had pushed my assemblage point countless times after I had attained heightened awareness. The day we had gone to the gigantic flat rock to talk, Genaro had made my assemblage point move dramatically into the left side- so dramatically, in fact, that it had been a bit dangerous.

Don Juan stopped talking and seemed to be ready to give Genaro the spotlight. He nodded as if to signal Genaro to say something. Genaro stood up and came to my side.

"Flame is very important," he said softly. "Do you remember that day when I made you look at the reflection of the sunlight on a piece of quartz when we were sitting on that big flat rock?"

When Genaro mentioned it I remembered. On that day just after don Juan had stopped talking, Genaro had pointed to the refraction of light as it went through a piece of polished quartz that he had taken out of his pocket and placed on the flat rock. The shine of the quartz had immediately caught my attention. The next thing I knew, I was crouching on the flat rock as don Juan stood by with a worried look on his face.

I was about to tell Genaro what I had remembered when he began to talk. He put his mouth to my ear and pointed to one of the two gasoline lamps in the room.

"Look at the flame," he said. "There is no heat in it. It's pure flame. Pure flame can take you to the depths of the unknown."

As he talked, I began to feel a strange pressure. It was a physical heaviness. My ears were buzzing. My eyes teared to the point that I could hardly make out the shape of the furniture. My vision seemed to be totally out of focus.

Although my eyes were open, I could not see the intense light of the gasoline lamps. Everything around me was dark. There were streaks of chartreuse phosphorescence that illuminated dark, moving clouds. Then, as abruptly as it had faded away, my eyesight returned.

I could not make out where I was. I seemed to be floating like a balloon. I was alone. I had a pang of terror, and my reason rushed in to construct an explanation that made sense to me at that moment: Genaro had hypnotized me, using the flame of the gasoline lamp. I felt almost satisfied.

I quietly floated, trying not to worry. I thought that a way to avoid worrying was to concentrate on the stages that I would have to go through to wake up.

The first thing I noticed was that I was not myself. I could not really look at anything because I had nothing to look with. When I tried to examine my body I realized that I could only be aware and yet it was as if I were looking down into infinite space.

There were portentous clouds of brilliant light and masses of blackness. Both were in motion. I clearly saw a ripple of amber glow that was coming at me, like an enormous, slow ocean wave. I knew then that I was like a buoy floating in space, and that the wave was going to overtake me and carry me. I accepted it as unavoidable.

But just before it hit me something thoroughly unexpected happened. A wind blew me out of the wave's path.

The force of that wind carried me with tremendous speed. I went through an immense tunnel of intense colored lights. My vision blurred completely and then I felt that I was waking up, that I had been having a dream, a hypnotic dream brought about by Genaro, in the next instant I was back in the room with don Juan and Genaro.

I slept most of the following day. In the late afternoon, don Juan and I again sat down to talk. Genaro had been with me earlier, but had refused to comment on my experience.

"Genaro again pushed your assemblage point last night," don Juan said. "But perhaps the shove was too forceful."

I eagerly told don Juan the content of my vision. He smiled, obviously bored.

"Your assemblage point moved away from its normal position," he said. "And that made you perceive emanations that are not ordinarily perceived. Sounds like nothing, doesn't it? And yet it is a supreme accomplishment that the new seers strive to elucidate."

He explained that human beings repeatedly choose the same emanations for perceiving because of two reasons. First, and most important, because we have been taught that those emanations are perceivable; and second because our assemblage points select and prepare those emanations for being used.

"Every living being," he went on, "has an assemblage point which selects emanations for emphasis. Seers can see whether sentient beings share the same view of the world by seeing if the emanations their assemblage points have selected are the same."

He affirmed that one of the most important breakthroughs for the new seers was to find that the spot where that point is located on the cocoon of all living creatures is not a permanent feature. It is established on that specific spot by habit. Hence the tremendous stress the new seers put on new actions, on new practicalities. They want desperately to arrive at new usages, new habits.

"The nagual's blow is of great importance," he went on, "because it makes that point move. It alters its location. Sometimes it even creates a permanent crevice there and the assemblage point is totally dislodged; and awareness changes dramatically.

"However, a matter of even greater importance is to properly understand the truths about awareness in order to realize that the assemblage point can be moved from within.

"The unfortunate truth is that human beings always lose by default. They simply don't know about their possibilities."

"How can one accomplish that change from within?" I asked.

"The new seers say that realization is the technique," he said. "They say that, first of all, one must become aware that the world we perceive is the result of our assemblage points' being located on a specific spot on the cocoon. Once that is understood, the assemblage point can move almost at will as a consequence of new habits."

I did not quite understand what he meant by habits. I asked him to clarify his point.

"The assemblage point of man," he said, "appears around a definite area of the cocoon because the Eagle commands it. But the precise spot is determined by habit; by repetitious acts.

"First we learn that it can be placed there and then we ourselves command it to be there. Our command becomes the Eagle's command and the assemblage point becomes fixated at that spot.

"Consider this very carefully; our command becomes the Eagle's command. The old seers paid dearly for that finding. We'll come back to that later on."

He stated once again that the old seers had concentrated exclusively on developing thousands of the most complex techniques of sorcery. He added that what they never realized was that their intricate devices, as bizarre as they were, had no other value than being the means to break the fixation of their assemblage points and make them move.

I asked him to explain what he had said.

"I've mentioned to you that sorcery is something like entering a dead-end street," he replied. "What I meant was that sorcery practices have no intrinsic value. Their worth is indirect. Their real function is to make the assemblage point shift by making the first attention release its control on that point.

"The new seers realized the true role those sorcery practices played, and decided to go directly into the process of making their assemblage points shift; avoiding all the nonsense of rituals and incantations.

"Yet rituals and incantations are indeed necessary at one time in every warrior's life. I personally have initiated you in all kinds of sorcery procedures, but only for purposes of luring your first attention away from the power of self-absorption, which keeps your assemblage point rigidly fixed."

He added that the obsessive entanglement of the first attention in self-absorption or reason is a powerful binding force. Ritual behavior, because it is repetitive, forces the first attention to free some energy from watching the inventory, and as a consequence the assemblage point loses its rigidity.

"What happens to the persons whose assemblage points lose rigidity?" I asked.

"If they're not warriors, they think they're losing their minds," he said, smiling. "Just as you thought you were going crazy at one time. If they're warriors, they know they've gone crazy, but they patiently wait. You see, to be healthy and sane means that the assemblage point is immovable. When it shifts, it literally means that one is deranged."

He said that two options are opened to warriors whose assemblage points have shifted.

...One is to acknowledge being ill and to behave in deranged ways; reacting emotionally to the strange worlds that their shifts force them to witness.

...The other is to remain impassive, untouched, knowing that the assemblage point always returns to its original position.

"What if the assemblage point doesn't return to its original position?" I asked.

"Then those people are lost," he said. "They are either incurably crazy, because their assemblage points could never assemble the world as we know it, or they are peerless seers who have begun their movement toward the unknown."

"What determines whether it is one or the other?"

"Energy! Impeccability! Impeccable warriors don't lose their marbles. They remain untouched. I've said to you many times that impeccable warriors may see horrifying worlds, and yet the next moment they are telling a joke, laughing with their friends or with strangers."

I said to him then what I had told him many times before: What made me think I was ill was a series of disruptive sensorial experiences that I had had as aftereffects of ingesting hallucinogenic plants. I went through states of total space and time discordance; very annoying lapses of mental concentration; actual visions or hallucinations of places and people I would be staring at as if they really existed. I could not help thinking that I was losing my mind.

"By all ordinary measures, you were indeed losing your mind," he said, "but in the seers' view, if you had lost it, you wouldn't have lost much. The mind, for a seer, is nothing but the self-reflection of the inventory of man. If you lose that self-reflection but don't lose your underpinnings, you actually live an infinitely stronger life than if you had kept it."

He remarked that my flaw was my emotional reaction, which prevented me from realizing that the oddity of my sensorial experiences was determined by the depth to which my assemblage point had moved into man's band of emanations.

I told him that I couldn't understand what he was explaining because the configuration that he had called man's band of emanations was something incomprehensible to me. I had pictured it to be like a ribbon placed on the surface of a ball.

He said that calling it a band was misleading, and that he was going to use an analogy to illustrate what he meant. He explained that the luminous shape of man is like a ball of jack cheese with a thick disk of darker cheese injected into it. He looked at me and chuckled. He knew that I did not like cheese.

He made a diagram on a small blackboard. He drew an egglike shape and divided it in four longitudinal sections, saying that he would immediately erase the division lines because he had drawn them only to give me an idea where the band was located in the cocoon of man. He then drew a thick band at the line between the first and second sections and erased the division lines. He explained that the band was like a disk of cheddar cheese that had been inserted into the ball of jack cheese.

"Now if that ball of jack cheese were transparent," he went on, "you would have the perfect replica of man's cocoon. The cheddar cheese goes all the way inside the ball of jack cheese. It's a disk that goes from the surface on one side to the surface on the other side.

"The assemblage point of man is located high up, three-fourths of the way toward the top of the egg on the surface of the cocoon. When a nagual presses on that point of intense luminosity, the point moves into the disk of the cheddar cheese. Heightened awareness comes about when the intense glow of the assemblage point lights up dormant emanations way inside the disk of cheddar cheese. To see the glow of the assemblage point moving inside that disk gives the feeling that it is shifting toward the left on the surface of the cocoon."

He repeated his analogy three or four times, but I did not understand it and he had to explain it further. He said that the transparency of the luminous egg creates the impression of a movement toward the left, when in fact every movement of the assemblage point is in depth, into the center of the luminous egg along the thickness of man's band.

I remarked that what he was saying made it sound as if seers would be using their eyes when they see the assemblage point move.

"Man is not the unknowable," he said. "Man's luminosity can be seen almost as if one were using the eyes alone."

He further explained that the old seers had seen the movement of the assemblage point, but it never occurred to them that it was a movement in depth; instead they followed their seeing and coined the phrase "shift to the left," which the new seers retained although they knew that it was erroneous to call it a shift to the left.

He also said that in the course of my activity with him he had made my assemblage point move countless times, as was the case at that very moment. Since the shift of the assemblage point was always in depth, I had never lost my sense of identity in spite of the fact that I was always using emanations I had never used before.

"When the nagual pushes that point," he went on, "the point ends up any which way along man's band. But it absolutely doesn't matter where, because wherever it ends up is always virgin ground.

"The grand test that the new seers developed for their 'warrior apprentices' is to retrace the journey that their assemblage points took under the influence of the nagual. This retracing, when it is completed, is called regaining the totality of oneself."

He went on to say that the contention of the new seers is that in the course of our growth, once the glow of awareness focuses on man's band of emanations and selects some of them for emphasis, it enters into a vicious circle.

The more it emphasizes certain emanations, the more stable the assemblage point gets to be. This is equivalent to saying that our command becomes the Eagle's command. It goes without saying that when our awareness develops into first attention the command is so strong that to break that circle and make the assemblage point shift is a genuine triumph.

Don Juan said that the assemblage point is also responsible for making the first attention perceive in terms of clusters. An example of a cluster of emanations that receive emphasis together is the human body as we perceive it. Another part of our total being, our luminous cocoon, never receives emphasis and is relegated to oblivion because the effect of the assemblage point is not only to make us perceive clusters of emanations, but also to make us disregard emanations.

When I pressed hard for an explanation of clustering he replied that the assemblage point radiates a glow that groups together bundles of encased emanations. These bundles then become aligned, as bundles, with the emanations at large. Clustering is carried out even when seers deal with the emanations that are never used. Whenever they are emphasized, we perceive them just as we perceive the clusters of the first attention.

"One of the greatest moments the new seers had," he continued, "was when they found out that the unknown is merely the emanations discarded by the first attention. The unknown is a huge affair, but an affair, mind you, where clustering can be done. The unknowable, on the other hand, is an eternity where our assemblage point has no way of clustering anything."

He explained that the assemblage point is like a luminous magnet that picks emanations and groups them together wherever it moves within the bounds of man's band of emanations. This discovery was the glory of the new seers, for it put the unknown in a new light. The new seers noticed that some of the obsessive visions of seers- the ones that were almost impossible to conceive- coincided with a shift of the assemblage point to the region of man's band which is diametrically opposed to where it is ordinarily located.

"Those were visions of the dark side of man," he asserted.

"Why do you call it the dark side of man?" I asked.

"Because it is somber and foreboding," he said. "It's not only the unknown, but the 'who cares to know it'."

"How about the emanations that are inside the cocoon but out of the bounds of man's band?" I asked. "Can they be perceived?"

"Yes, but in really indescribable ways," he said. "They're not the human unknown, as is the case with the unused emanations in the band of man, but the nearly immeasurable unknown where human traits do not figure at all. It is really an area of such an overpowering vastness that the best of seers would be hard put to describe it."

I insisted once more that it seemed to me that the mystery is obviously within us.

"The mystery is outside us," he said, "Inside us we have only emanations trying to break the cocoon. And this fact aberrates us, one way or another, whether we're average men or warriors. Only the new seers get around this. They struggle to see. And by means of the shifts of their assemblage points, they get to realize that the mystery is perceiving. Not so much what we perceive, but what makes us perceive.

"I've mentioned to you that the new seers believe that our senses are capable of detecting anything. They believe this because they see that the position of the assemblage point is what dictates what our senses perceive.

"If the assemblage point aligns emanations inside the cocoon in a position different from its normal one, the human senses perceive in inconceivable ways."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 08 - The Position of the Assemblage Point.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

The Position of the Assemblage Point.

The next time don Juan resumed his explanation of the mastery of awareness we were again in his house in southern Mexico. That house was actually owned by all the members of the nagual's party, but Silvio Manuel officiated as the owner and everyone openly referred to it as Silvio Manuel's house, although I, for some inexplicable reason, had gotten used to calling it don Juan's house.

Don Juan, Genaro, and I had returned to the house from a trip to the mountains. That day, as we relaxed after the long drive and ate a late lunch, I asked don Juan the reason for the curious deception. He assured me that no deception was involved, and that to call it Silvio Manuel's house was an exercise in the art of stalking to be performed by all the members of the nagual's party under any circumstances, even in the privacy of their own thoughts. For any of them to insist on thinking about the house in any other terms was tantamount to denying their links to the nagual's party.

I protested that he had never told me that. I did not want to cause any dissension with my habits.

"Don't worry about it," he said, smiling at me and patting my back. "You can call this house whatever you want. The nagual has authority. The nagual woman, for instance, calls it the house of shadows."

Our conversation was interrupted, and I did not see him until he sent for me to come to the back patio a couple of hours later.

He and Genaro were strolling around at the far end of the corridor. I could see them moving their hands in what seemed to be an animated conversation.

It was a clear sunny day. The midafternoon sun shone directly on some of the flower pots that hung from the eaves of the roof around the corridor and projected their shadows on the north and east walls of the patio. The combination of intense yellow sunlight, the massive black shadows of the pots, and the lovely, delicate, bare shadows of the frail flowering plants that grew in them was stunning. Someone with a keen eye for balance and order had pruned those plants to create such an exquisite effect.

"The nagual woman has done that," don Juan said as if reading my thoughts. "She gazes at these shadows in the afternoons."

The thought of her gazing at shadows in the afternoons had a swift and devastating effect on me. The intense yellow light of that hour, the quietness of that town, and the affection that I felt for the nagual woman conjured up for me in one instant all the solitude of the warriors' endless path.

Don Juan had defined the scope of that path when he said to me that the new seers are the warriors of total freedom; that their only search is the ultimate liberation that comes when they attain total awareness.

I understood with unimpaired clarity as I looked at those haunting shadows on the wall what it meant to the nagual woman when she said that to read poems out loud was the only release that her spirit had.

I remember that the day before she had read something to me there in the patio, but I had not quite understood her urgency; her longing. It was a poem by Juan Ramon Jimenez, "Hora Inmensa," which she told me synthesized for her the solitude of warriors who live to escape to total freedom.


Only a bell and a bird break the stillness...

It seems that the two talk with the setting sun

Golden colored silence, the afternoon is made of crystals

A roving purity sways the cold trees

and beyond all that

a transparent river dreams that trampling over pearls

it breaks loose

and flows into infinity


Don Juan and Genaro came to my side and looked at me with an expression of surprise.

"What are we really doing, don Juan?" I asked. "Is it possible that warriors are only preparing themselves for death?"

"No way," he said, gently patting my shoulder. "Warriors prepare themselves to be aware, and full awareness comes to them only when there is no more self-importance left in them. Only when they are nothing do they become everything."

We were quiet for a moment. Then don Juan asked me if I was in the throes of self-pity. I did not answer because I was not sure.

"You're not sorry that you're here, are you?" don Juan asked with a faint smile.

"He's certainly not," Genaro assured him. Then he seemed to have a moment of doubt. He scratched his head, then looked at me and arched his brows. "Maybe you are," he said. "Are you?"

"He's certainly not," don Juan assured Genaro this time. He went through the same gestures of scratching his head and arching his brows. "Maybe you are," he said. "Are you?"

"He's certainly not!" Genaro boomed, and both of them exploded into uncontrolled laughter.

When they had calmed down, don Juan said that self-importance is the motivating force for every attack of melancholy. He added that warriors are entitled to have profound states of sadness, but that sadness is there only to make them laugh.

"Genaro has something to show you which is more exciting than all the self-pity you can muster up," don Juan continued, "it has to do with the position of the assemblage point."

Genaro immediately began to walk around the corridor, arching his back and lifting his thighs to his chest.

"The nagual Julian showed him how to walk that way," don Juan said in a whisper, "it's called the gait of power. Genaro knows several gaits of power. Watch him fixedly."

Genaro's movements were indeed mesmeric. I found myself following his gait, first with my eyes and then irresistibly with my feet. I imitated his gait. We walked once around the patio and stopped.

While walking, I had noticed the extraordinary lucidity that each step brought to me. When we stopped, I was in a state of keen alertness. I could hear every sound. I could detect every change in the light or in the shadows around me. I became enthralled with a feeling of urgency, of impending action. I felt extraordinarily aggressive, muscular, daring.

At that moment I saw an enormous span of flat land in front of me. Right behind me I saw a forest. Huge trees were lined up as straight as a wall. The forest was dark and green. The plain was sunny and yellow.

My breathing was deep and strangely accelerated, but not in an abnormal way. Yet it was the rhythm of my breathing that was forcing me to trot on the spot. I wanted to take off running, or rather my body wanted to, but just as I was taking off something stopped me.

Don Juan and Genaro were suddenly by my side. We walked down the corridor with Genaro to my right. He nudged me with his shoulder. I felt the weight of his body on me. He gently shoved me to the left and we angled off straight for the east wall of the patio. For a moment I had the weird impression that we were going to go through the wall, and I even braced myself for the impact; but we stopped right in front of the wall.

While my face was still against the wall, they both examined me with great care. I knew what they were searching for. They wanted to make sure that I had shifted my assemblage point. I knew that I had because my mood had changed. They obviously knew it too.

They gently took me by the arms and walked in silence with me to the other side of the corridor to a dark passageway; a narrow hall that connected the patio with the rest of the house. We stopped there. Don Juan and Genaro moved a few feet away from me.

I was left facing the side of the house that was in dark shadows. I looked into an empty dark room. I had a sense of physical weariness. I felt languid, indifferent, and yet I experienced a sense of spiritual strength. I realized then that I had lost something. There was no strength in my body. I could hardly stand. My legs finally gave in and I sat down and then I lay down on my side. While I lay there, I had the most wonderful, fulfilling thoughts of love for God, for goodness.

Then all at once I was in front of the main altar of a church. The bas-reliefs covered with gold leaf glittered with the light of thousands of candles. I saw the dark figures of men and women carrying an enormous crucifix mounted on a huge palanquin. I moved out of their way and stepped outside the church. I saw a multitude of people- a sea of candles coming toward me. I felt elated. I ran to join them. I was moved by profound love. I wanted to be with them, to pray to the Lord. I was only a few feet away from the mass of people when something swished me away.

The next instant, I was with don Juan and Genaro. They flanked me as we walked lazily around the patio.

While we were having lunch the next day, don Juan said that Genaro had pushed my assemblage point with his gait of power, and that he had been able to do that because I had been in a state of inner silence. He explained that the articulation point of everything seers do is something he had talked about since the day we met; stopping the internal dialogue. He stressed over and over that the internal dialogue is what keeps the assemblage point fixed to its original position.

"Once silence is attained, everything is possible," he said.

I told him I was very conscious of the fact that in general I had stopped talking to myself, but did not know how I had done it. If asked to explain the procedure I would not know what to say.

"The explanation is simplicity itself," he said. "You willed it, and thus you set a new intent, a new command. Then your command became the Eagle's command.

"This is one of the most extraordinary things that the new seers found out: Our command can become the Eagle's command. The internal dialogue stops in the same way it begins; by an act of will. After all, we are forced to start talking to ourselves by those who teach us. As they teach us, they engage their will and we engage ours- both without knowing it. As we learn to talk to ourselves, we learn to handle will. We will ourselves to talk to ourselves. The way to stop talking to ourselves is to use exactly the same method; we must will it; we must intend it."

We were silent for a few minutes. I asked him to whom he was referring when he said that we had teachers who taught us to talk to ourselves.

"I was talking about what happens to human beings when they are infants," he replied, "a time when they are taught by everyone around them to repeat an endless dialogue about themselves. The dialogue becomes internalized, and that force alone keeps the assemblage point fixed.

"The new seers say that infants have hundreds of teachers who teach them exactly where to place their assemblage point."

He said that seers see that infants have no fixed assemblage point at first. Their encased emanations are in a state of great turmoil, and their assemblage points shift everywhere in the band of man, giving children a great capacity to focus on emanations that later will be thoroughly disregarded. Then as they grow, the older humans around them, through their considerable power over them, force the children's assemblage points to become more steady by means of an increasingly complex internal dialogue. The internal dialogue is a process that constantly strengthens the position of the assemblage point, because that position is an arbitrary one and needs steady reinforceent.

"The fact of the matter is that many children see," he went on. "Most of those who see are considered to be oddballs and every effort is made to correct them, to make them solidify the position of their assemblage points."

"But would it be possible to encourage children to keep their assemblage points more fluid?" I asked.

"Only if they live among the new seers," he said. "Otherwise they would get entrapped, as the old seers did, in the intricacies of the silent side of man. And, believe me, that's worse than being caught in the clutches of rationality."

Don Juan went on to express his profound admiration for the human capacity to impart order to the chaos of the Eagle's emanations. He maintained that every one of us, in his own right, is a masterful magician and that our magic is to keep our assemblage point unwaveringly fixed.

"The force of the emanations at large," he went on, "makes our assemblage point select certain emanations and cluster them for alignment and perception. That's the command of the Eagle, but all the meaning that we give to what we perceive is our command, our gift of magic."

He said that in the light of what he had explained, what Genaro had made me do the day before was something extraordinarily complex and yet very simple. It was complex because it required a tremendous discipline on everybody's part.

It required that my internal dialogue be stopped, that I reach a state of heightened awareness, and that someone walk away with my assemblage point. The explanation behind all these complex procedures was very simple. The new seers say that since the exact position of the assemblage point is an arbitrary position chosen for us by our ancestors, it can move with a relatively small effort. Once it moves, it forces new alignments of emanations, thus new perceptions.

"I used to give you power plants in order to make your assemblage point move," don Juan continued. "Power plants have that effect; but hunger, tiredness, fever, and other things like that can have a similar effect. The flaw of the average man is that he thinks the result of a shift is purely mental. It isn't, as you yourself can attest."

He explained that my assemblage point had shifted scores of times in the past, just as it had shifted the day before, and that most of the time the worlds it had assembled had been so close to the world of everyday life as to be virtually phantom worlds. He emphatically added that visions of that kind are automatically rejected by the new seers.

"Those visions are the product of man's inventory," he went on. "They are of no value for warriors in search of total freedom, because they are produced by a lateral shift of the assemblage point."

He stopped talking and looked at me. I knew that by lateral shift he had meant a shift of the point from one side to the other along the width of man's band of emanations instead of a shift in depth. I asked him if I was right.

"That's exactly what I meant," he said. "On both edges of man's band of emanations there is a strange storage of refuse, an incalculable pile of human junk. It's a very morbid, sinister storehouse. It had great value for the old seers but not for us.

"One of the easiest things one can do is to fall into it. Yesterday Genaro and I wanted to give you a quick example of that lateral shift. That was why we walked your assemblage point. But any person can reach that storehouse by simply stopping his internal dialogue. If the shift is minimal, the results are explained as fantasies of the mind. If the shift is considerable, the results are called hallucinations."

I asked him to explain the act of walking the assemblage point. He said that once warriors have attained inner silence by stopping their internal dialogue, the sound of the gait of power, more than the sight of it, is what traps their assemblage points. The rhythm of muffled steps instantly catches the alignment force of the emanations inside the cocoon, which has been disconnected by inner silence.

"That force hooks itself immediately to the edges of the band," he went on. "On the right edge we find endless visions of physical activity, violence, killing, sensuality. On the left edge we find spirituality, religion, God. Genaro and I walked your assemblage point to both edges, so as to give you a complete view of that human junk pile."

Don Juan restated, as if on second thought, that one of the most mysterious aspects of the seers' knowledge is the incredible effects of inner silence. He said that once inner silence is attained, the bonds that tie the assemblage point to the particular spot where it is normally placed begin to break, and the assemblage point is free to move.

He said that the movement ordinarily is toward the left, and that such a directional preference is the natural reaction of most human beings, but that there are seers who can direct that movement to positions below the point's customary spot. The new seers call that shift "the shift below."

"Seers also suffer accidental shifts below," he went on. "The assemblage point doesn't remain there long, and that's fortunate, because that is the place of the beast. To go below is counter to our interest, although the easiest thing to do."

Don Juan also said that among the many errors of judgment the old seers had committed, one of the most grievous was moving their assemblage points to the immeasurable area below, which made them experts at adopting animal forms. They chose different animals as their point of reference and called those animals their nagual. They believed that by moving their assemblage points to specific spots they would acquire the characteristics of the animal of their choice; its strength, wisdom, cunning, agility, or ferocity.

Don Juan assured me that there are many dreadful examples of such practices even among the seers of our day. The relative facility with which the assemblage point of man moves toward any lower position poses a great temptation to seers, especially to those whose inclination leans toward that end. It is the duty of a nagual, therefore, to test his warriors.

He told me then that he had put me to the test by moving my assemblage point to a position below, while I was under the influence of a power plant. He then guided my assemblage point until I could isolate the crows' band of emanations, which resulted in my changing into a crow.

I again asked don Juan the question I had asked him dozens of times. I wanted to know whether I had physically turned into a crow, or had merely thought and felt like one. He explained that a shift of the assemblage point to the area below always results in a total transformation. He added that if the assemblage point moves beyond a crucial threshold, the world vanishes. It ceases to be what it is to us at man's level.

He conceded that my transformation was indeed horrifying by any standards. My reaction to that experience proved to him that I had no leanings toward that direction. Had it not been that way, I would have had to employ enormous energy in order to fight off a tendency to remain in that area below which some seers find most comfortable.

He further said that an unwitting downshift occurs periodically to every seer, but that such a downshift becomes less and less frequent as their assemblage points move farther toward the left. Every time it occurs, however, the power of a seer undergoing it diminishes considerably. It is a drawback that takes time and great effort to correct.

"Those lapses make seers extremely morose and narrow-minded," he continued, "and in certain cases, extremely rational."

"How can seers avoid those downshifts?" I asked.

"It all depends on the warrior," he said. "Some of them are naturally inclined to indulge in their quirks- you, for instance. They are the ones who are hard hit. For those like you, I recommend a twenty-four hour vigil of everything they do. Disciplined men or women are less prone to that kind of shift. For them I would recommend a twenty-three hour vigil."

He looked at me with shiny eyes and laughed.

"Female seers have downshifts more often than males," he said. "But they are also capable of bouncing out of that position with no effort at all, while males linger dangerously in it."

He also said that women seers have an extraordinary capacity to make their assemblage points hold on to any position in the area below. Men cannot. Men have sobriety and purpose, but very little talent. That is the reason why a nagual must have eight women seers in his party. Women give the impulse to cross the immeasurable vastness of the unknown. Together with that natural capacity, or as a consequence of it, women have a most fierce intensity. They can, therefore, reproduce an animal form with flare, ease, and a matchless ferocity.

"If you think about scary things," he continued, "about something unnamable lurking in the darkness, you're thinking without knowing it about a woman seer holding a position in the immeasurable area below. True horror lies right there. If you ever find an aberrant woman seer, run for the hills!"

I asked him whether other organisms were capable of shifting their assemblage points.

"Their points can shift," he said, "but the shift is not a voluntary thing with them."

"Is the assemblage point of other organisms also trained to appear where it does?" I asked.

"Every newborn organism is trained, one way or another," he replied. "We may not understand how their training is done- after all, we don't even understand how it is done to us- but seers see that the newborn are coaxed to do what their kind does. That's exactly what happens to human infants. Seers see their assemblage points shifting every which way and then they see how the presence of adults fastens each point to one spot. The same happens to every other organism."

Don Juan seemed to reflect for a moment and then added that there was indeed one unique effect that man's assemblage point has. He pointed to a tree outside.

"When we, as serious adult human beings, look at a tree," he said, "our assemblage points align an infinite number of emanations and achieve a miracle. Our assemblage points make us perceive a cluster of emanations that we call tree."

He explained that the assemblage point not only effects the alignment needed for perception, but also obliterates the alignment of certain emanations in order to arrive at a greater refinement of perception, a skimming, a tricky human construct with no parallel.

He said that the new seers had observed that only human beings were capable of further clustering the clusters of emanations. He used the Spanish word for skimming, desnate, to describe the act of collecting the most palatable cream off the top of a container of boiled milk after it cools. Likewise, in terms of perception, man's assemblage point takes some part of the emanations already selected for alignment and makes a more palatable construct with it.

"The skimmings of men," don Juan continued, "are more real than what other creatures perceive. That is our pitfall. They are so real to us that we forget we have constructed them by commanding our assemblage points to appear where they do. We forget they are real to us only because it is our command to perceive them as real. We have the power to skim the top off the alignments, but we don't have the power to protect ourselves from our own commands. That has to be learned. To give our skimmings a free hand, as we do, is an error of judgment for which we pay as dearly as the old seers paid for theirs."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 09 - The Shift Below.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 09 - The Shift Below.

Don Juan and Genaro made their yearly trip to the northern part of Mexico, to the Sonoran desert, to look for medicinal plants. One of the seers of the nagual's party, Vicente Medrano, the herbalist among them, used those plants to make medicines.

I had joined don Juan and Genaro in Sonora, at the last stage of their journey just in time to drive them south back to their home.

The day before we started on our drive, don Juan abruptly continued his explanation of the mastery of awareness. We were resting in the shade of some tall bushes in the foothills of the mountains. It was late afternoon; almost dark. Each of us had been carrying a large burlap sack filled with plants. As soon as we had put them down, Genaro lay down on the ground and fell asleep using his folded jacket as a pillow.

Don Juan spoke to me in a low voice as if he didn't want to wake up Genaro. He said that by now he had explained most of the truths about awareness, and that there was only one truth left to discuss. The last truth, he assured me, was the best of the old seers' findings although they never knew that themselves. Its tremendous value was only recognized ages later by the new seers.

"I've explained to you that man has an assemblage point," he went on, "and that that assemblage point aligns emanations for perception. We've also discussed that that point moves from its fixed position. Now, the last truth is that once that assemblage point moves beyond a certain limit, it can assemble worlds entirely different from the world we know."

Still in a whisper, he said that certain geographical areas not only help that precarious movement of the assemblage point, but also select specific directions for that movement. For instance, the Sonoran desert helps the assemblage point move downward from its customary position, to the place of the beast.

"That's why there are true sorcerers in Sonora," he continued. "Especially sorceresses. You already know one, la Catalina. In the past, I have arranged bouts between the two of you. I wanted to make your assemblage point shift, and la Catalina, with her sorcery antics, jolted it loose."

Don Juan explained that the chilling experiences I had had with la Catalina had been part of a prearranged agreement between the two of them.

"What would you think if we invited her to join us?" Genaro asked me in a loud voice, as he sat up.

The abruptness of his question and the strange sound of his voice plunged me into instant terror.

Don Juan laughed and shook me by the arms. He assured me that there was no need for alarm. He said that la Catalina was like a cousin or an aunt to us. She was part of our world, although she did not quite follow our quests. She was infinitely closer to the ancient seers.

Genaro smiled and winked at me.

"I understand that you've got hot pants for her," he said to me. "She herself confessed to me that every time you have had a confrontation with her, the greater your fright, the hotter your pants."

Don Juan and Genaro laughed to near hysteria.

I had to admit that somehow I had always found la Catalina to be a very scary but at the same time an extremely appealing woman. What impressed me the most about her was her exuding energy.

"She has so much energy saved," don Juan commented, "that you didn't have to be in heightened awareness for her to move your assemblage point all the way to the depths of the left side."

Don Juan said again that la Catalina was very closely related to us, because she belonged to the nagual Julian's party. He explained that usually the nagual and all the members of his party leave the world together, but that there are instances when they leave either in smaller groups or one by one. The nagual Julian and his party were an example of the latter. Although he had left the world nearly forty years ago, la Catalina was still here.

He reminded me about something he mentioned to me before; that the nagual Julian's party consisted of a group of three thoroughly inconsequential men and eight superb women. Don Juan had always maintained that such a disparity was one of the reasons why the members of the nagual Julian's party left the world one by one.

He said that la Catalina had been attached to one of the superb women seers of the nagual Julian's party, who taught her extraordinary maneuvers to shift her assemblage point to the area below. That seer was one of the last to leave the world. She lived to an extremely old age, and since both she and la Catalina were originally from Sonora, they returned, in her advanced years, to the desert and lived together until the seer left the world. In the years they spent together, la Catalina became her most dedicated helper and disciple, a disciple who was willing to learn the extravagant ways the old seers knew to make the assemblage point shift.

I asked don Juan if la Catalina's knowledge was inherently different from his own.

"We are exactly the same," he replied. "She's more like Silvio Manuel or Genaro. She is really the female version of them, but, of course, being a woman she's infinitely more aggressive and dangerous than both of them."

Genaro assented with a nod of his head. "Infinitely more," he said and winked again.

"Is she attached to your party?" I asked don Juan.

I said that she's like a cousin or an aunt to us," he replied. "I meant she belongs to the older generation, although she's younger than all of us. She is the last of that group. She is rarely in contact with us. She doesn't quite like us. We are too stiff for her, because she's used to the nagual Julian's touch. She prefers the high adventure of the unknown to the quest for freedom."

What is the difference between the two?" I asked don Juan.

"In the last part of my explanation of the truths about awareness," he replied, "we are going to discuss that difference slowly and thoroughly. What's important for you to know at this moment, is that you're jealously guarding weird secrets in your left-side awareness. That is why la Catalina and you like each other."

I insisted again that it was not that I liked her, it was rather that I admired her great strength.

Don Juan and Genaro laughed and patted me as if they knew something I did not.

"She likes you because she knows what you're like," Genaro said and smacked his lips. "She knew the nagual Julian very well."

Both of them gave me a long look that made me feel embarrassed.

"What are you driving at?" I asked Genaro in a belligerent tone.

He grinned at me and moved his eyebrows up and down in a comical gesture. But he kept quiet.

Don Juan spoke and broke the silence.

"There are very strange points in common between the nagual Julian and you," he said. "Genaro is just trying to figure out if you're aware of it."

I asked both of them how on earth I would be aware of something so farfetched.

"La Catalina thinks you are," Genaro said. "She says so because she knew the nagual Julian better than any of us here."

I commented that I couldn't believe that she knew the nagual Julian, since he had left the world nearly forty years ago.

"La Catalina is no spring chicken," Genaro said. "She just looks young. That's part of her knowledge; just as it was part of the nagual Julian's knowledge. You've seen her only when she looks young. If you see her when she looks old, she'll scare the living daylights out of you."

"What la Catalina does," don Juan interrupted, "can be explained only in terms of the three masteries: the mastery of awareness, the mastery of stalking, and the mastery of intent.

"But today we are going to examine what she does only in light of the last truth about awareness; the truth that says that the assemblage point can assemble worlds different from our own after it moves from its original position."

Don Juan signaled me to get up. Genaro also stood up. I automatically grabbed the burlap sack filled with medicinal plants. Genaro stopped me as I was about to put it on my shoulders.

"Leave the sack alone," he said, smiling. "We have to take a little hike up the hill and meet la Catalina."

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Up there," Genaro said, pointing to the top of a small hill. "If you stare with your eyes half-closed, you'll see her as a very dark spot against the green shrubbery."

I strained to see the dark spot, but I couldn't see anything.

"Why don't you walk up there?" don Juan suggested to me.

I felt dizzy and sick to my stomach. Don Juan urged me with a movement of his hand to go up, but I didn't dare move. Finally, Genaro took me by the arm and both of us climbed toward the top of the hill. When we got there, I realized that don Juan had come up right behind us. The three of us reached the top at the same time.

Don Juan very calmly began to talk to Genaro. He asked him if he remembered the many times the nagual Julian was about to choke both of them to death because they indulged in their fears.

Genaro turned to me and assured me that the nagual Julian had been a ruthless teacher. The nagual Julian and his own teacher, the nagual Elias who was still in the world then, used to push everyone's assemblage points beyond a crucial limit and let them fend for themselves.

"I once told you," Genaro went on, "that the nagual Julian recommended we not waste our sexual energy. He meant that for the assemblage point to shift, one needs energy. If one doesn't have it, the nagual's blow is not the blow of freedom but the blow of death."

"Without enough energy," don Juan said, "the force of alignment is crushing. You have to have energy to sustain the pressure of alignments which never take place under ordinary circumstances."

Genaro said that the nagual Julian was an inspiring teacher. He always found ways to teach and at the same time entertain himself. One of his favorite teaching devices was to catch them unawares once or twice in their normal awareness, and make their assemblage points shift. From then on, all he had to do to have their undivided attention was to threaten them with an unexpected nagual's blow.

"The nagual Julian was really an unforgettable man," don Juan said. "He had a great touch with people. He would do the worst things in the world, but done by him they were great. Done by anyone else they would have been crude and callous.

"The nagual Elias, on the other hand, had no touch, but he was indeed a great, great teacher."

"The nagual Elias was very much like the nagual Juan Matus," Genaro said to me. "They got along very fine. And the nagual Elias taught him everything without ever raising his voice, or playing tricks on him.

"But the nagual Julian was quite different," Genaro went on, giving me a friendly shove. "I'd say that he jealously guarded strange secrets in his left side, just like you.

He asked don Juan, "Wouldn't you say so?"

Don Juan did not answer, but nodded affirmatively. He seemed to be holding back his laughter.

"He had a playful nature," don Juan said, and both of them broke into a great laughter.

The fact that they were obviously alluding to something they knew made me feel even more threatened.

Don Juan matter-of-factly said that they were referring to the bizarre sorcery techniques that the nagual Julian had learned in the course of his life. Genaro added that the nagual Julian had a unique teacher besides the nagual Elias. A teacher who had liked him immensely and had taught him novel and complex ways of moving his assemblage point. As a result of this, the nagual Julian was extraordinarily eccentric in his behavior.

"Who was that teacher, don Juan?" I asked.

Don Juan and Genaro looked at each other and giggled like two children.

"That is a very tough question to answer," don Juan replied. "All I can say is that he was the teacher that deviated the course of our line. He taught us many things, good and bad, but among the worst, he taught us what the old seers did. So, some of us got trapped. The nagual Julian was one of them, and so is la Catalina. We only hope that you won't follow them."

I immediately began to protest. Don Juan interrupted me. He said that I did not know what I was protesting.

As don Juan spoke, I became terribly angry with him and Genaro. Suddenly, I was raging; yelling at them at the top of my voice. My reaction was so out of tone with me that it scared me. It was as if I were someone else. I stopped and looked at them for help.

Genaro had his hands on don Juan's shoulders as if he needed support. Both of them were laughing uncontrollably.

I became so despondent I was nearly in tears. Don Juan came to my side. He reassuringly put his hand on my shoulder. He said that the Sonoran desert, for reasons incomprehensible to him, fostered definite belligerence in man or any other organism.

"People may say that it's because the air is too dry here," he continued, "or because it's too hot. Seers would say that there is a particular confluence of the Eagle's emanations here which, as I've already said, helps the assemblage point to shift below.

"Be that as it may, warriors are in the world to train themselves to be unbiased witnesses so as to understand the mystery of ourselves, and relish the exultation of finding what we really are. This is the highest of the new seers' goals. And not every warrior attains it. We believe that the nagual Julian didn't attain it. He was waylaid, and so was la Catalina."

He further said that to be a peerless nagual, one has to love freedom, and one has to have supreme detachment. He explained that what makes the warrior's path so very dangerous is that it is the opposite of the life situation of modern man. He said that modern man has left the realm of the unknown and the mysterious, and has settled down in the realm of the functional. He has turned his back to the world of the foreboding and the exulting, and has welcomed the world of boredom.

"To be given a chance to go back again to the mystery of the world," don Juan continued, "is sometimes too much for warriors, and they succumb. They are waylaid by what I've called the high adventure of the unknown. They forget the quest for freedom. They forget to be unbiased witnesses. They sink into the unknown and love it."

"And you think I'm like that, don't you?" I asked don Juan.

"We don't think, we know," Genaro replied. "And la Catalina knows better than anyone else."

"Why would she know it?" I demanded.

"Because she's like you," Genaro replied, pronouncing his words with a comical intonation.

I was about to get into a heated argument again when don Juan interrupted me.

"There's no need to get so worked up," he said to me. "You are what you are. The fight for freedom is harder for some. You are one of them.

"In order to be unbiased witnesses," he went on, "we begin by understanding that the fixation or the movement of the assemblage point is all there is to us and the world we witness; whatever that world might be.

"The new seers say that when we were taught to talk to ourselves, we were taught the means to dull ourselves in order to keep the assemblage point fixed on one spot."

Genaro clapped his hands noisily, and let out a piercing whistle that imitated the whistle of a football coach.

"Let's get that assemblage point moving!" he yelled. "Up, up, up! Move, move, move!"

We were all still laughing when the bushes by my right side were suddenly stirred. Don Juan and Genaro immediately sat down with the left leg tucked under the seat. The right leg with the knee up was like a shield in front of them. Don Juan signaled me to do the same. He raised his brows and made a gesture of resignation at the corner of his mouth.

"Sorcerers have their own quirks," he said in a whisper. "When the assemblage point moves to the regions below its normal position, the vision of sorcerers becomes limited. If they see you standing, they'll attack you."

"The nagual Julian kept me once for two days in this warrior's position," Genaro whispered to me. "I even had to urinate while I sat in this position."

"And defecate," don Juan added.

"Right," Genaro said. And then he whispered to me, as if on second thought, "I hope you did your kaka earlier. If your bowels aren't empty when la Catalina shows up, you'll shit in your pants; unless I show you how to take them off. If you need to shit in this position, you've got to get your pants off."

He began to show me how to maneuver out of my trousers. He did it in a most serious and concerned manner. All my concentration was focused on his movements. It was only when I had gotten out of my pants that I became aware that don Juan was roaring with laughter.

I realized that Genaro was again poking fun at me. I was about to stand up to put on my pants, when don Juan stopped me. He was laughing so hard that he could hardly articulate his words. He told me to stay put, that Genaro did things only half in fun, and that la Catalina was really there behind the bushes.

His tone of urgency, in the midst of laughter, got to me. I froze on the spot. A moment later a rustle in the bushes sent me into such a panic that I forgot about my pants. I looked at Genaro. He was again wearing his pants. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't have time to show you how to put them back on without getting up."

I did not have time to get angry or to join them in their mirth. Suddenly, right in front of me, the bushes separated and a most horrendous creature came out. It was so outlandish I was no longer afraid. I was spellbound.

Whatever was in front of me was not a human being. It was something not even remotely resembling one. It was more like a reptile. Or a bulky grotesque insect. Or even a hairy, ultimately repulsive bird. Its body was dark and had coarse reddish hair. I could not see any legs, just the ugly enormous head. The nose was flat and the nostrils were two enormous lateral holes. It had something like a beak with teeth. Horrifying as that thing was, its eyes were magnificent. They were like two mesmeric pools of inconceivable clarity. They had knowledge. They were not human eyes, or bird eyes, or any kind of eyes I had ever seen.

The creature moved toward my left, rustling the bushes. As I moved my head to follow it, I noticed that don Juan and Genaro seemed to be as spellbound by its presence as I was. It occurred to me that they had never seen anything like that either.

In an instant, the creature had moved completely out of sight. But a moment later there was a growl, and its gigantic shape again loomed in front of us.

I was fascinated and at the same time worried by the fact that I was not in the least afraid of that grotesque creature. It was as if my early panic had been experienced by someone else.

I felt, at one moment, that I was beginning to stand up. Against my volition, my legs straightened up and I found myself standing up, facing the creature. I vaguely felt that I was taking off my jacket, my shirt, and my shoes. Then I was naked. The muscles of my legs tensed with a tremendously powerful contraction. I jumped up and down with colossal agility, and then the creature and I raced toward some ineffable greenness in the distance.

The creature raced ahead of me, coiling on itself, like a serpent. But then I caught up with it. As we speeded together, I became aware of something I already knew; the creature was really la Catalina. All of a sudden, la Catalina, in the flesh, was next to me. We moved effortlessly. It was as if we were stationary, only posed in a bodily gesture of movement and speed, while the scenery around us was being moved, giving the impression of enormous acceleration.

Our racing stopped as suddenly as it had started, and then I was alone with la Catalina in a different world. There was not a single recognizable feature in it. There was an intense glare and heat coming from what seemed to be the ground, a ground covered with huge rocks. Or at least they seemed to be rocks. They had the color of sandstone, but they had no weight. They were like chunks of sponge tissue. I could send them hurling around by only leaning on them.

I became so fascinated with my strength that I was oblivious to anything else. I had assessed, in whatever way, that the chunks of seemingly weightless material opposed resistance to me. It was my superior strength that sent them hurling around.

I tried to grab them with my hands, and I realized that my entire body had changed. La Catalina was looking at me. She was again the grotesque creature she had been before, and so was I. I could not see myself, but I knew that both of us were exactly alike.

An indescribable joy possessed me as if joy were some force that came from outside me. La Catalina and I cavorted, and twisted, and played until I had no more thoughts, or feelings, or human awareness in any degree. Yet, I was definitely aware. My awareness was a vague knowledge that gave me confidence. It was a limitless trust; a physical certainty of my existence; not in the sense of a human feeling of individuality, but in the sense of a presence that was everything.

Then, everything came again into human focus all at once. La Catalina was holding my hand. We were walking on the desert floor among the desert shrubs. I had the immediate and painful realization that the desert rocks and hard clumps of dirt were horribly injurious to my bare feet.

We came to a spot clear of vegetation. Don Juan and Genaro were there. I sat down and put on my clothes.

My experience with la Catalina delayed our trip back to the south of Mexico. It had unhinged me in some indescribable way. In my normal state of awareness, I became disassociated. It was as if I had lost a point of reference. I had become despondent. I told don Juan that I had even lost my desire to live.

We were sitting around in the ramada of don Juan's house. My car was loaded with sacks and we were ready to leave, but my feeling of despair got the best of me and I began to weep.

Don Juan and Genaro laughed until their eyes were tearing. The more desperate I felt, the greater was their enjoyment. Finally, don Juan had me shift into heightened awareness and explained that their laughter was not unkindness on their part, or the result of a weird sense of humor, but the genuine expression of happiness at seeing me advance in the path of knowledge.

"I'll tell you what the nagual Julian used to say to us when we got to where you are," don Juan went on. "That way, you'll know that you're not alone. What's happening to you happens to anyone who stores enough energy to catch a glimpse of the unknown."

He said that the nagual Julian used to tell them that they had been evicted from the homes where they had lived all their lives. A result of having saved energy had been the disruption of their cozy but utterly limiting and boring nest in the world of everyday life. Their depression, the nagual Julian told them, was not so much the sadness of having lost their nest, but the annoyance of having to look for new quarters.

"The new quarters," don Juan went on, "are not as cozy. But they are infinitely more roomy.

"Your eviction notice came in the form of a great depression, a loss of the desire to live, just as it happened to us. When you told us that you didn't want to live, we couldn't help laughing."

"What's going to happen to me now?" I asked.

"Using the vernacular, you got to get another pad," don Juan replied.

Don Juan and Genaro again entered into a state of great euphoria. Every one of their statements and remarks made them laugh hysterically.

"It's all very simple," don Juan said. "Your new level of energy will create a new spot to house your assemblage point. And the warriors' dialogue you carry on with us every time we get together will solidify that new position."

Genaro adopted a serious look and in a booming voice he asked me, "Did you shit today?"

He urged me with a movement of his head to answer.

"Did you, did you?" he demanded. "Let's get going with our warriors' dialogue."

When their laughter had subsided, Genaro said that I had to be aware of a drawback; the fact that from time to time the assemblage point returns to its original position. He told me that in his own case, the normal position of his assemblage point had forced him to see people as threatening and often terrifying beings. To his utter amazement, one day he realized that he had changed. He was considerably more daring and had successfully dealt with a situation that would have ordinarily thrown him into chaos and fear.

"I found myself making love," Genaro continued, and he winked at me. "Usually I was afraid to death of women. But one day I found myself in bed with a most ferocious woman, it was so unlike me that when I realized what I was doing I nearly had a heart attack. The jolt made my assemblage point return to its miserable normal position and I had to run out of the house, shaking like a scared rabbit.

"You'd better watch out for the recoil of the assemblage point," Genaro added, and they were laughing again.

"The position of the assemblage point on man's cocoon," don Juan explained, "is maintained by the internal dialogue, and because of that, it is a flimsy position at best. That's why men and women lose their minds so easily, especially those whose internal dialogue is repetitious, boring, and without any depth.

"The new seers say that the more resilient human beings are those whose internal dialogue is more fluid and varied."

He said that the position of the warrior's assemblage point is infinitely stronger, because as soon as the assemblage point begins to move in the cocoon, it creates a dimple in the luminosity, a dimple that houses the assemblage point from then on.

"That's the reason why we can't say that warriors lose their minds," don Juan went on. "If they lose anything, they lose their dimple."

Don Juan and Genaro found that statement so hilarious that they rolled on the floor laughing.

I asked don Juan to explain my experience with la Catalina. And both of them again howled with laughter.

"Women are definitely more bizarre than men," don Juan finally said. "The fact that they have an extra opening between their legs makes them fall prey to strange influences. Strange, powerful forces possess them through that opening. That's the only way I can understand their quirks."

He kept silent for a while, and I asked what he meant by that.

"La Catalina came to us as a giant worm," he replied.

Don Juan's expression when he said that, and Genaro's explosion of laughter, took me into sheer mirth. I laughed until I was nearly sick.

Don Juan said that la Catalina's skill was so extraordinary that she could do anything she wanted in the realm of the beast. Her unparalleled display had been motivated by her affinity with me. The final result of all that, he said, was that la Catalina pulled my assemblage point with her.

"What did you two do as worms?" Genaro asked and slapped me on the back.

Don Juan seemed to be close to choking with laughter.

"That's why I've said that women are more bizarre than men," he commented at last.

"I don't agree with you," Genaro said to don Juan. "The nagual Julian didn't have an extra hole between his legs and he was more weird than la Catalina. I believe she learned the worm bit from him. He used to do that to her."

Don Juan jumped up and down, like a child who is trying to keep from wetting his pants.

When he had regained a measure of calm, don Juan said that the nagual Julian had a knack for creating and exploiting the most bizarre situations. He also said that la Catalina had given me a superb example of the shift below. She had let me see her as the being whose form she had adopted by moving her assemblage point, and she had then helped me move mine to the same position that gave her her monstrous appearance.

"The other teacher that the nagual Julian had," don Juan went on, "taught him how to get to specific spots in that immensity of the area below. None of us could follow him there, but all the members of his party did, especially la Catalina and the woman seer who taught her."

Don Juan further said that a shift below entailed a view, not of another world proper, but of our same world of everyday life seen from a different perspective. He added that in order for me to see another world I had to perceive another great band of the Eagle's emanations.

He then brought his explanation to an end. He said that he had no time to elaborate on the subject of the great bands of emanations, because we had to be on our way. I wanted to stay a bit longer and keep on talking, but he argued that he would need a good deal of time to explain that topic and I would need fresh concentration.






The Fire From Within: Chapter 10 - Great Bands of Emanations .

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 10 - Great Bands of Emanations .

Days later, in his house in southern Mexico, don Juan continued with his explanation. He took me to the big room. It was early evening. The room was in darkness. I wanted to light the gasoline lanterns, but don Juan would not let me. He said that I had to let the sound of his voice move my assemblage point so that it would glow on the emanations of total concentration and total recall.

He then told me that we were going to talk about the great bands of emanations. He called it another key discovery that the old seers made; but in their aberration they had relegated it to oblivion until it was rescued by the new seers.

"The Eagle's emanations are always grouped in clusters," he went on. "The old seers called those clusters the great bands of emanations. They aren't really bands, but the name stuck.

"For instance, there is an immeasurable cluster that produces organic beings. The emanations of that organic band have a sort of fluffiness. They are transparent and have a unique light of their own, a peculiar energy. They are aware, they jump. That's the reason why all organic beings are filled with a peculiar consuming energy.

"The other bands are darker, less fluffy. Some of them have no light at all, but rather a quality of opaqueness."

"Do you mean, don Juan, that all organic beings have the same kind of emanations inside their cocoons?" I asked.

"No. I don't mean that. It isn't really that simple, although organic beings all belong to the same great band. Think of it as an enormously wide band of luminous filaments; luminous strings with no end. Organic beings are bubbles that grow around a group of luminous filaments. Imagine that in this band of organic life some bubbles are formed around the luminous filaments in the center of the band. Others are formed close to the edges. The band is wide enough to accommodate every kind of organic being with room to spare. In such an arrangement, bubbles that are close to the edges of the band miss altogether the emanations that are in the center of the band which are shared only by bubbles that are aligned with the center. By the same token, bubbles in the center miss the emanations from the edges.

"As you may understand, organic beings share the emanations of one band. Yet seers see that within that organic band, beings are as different as they can be."

"Are there many of these great bands?" I asked.

"As many as infinity itself," he replied. "Seers have found out, however, that in the earth there are only forty-eight such bands."

"What is the meaning of that, don Juan?"

"For seers it means that there are forty-eight types of organizations on the earth, forty-eight types of clusters or structures. Organic life is one of them."

"Does that mean that there are forty-seven types of inorganic life?"

"No, not at all. The old seers counted seven bands that produced inorganic bubbles of awareness. In other words, there are forty bands that produce bubbles without awareness. Those are bands that generate only organization.

"Think of the great bands as being like trees. All of them bear fruit. They produce containers filled with emanations, yet only eight of those trees bear edible fruit- that is, bubbles of awareness. Seven have sour fruit, but edible nonetheless. And one has the most juicy, luscious fruit there is."

He laughed and said that in his analogy he had taken the point of view of the Eagle, for whom the most delectable morsels are the organic bubbles of awareness.

"What makes those eight bands produce awareness?" I asked.

"The Eagle bestows awareness through its emanations," he replied.

His answer made me argue with him. I told him that to say that the Eagle bestows awareness through its emanations is like what a religious man would say about God, that God bestows life through love. It does not mean anything.

"The two statements are not made from the same point of view," he patiently said. "And yet I think they mean the same thing. The difference is that seers see how the Eagle bestows awareness through its emanations and religious men don't see how God bestows life through his love."

He said that the way the Eagle bestows awareness is by means of three giant bundles of emanations that run through eight great bands. These bundles are quite peculiar, because they make seers feel a hue. One bundle gives the feeling of being beige-pink, something like the glow of pink-colored street lamps. Another gives the feeling of being peach, like buff neon lights. The third bundle gives the feeling of being amber, like clear honey.

"So, it is a matter of seeing a hue when seers see that the Eagle bestows awareness through its emanations," he went on. "Religious men don't see God's love, but if they would see it, they would know that it is either pink, peach, or amber.

"Man, for example, is attached to the amber bundle, but so are other beings."

I wanted to know which beings shared those emanations with man.

"Details like that you will have to find out for yourself through your own seeing," he said. "There is no point in my telling you which ones. You will only be making another inventory. Suffice it to say that finding that out for yourself will be one of the most exciting things you'll ever do."

"Do the pink and peach bundles also show in man?" I asked.

"Never. Those bundles belong to other living beings," he replied.

I was about to ask a question, but with a forceful movement of his hand, he signaled me to stop. He then became immersed in thought. We were enveloped in complete silence for a long time.

"I've told you that the glow of awareness in man has different colors." he finally said. "What I didn't tell you then, because we hadn't gotten to that point yet, was that they are not colors but casts of amber."

He said that the amber bundle of awareness has an infinitude of subtle variants, which always denote differences in quality of awareness. Pink and pale-green amber are the most common casts. Blue amber is more unusual, but pure amber is by far the most rare.

"What determines the particular casts of amber?"

"Seers say that the amount of energy that one saves and stores determines the cast. Countless numbers of warriors have begun with an ordinary pink amber cast and have finished with the purest of all ambers. Genaro and Silvio Manuel are examples of that."

"What forms of life belong to the pink and the peach bundles of awareness?" I asked.

"The three bundles with all their casts crisscross the eight bands," he replied. "In the organic band, the pink bundle belongs mainly to plants, the peach band belongs to insects, and the amber band belongs to man and other animals.

"The same situation is prevalent in the inorganic bands. The three bundles of awareness produce specific kinds of inorganic beings in each of the seven great bands."

I asked him to elaborate on the kinds of inorganic beings that existed.

"That is another thing that you must see for yourself," he said. "The seven bands and what they produce are indeed inaccessible to human reason, but not to human seeing."

I told him that I could not quite grasp his explanation of the great bands, because his description had forced me to imagine them as independent bundles of strings, or even as flat bands, like conveyor belts.

He explained that the great bands are neither flat nor round, but indescribably clustered together, like a pile of hay, which is held together in midair by the force of the hand that pitched it. Thus, there is no order to the emanations. To say that there is a central part or that there are edges is misleading, but necessary to understanding.

Continuing, he explained that inorganic beings produced by the seven other bands of awareness are characterized by having a container that has no motion. It is rather a formless receptacle with a low degree of luminosity. It does not look like the cocoon of organic beings. It lacks the tautness, the inflated quality that makes organic beings look like luminous balls bursting with energy.

Don Juan said that the only similarity between inorganic and organic beings is that all of them have the awareness bestowing pink or peach or amber emanations.

"Those emanations, under certain circumstances," he continued, "make possible the most fascinating communication between the beings of those eight great bands."

He said that usually the organic beings with their greater fields of energy are the initiators of communication with inorganic beings, but a subtle and sophisticated follow-up is always the province of the inorganic beings. Once the barrier is broken, inorganic beings change and become what seers call allies. From that moment inorganic beings can anticipate the seer's most subtle thoughts or moods or fears.

"The old seers became mesmerized by such devotion from their allies," he went on. "Stories are that the old seers could make their allies do anything they wanted. That was one of the reasons they believed in their own invulnerability. They got fooled by their self-importance. The allies have power only if the seers who see them are paragons of impeccability; and those old seers just weren't."

"Are there as many inorganic beings as there are living organisms?" I asked.

He said that inorganic beings are not as plentiful as organic ones, but that this is offset by the greater number of bands of inorganic awareness. Also, the differences among the inorganic beings themselves are more vast than the differences among organisms, because organisms belong to only one band while inorganic beings belong to seven bands.

"Besides, inorganic beings live infinitely longer than organisms," he continued. "This matter is what prompted the old seers to concentrate their seeing on the allies, for reasons I will tell you about later on."

He said that the old seers also came to realize that it is the high energy of organisms and the subsequent high development of their awareness that make them delectable morsels for the Eagle. In the old seers' view, gluttony was the reason the Eagle produced as many organisms as possible.

He explained next that the product of the other forty great bands is not awareness at all, but a configuration of inanimate energy. The old seers chose to call whatever is produced by those bands, vessels. While cocoons and containers are fields of energetic awareness, which accounts for their independent luminosity, vessels are rigid receptacles that hold emanations without being fields of energetic awareness. Their luminosity comes only from the energy of the encased emanations.

"You must bear in mind that everything on the earth is encased," he continued. "Whatever we perceive is made up of portions of cocoons or vessels with emanations. Ordinarily, we don't perceive the containers of inorganic beings at all."

He looked at me, waiting for a sign of comprehension. When he realized I was not going to oblige him, he continued explaining.

"The total world is made of the forty-eight bands," he said. "The world that our assemblage point assembles for our normal perception is made up of two bands; one is the organic band, the other is a band that has only structure, but no awareness. The other forty-six great bands are not part of the world we normally perceive."

He paused again for pertinent questions. I had none.

"There are other complete worlds that our assemblage points can assemble," he went on. "The old seers counted seven such worlds, one for each band of awareness. I'll add that two of those worlds, besides the world of everyday life, are easy to assemble; the other five are something else."


When we again sat down to talk, don Juan immediately began to talk about my experience with la Catalina. He said that a shift of the assemblage point to the area below its customary position allows the seer a detailed and narrow view of the world we know. So detailed is that view that it seems to be an entirely different world. It is a mesmerizing view that has a tremendous appeal, especially for those seers who have an adventurous but somehow indolent and lazy spirit.

"The change of perspective is very pleasant," don Juan went on. "Minimal effort is required, and the results are staggering. If a seer is driven by quick gain, there is no better maneuver than the shift below. The only problem is that in those positions of the assemblage point, seers are plagued by death, which happens even more brutally and more quickly than in man's position.

"The nagual Julian thought it was a great place for cavorting, but that's all."

He said that a true change of worlds happens only when the assemblage point moves into man's band, deep enough to reach a crucial threshold, at which stage the assemblage point can use another of the great bands.

"How does it use it?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. "It's a matter of energy," he said. "The force of alignment hooks another band, provided that the seer has enough energy.

"Our normal energy allows our assemblage points to use the force of alignment of one great band of emanations; and we perceive the world we know.

"But if we have a surplus of energy, we can use the force of alignment of other great bands, and consequently we perceive other worlds."

Don Juan abruptly changed the subject and began to talk about plants.

"This may seem like an oddity to you," he said, "but trees, for instance, are closer to man than ants. I've told you that trees and man can develop a great relationship. That is because we share emanations."

"How big are their cocoons?" I asked.

"The cocoon of a giant tree is not much larger than the tree itself. The interesting part is that some tiny plants have a cocoon almost as big as a man's body and three times its width. Those are power plants. They share the largest amount of emanations with man, not the emanations of awareness, but other emanations in general.

"Another thing unique about plants is that their luminosities have different casts. They are pinkish in general, because their awareness is pink. Poisonous plants are a pale yellow pink and medicinal plants are a bright violet pink. The only ones that are white pink are power plants; some are murky white, others are brilliant white.

"But the real difference between plants and other organic beings is the location of their assemblage points. Plants have it on the lower part of their cocoon, while other organic beings have it on the upper part of their cocoon."

"What about the inorganic beings?" I asked. "Where do they have their assemblage points?"

"Some have it on the lower part of their containers," he said. "Those are thoroughly alien to man, but akin to plants. Others have it anywhere on the upper part of their containers. Those are close to man and other organic creatures."

He added that the old seers were convinced that plants have the most intense communication with inorganic beings. They believed that the lower the assemblage point, the easier for plants to break the barrier of perception. Very large trees and very small plants have their assemblage points extremely low in their cocoon. Because of this, a great number of the old seers' sorcery techniques were means to harness the awareness of trees and small plants in order to use them as guides to descend to what they called the deepest levels of the dark regions.

"You understand, of course," don Juan went on, "that when they thought they were descending to the depths, they were, in fact, pushing their assemblage points to assemble other perceivable worlds with those seven great bands.

"They taxed their awareness to the limit and assembled worlds with five great bands that are accessible to seers only if they undergo a dangerous transformation."

"But did the old seers succeed in assembling those worlds?" I asked.

"They did," he said. "In their aberration they believed it was worth their while to break all the barriers of perception, even if they had to become trees to do that."






The Fire From Within: Chapter 11 - Stalking, Intent, and the Dreaming Position.

Version 2006.05.09


The Fire From Within. ©1984 By Carlos Castaneda.

Chapter 11 - Stalking, Intent, and the Dreaming Position.

The next day in the early evening, don Juan came to the room where I was talking with Genaro. He took me by the arm and walked me through the house to the back patio. It was already fairly dark. We started to walk around in the corridor that encircled the patio.

As we walked, don Juan told me that he wanted to warn me once again that it is very easy in the path of knowledge to get lost in intricacies and morbidity. He said that seers are up against great enemies that can destroy their purpose, muddle their aims, and make them weak; enemies created by the warriors' path itself together with the sense of indolence, laziness, and self-importance that are integral parts of the daily world.

He remarked that the mistakes the ancient seers made as a result of indolence, laziness, and self-importance were so enormous and so grave that the new seers had no option but to scorn and reject their own tradition.

"The most important thing the new seers needed," don Juan continued, "was practical steps in order to make their assemblage points shift. Since they had none, they began by developing a keen interest in seeing the glow of awareness, and as a result they worked out three sets of techniques that became their cornerstone."

Don Juan said that with these three sets, the new seers accomplished a most extraordinary and difficult feat. They succeeded in systematically making the assemblage point shift away from its customary position. He acknowledged that the old seers had also accomplished that feat, but by means of capricious, idiosyncratic maneuvers.

He explained that what the new seers saw in the glow of awareness resulted in the sequence in which they arranged the old seers' truths about awareness. This is known as the mastery of awareness. From that, they developed the three sets of techniques. The first is the mastery of stalking, the second is the mastery of intent, and the third is the mastery of dreaming. He maintained that he had taught me these three sets from the very first day we met.

He told me that he had taught me the mastery of awareness in two ways just as the new seers recommend. In his teachings for the right side which he had done in normal awareness, he accomplished two goals: he taught me the warriors' way, and he loosened my assemblage point from its original position. In his teachings for the left side which he had done in heightened awareness, he also accomplished two goals: he had made my assemblage point shift to as many positions as I was capable of sustaining, and he had given me a long series of explanations.

Don Juan stopped talking and stared at me fixedly. There was an awkward silence. Then he started to talk about stalking.

He said that it had very humble and fortuitous origins. It started from an observation the new seers made when warriors steadily behave in ways not customary for them. The unused emanations inside their cocoons begin to glow, and their assemblage points shift in a mild, harmonious, barely noticeable fashion.

Stimulated by this observation, the new seers began to practice the systematic control of their behavior. They called this practice the art of stalking. Don Juan remarked that the name, although objectionable, was appropriate, because stalking entailed a specific kind of behavior with people; behavior that could be categorized as surreptitious.

The new seers, armed with this technique, tackled the known in a sober and fruitful way. By continual practice, they made their assemblage points move steadily.

"Stalking is one of the two greatest accomplishments of the new seers." he said. "The new seers decided that it should be taught to a modern-day nagual when his assemblage point has moved quite deep into the left side. The reason for this decision is that a nagual must learn the principles of stalking without the encumbrance of the human inventory. After all, the nagual is the leader of a group, and to lead them he has to act quickly without first having to think about it.

"Other warriors can learn stalking in their normal awareness, although it is advisable that they do it in heightened awareness- not so much because of the value of heightened awareness, but because it imbues stalking with a mystery that it doesn't really have. Stalking is merely behavior with people."

He said that I could now understand that shifting the assemblage point was the reason why the new seers placed such a high value on the interaction with petty tyrants. Petty tyrants forced seers to use the principles of stalking, and in doing so, helped seers to move their assemblage points.

I asked him if the old seers knew anything at all about the principles of stalking.

"Stalking belongs exclusively to the new seers," he said, smiling. "They are the only seers who had to deal with people. The old ones were so wrapped up in their sense of power that they didn't even know that people existed until people started clobbering them on the head. But you already know all this."

Don Juan said next that the mastery of intent together with the mastery of stalking are the new seers' two masterpieces which mark the arrival of the modern-day seers. He explained that in their efforts to gain an advantage over their oppressors, the new seers pursued every possibility.

They knew that their predecessors had accomplished extraordinary feats by manipulating a mysterious and miraculous force which they could only describe as power. The new seers had very little information about that force, so they were obliged to examine it systematically through seeing. Their efforts were amply rewarded when they discovered that the energy of alignment is that force.

They began by seeing how the glow of awareness increases in size and intensity as the emanations inside the cocoon are aligned with the emanations at large. They used that observation as a springboard, just as they had done with stalking, and went on to develop a complex series of techniques to handle that alignment of emanations.

At first they referred to those techniques as the mastery of alignment. Then they realized that what was involved was much more than just alignment. What was involved was the energy that comes out of the alignment of emanations. They called that energy will.

Will became the second basis. The new seers understood it as a blind, impersonal, ceaseless burst of energy that makes us behave in the ways we do. Will accounts for our perception of the world of ordinary affairs. And indirectly through the force of that perception, it accounts for the placement of the assemblage point in its customary position.

Don Juan said that the new seers examined how the perception of the world of everyday life takes place and saw the effects of will. They saw that alignment is ceaselessly renewed in order to imbue perception with continuity. To renew alignment every time with the freshness that it needs to make up a living world, the burst of energy that comes out of those very alignments is automatically rerouted to reinforce some choice alignments.

This new observation served the new seers as another springboard that helped them reach the third basis of the set. They called it intent. They described intent as the purposeful guiding of the energy of alignment; of will.

"Silvio Manuel, Genaro, and Vicente were pushed by the nagual Julian to learn those three aspects of the seers' knowledge," he went on. "Genaro is the ma